Immatureness

I can still remember the first time I saw him in Japan. The memory is vague, but strangely clear—carved into my mind. It was the beginning of spring. He was reading a book, wearing a grey long sweater and carrying an olive-coloured backpack at Narita International Airport. The first thing I felt was nervousness. Technically, it was our second time meeting—after our first encounter in Korea.

After my three-month language course had ended, I visited my parents and met him again, just as a friend. I remember shivering in the unexpected cold. It was so bitterly cold that I could hardly remember anything after our long walk.

We spoke in English on the airport bus ride back. Since I had just returned from New York City after the language course, and he had graduated from art school the previous year, he wanted to practise speaking with me. It would probably sound funny if I listened to that conversation now. I was tense—meeting someone who still felt almost like a stranger. I was there to guide him around Japan in return for his help in Korea. He was sharper then, and more distant than he is now. He said very little, and his silence only made me more nervous.

Although I’ve never counted the years, I know he has affected me deeply in many ways. The impact of someone's existence can be more powerful than anything else—especially when it's someone with whom you've shared a borderless connection. Once I broke out of my own cage, I couldn’t turn the page back.

As an only child, I was used to being alone. I could go an entire month without seeing anyone or speaking a word. It felt so natural that I didn’t even realise it was unusual. But over the past few years, I’ve become someone who can no longer endure silence or loneliness. I constantly need something to excite me, to give me a sense of vitality. I began to seek out connection—both socially and privately—in ways I never imagined before.

But unfortunately, he didn’t teach me how to be alone again. I forgot how. Once I became used to being connected with someone all day and sharing even the tiniest details of my life, I started to fear returning to that inner world I used to live in. I don’t think I was miserable then—but something about the self has shifted, and that changes everything.

Now, in London, I’m alone. I’ve made a few friends in my class, but I already miss that deep connection—one where words aren’t needed to be understood. That kind of bond isn’t built in a day. It takes time, and a kind of sacrifice—parts of your life handed over to build mutual understanding.

Right now, I feel lost. I want to focus on my future, but I can’t seem to find a path through the loneliness. Immaturity and uncertainty fill me. I know I need to re-learn how to be alone—how to survive life without relying on constant connection. I hope this can be a valuable opportunity for growth—to become a more independent person, someone not easily swayed by others.

Sincerely, I need to figure out how to stand on my own, here, in this moment.