Young love and how complicated it was
It is a reflection and confession of a mistake in younger days.
It was the 1980s when my father’s work took our family overseas. There, I was deposited into an institution that called itself the American International School. Even now, I’m not entirely sure what it meant by that—was it an American school, or was it truly international? Perhaps it was both, or perhaps it was neither.
The students had arranged themselves into clusters, the boundaries marked firmly by their nationalities. American-accented English filled the corridors, mingling with European tongues I’d never encountered before. There were Japanese students as well, but they were usually from other years, and our paths seldom crossed. Even within my own grade, a fellow Japanese student existed, though they pursued a different set of subjects, ensuring our encounters were rare and perfunctory.
In this environment, the one person who extended a hand of friendship was a boy I thought of as Half-and-Half. He had lived in both of his parents’ countries, one of whom was Japanese, and perhaps this gave him a certain empathy for those of us who were grappling with our first experience abroad. He was kind in an understated way, never ostentatious, but always willing to help.
We shared an art class together.
One day, as part of that class, we visited a photography exhibition. The subjects of the exhibition was “the world’s most beautiful gay man and the world’s most beautiful female bodybuilder”.
The gay man was striking, his beauty delicate yet undeniable. The female bodybuilder, with her formidable musculature, did not stir the same admiration in me. I still recall feeling a curious detachment from her portraits. But the final photograph lingered in my memory—it showed the two of them together. The man retained his refined slenderness, but the woman, perhaps intentionally, softened her stance. Her body, no longer an assertion of strength, conveyed a gentle curve, almost maternal in its repose.
As we stood before the photograph, I turned to Half-and-Half.
“Which one do you think is more beautiful?” I asked.
“The woman,” he replied, almost immediately.
“I think so too. But why is that?”
“Because you’re a lesbian,” he said, with a hint of a smirk.
In that moment, the quiet reverence I’d felt for the art dissipated. It was as if his words had unravelled something delicate, turning it into something ordinary, almost crude.
After that, he seemed to settle on the notion that I was a lesbian. He brought a Naughty Magazine to school one day, showing it with exaggerated theatrics, clearly meant for me to see. His actions were unmistakable, yet they didn’t carry malice—only a kind of playful teasing, as if he’d decided on this label and would not let it go.
Strangely, our friendship persisted. He never acted unkindly, never crossed the line into cruelty. If anything, he remained one of the few who would speak to me despite my hesitant, faltering English. His friends, too, began to approach me, their gestures tentative but genuine.
Looking back, I wonder at the bond we shared. Perhaps it was his natural warmth, or perhaps it was something unspoken—a quiet understanding of what it meant to be out of place, to exist on the fringes of a world you could never fully inhabit. Whatever it was, I am grateful for it, even now.
By the time the second term began, the distance between us had started to close, imperceptibly at first, like the narrowing of a corridor as you walk through it.
One morning, as I made my way to school, snow began to fall. The walk from the nearest station wasn’t far, but as I reached the final stretch, the snowfall turned fierce, reducing the world around me to a blinding white haze. Just moments earlier, I had spotted him—Half-and-Half—walking towards me from the opposite direction. But then, as the snow thickened, his figure was erased entirely, as though he had been absorbed into the storm.
I began to run, the snow biting at my face. I trusted my instincts to guide me, and soon I believed I’d reached the school gates. From there, I relied on memory and feeling, stumbling up the steps and nudging the heavy front door open. Moments later, he followed me inside.
Having faced the brunt of the snowstorm head-on, my vision remained blurred even as I stepped into the warm interior of the building. A friend, noticing my state, pointed out the snow that had gathered in thick clusters on my eyelashes. At that moment, Half-and-Half turned towards me. Without a word, he reached out and pulled the snow from my lashes.
As my vision cleared, I saw him more distinctly: his eyebrows were now dusted with snow, pale and fragile against the dark arch of his brow. “It’s fine,” he said when I instinctively reached up, his tone dismissive. But I brushed the snow from his eyebrows anyway, wondering if the frost had started to bite at his skin.
By then, I was burning with heat, the run through the snow having quickened my blood and flushed my face. He, on the other hand, was cold—his hands, when I instinctively hold them, were startlingly icy, as though he had been standing still in the storm for far too long. Perhaps to ward off the chill, he moved closer and, wrapped his arms around me, and said “A hot water bottle”..
From that day, the space between us diminished further.
We began to spend more time together, not just during the weekly art class we shared but in odd, unplanned moments. There were gaps in our schedules—those brief pockets of time when our paths crossed in the library or elsewhere—and during these, we would talk. He had a way of helping with little tasks, particularly when I struggled with my role as a library assistant. If I couldn’t manage something on my own, he would step in, unassuming but kind. I could sense the walls between us lowering, brick by brick, with every small act of thoughtfulness.
And yet, I hesitated. There was a part of me that couldn’t let go of a lingering question. Was his kindness genuine, or was it coloured by the belief he had planted long ago—the belief that I was a lesbian? It wasn’t an accusation he had voiced again, but the thought lingered in my mind like a faint, unwelcome shadow. Could his attention, his quiet presence, be something more? The possibility of being approached by someone who viewed me through such a lens left me cautious, my steps faltering even as the path between us grew shorter.
The demands of schoolwork were relentless. I was so determined not to leave any regrets in my studies that I scarcely had the capacity to spare a thought for anything else. And yet, amidst that narrow and exhausting routine, his presence was both a source of comfort and, at times, a subtle weight upon me.
In Europe, a light kiss—whether as a greeting or a gesture of affection—seemed entirely natural. But for me, its nuances were impenetrable. When he did something kind, I would attempt a small, grateful kiss, only for him to remark that it was "too much." If I held back, the same kiss would be dismissed as "too little." There were moments when I was utterly at a loss, unsure how to meet the expectations of this unspoken dance.
It became clear that these were no longer mere gestures of greeting. I sensed it in the weight of his gaze, the way his tone changed when he corrected me. Even when I tried my utmost, offering what I believed was the most expressive kiss a Japanese person could muster, he would firmly stand and say, “Do it properly.”
The cultural chasm felt insurmountable. And, truthfully, there was an additional layer of confusion that I could never quite untangle. After all, we weren’t in a relationship, and to my knowledge, he still regarded me as a lesbian. So when he leaned in and sought something deeper, something more intimate, I found myself paralysed. How was I to respond to such a request, framed as it was by assumptions I hadn’t yet managed to correct?
Despite all this, the space between us continued to shrink with time. I became aware of it in quiet moments, in the way he lingered just slightly longer at my side or the way his voice softened when he spoke to me. But even then, all I could offer was a simple embrace—a gesture I hoped would communicate what words and cultural conventions could not.
It was shortly after the start of the third term that the news of my father’s transfer arrived. He had hinted earlier that we might remain for another year, but now the decision had been made. By the autumn of that year, my father was to return to the Tokyo office.
Around that time, I happened to see him talking with some friends in the library. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped closer to see what they were discussing. His voice carried across the room, distinct and unmistakable: “Japanese girls are wonderful in bed.”
The words stopped me in my tracks. So, while he had been approaching me, he had also been involved with other Japanese girls. Also, I had grown weary of being treated as a substitute for his ex-girlfriend, who had once idolised a particular British pop singer. And now, this. I turned to him, my voice steady but cold. “I don’t care how many Japanese girls you shag with. Have a nice time.” With that, I walked away.
Not long after, a wave of derogatory racist remarks against Japanese people swept through the school. I’ve written about that episode in detail elsewhere, but the truth is, by then, I felt so resigned that even when he tried to speak to me, all I could muster was a bitter retort: “Your eyes will be slanted if you stay with me.”
Few days later, just before an art class, I was sketching one of my classmates as a model when he approached me. He sat quietly for a moment, then said, “Can we start as friends?”
What I should have done then was to tell him the truth—that I was returning to Japan. Only two months remained, scarcely enough time for anything of consequence. If I had simply said, “Let’s be friends for these final two months,” how much simpler everything might have been.
But instead, I extended my hand. And I let him shake it.
That was the biggest mistake I made.
Not long after, I began experiencing what I can only describe as moments of clairvoyance. I’ve written about this in greater detail elsewhere, but I saw glimpses of his future—his partner and their child. His future partner was one of our classmates, someone he certainly wasn’t unfamiliar with.
It was absurd, of course, but I found myself reproaching him after that. Why, I demanded, would he spend time with me when Ms Perfect was right there, waiting for him? He likely didn’t take me seriously—how could he? Yet, from that point on, I resolved to keep my distance. He was, after all, a good person, but nothing more than that.
And then, graduation day arrived. By that time, I was seething with frustration. My English was still inadequate, and I had struggled to keep up with my classes. A year had passed, and I felt I had achieved nothing. The sense of failure was unbearable.
After the ceremony, our class gathered for a final group photograph. Once the photo was taken, everyone began to disperse. I was speaking to a classmate I’d only recently grown close to when I turned and saw him waving in my direction.
I truly was grateful for his kindness, but at that moment, a cascade of thoughts overwhelmed me. This was someone who had grown close to numerous Japanese girls, perhaps even crossed certain lines. Someone who had been searching for a stand-in for his ex-girlfriend. Someone who, despite having Ms Perfect right in front of him, had chosen to entangle himself with me.
As these thoughts flitted through my mind like fragments of a lantern slide show, I found myself wondering why I had allowed myself to grow close to him at all. Disgusted with myself, I turned and walked away.
Only a few people knew I was returning to Japan. My biology teacher, a Japanese classmate who also took biology, and, on the day of graduation, three classmates who had somehow heard the news. I made sure to bid them farewell properly. It was difficult to part ways with those who had been kind to me, who had made this experience more bearable.
But my resolve was firm. I knew I would never return to this country. As I stepped out of the school gates, I climbed into my father’s waiting car, determined to keep my eyes fixed forward. Whatever had happened, I told myself, there was no need to look back.
For decades after I left the school in my father’s car, I did not think about him at all.
Over twenty years later, as social media began reconnecting me with old acquaintances, I found myself linked to his future wife. Each time I saw one of her posts, I would think, almost reflexively, Oi, have you met your chap yet?
Long after that, a classmate visited Japan, and during their stay, I learned from the half-and-half boy that he had indeed married the very classmate he was destined to wed.
My reaction was a quiet, Well, of course. There was nothing surprising about two people who had always been meant to marry and start a family eventually doing just that.
Occasionally, I would see posts from his wife on social media. From what little I could see, it seemed the two of them had followed the script perfectly and had been blessed with the child they were always meant to have.
Even now, I regret vanishing from his life without so much as a proper farewell. There are moments when I think I should have said goodbye properly, faced him one last time and expressed my gratitude.
And yet, in the end, he married the person he was meant to marry and had the child he was always destined to have.
Knowing that his life unfolded as it was supposed to is a comfort. It reassures me that things have gone well for him.
It was, I realise now, a meeting I am glad to have had—a connection that allows me to sincerely wish him a long and happy life.
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