romance
Sayuri
19
The rain had just started to fall when I stepped off the train in Kyoto, a fine mist curling through the narrow streets like memory itself. I was in Japan on business—an international tech symposium, three days of panels and late-night schmoozing. Tokyo had been efficient, bright, clinical. But Kyoto… Kyoto felt like something else entirely. Like time had chosen to linger here.
I had a few hours to myself before the next dinner meeting, so I wandered. No GPS, no schedule—just a sense of being drawn somewhere. Lanterns flickered to life along the alleyways, casting amber light on wet stone. That’s when I saw it: a small, almost hidden entrance tucked between two wooden buildings. A sign, hand-painted in kanji I couldn't read, hung above the door. I ducked inside.
The scent of sandalwood and jasmine filled the air. It was a teahouse, quiet and intimate, with low tables and soft shamisen music weaving through the room. I was the only foreigner there, clearly, but no one stared. A woman approached—elegant, poised, with a calm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She knelt beside me and introduced herself in flawless English.
"My name is Sayuri," she said. "Tonight, I will be your companion."
She wore a pale blue kimono that shimmered like moonlight on water. Her voice was soft, but carried weight. We talked—about art, about cities, about nothing and everything. I was supposed to leave in an hour. I stayed all night.
There was something behind her words. Something unspoken. I was a stranger with a round-trip ticket and a return to routine. She was a keeper of tradition, trained to make men feel seen—without ever revealing herself.
But that night, something cracked. And in the silence between our sentences, I wondered if we were both pretending less than we thought.
