Bubbling Like a Fever
Kumamoto wasn’t mine when I got here. It was just gray concrete and train stations and the specific kind of noise that makes you feel invisible. But then something shifted—maybe it was just time, or maybe the city decided I was worth knowing. Suddenly there were colors everywhere. Temple eaves catching the last light. Vending machines glowing at three in the morning. The kind of small details that make you feel like the place is actually alive.
What got me most was how the blank spaces in my head started filling in. You know that feeling when you first arrive somewhere and it’s all static, no shape to it? One day it’s just streets you walked through, and the next day it’s *places*—specific corners that mean something now. A convenience store you pass at exactly the right time. A playground with swings that sound a certain way. Little alleys where cats watch you like they’re judging whether you deserve to be there.
I found people too, which honestly surprised me. Not through trying or anything intentional. Just accidental conversations that turned into inside jokes that turned into actual friendships. We started walking through the city like we were trying to figure it out with our bodies, if that makes sense. They showed me places I would have been too cautious to find alone. There’s something about moving through a city with someone else—it changes what you’re capable of noticing.
One day we went to this massive mall floating above the train station like some kind of steel spaceship. It was exactly the kind of place I’d normally avoid—too bright, too much, all neon fever dreams and aggressive modernity. But then we ended up at this shabu-shabu place on the top floor, sitting above all that noise, and the whole city was just spread out below us like it was showing us what we’d been walking through. The hot pot was bubbling, meat curling, mushrooms opening up like they were surrendering. We kept dipping and burning our tongues and talking about nothing in particular, but it felt like maybe something was actually happening. Like the city was finally recognizing us as something other than ghosts passing through.
I know this sounds dramatic. It probably is. But there’s something about being in a place long enough for it to stop being scenery and start being home, even if it’s not supposed to be. Even if you’re just passing through.