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He_is
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top 5 avoidant attachment canon events
-feeling trapped with a guy you wanted first
-ending things once the chase is over
-wanting to be single when in a relationship and wanting to be in a relationship when single
-forcing yourself to get the ick so you have a reason to leave
-self sabotaging every good relationship you have
English
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After 12 years in Japan, I've realized loneliness doesn't always look the way people think it does.
When I first moved here, I expected the language barrier to be the hardest part.
It wasn't.
The hardest part was making real friends.
Don't get me wrong—people are polite. Incredibly polite. Helpful. Respectful. Kind, even.
But getting beyond that surface layer can feel almost impossible.
One day I was talking to a coworker I'd known for years.
Years.
We ate lunch together almost every week.
So I asked him something I thought was pretty normal.
Me: "What do you usually do on weekends?"
He paused for a second.
Coworker: "Oh, different things."
Me: "Like what?"
Coworker: laughing awkwardly "Nothing special."
And that was the end of it.
At first I thought maybe he just didn't like me.
But after enough experiences like that, I realized it wasn't personal.
People here often avoid asking probing questions because they don't want to invade someone else's privacy.
The intention is respectful.
The result, though, can be strangely isolating.
I've had conversations with people for years without knowing basic things about their lives.
Not because they're hiding anything.
Nobody asks.
And if nobody asks, nobody tells.
Even socializing feels different.
Back home, a friend might text:
Friend: "Hey, I'm bored. Come over."
That's the entire plan.
In Japan, hanging out often feels more like organizing a small conference.
Friend: "Would you be available on the third Saturday of next month?"
Me: "For what?"
Friend: "Dinner."
Me: "At 7?"
Friend: "Yes."
Me: "Perfect."
Then everyone shows up exactly on time.
Has a great evening.
And goes home exactly when planned.
Nobody randomly decides to continue the night at someone's house.
Nobody suddenly says, "Let's stay up talking until 2 a.m."
Everything feels like an event.
Not a spontaneous gathering.
And after a while, you start missing those unplanned moments.
The conversations that accidentally become deep.
The random visits.
The late-night talks where somebody says something vulnerable and suddenly you understand them in a way you never did before.
What I've found hardest isn't that people are unfriendly.
It's that many people become masters at maintaining an outward version of themselves.
You can know someone for years and still feel like you're only seeing the front porch of their personality.
Meanwhile, the actual house remains locked.
The strange thing is that everyone seems aware of it.
Every now and then, after enough time passes, someone will quietly drop the mask for a moment.
And when they do, it feels incredibly meaningful because it's so rare.
Those moments remind me that the depth is there.
It's just buried under layers of politeness, privacy, and social expectations.
Twelve years later, I love living here.
But if there's one thing I still miss, it's having people who know the messy, unfiltered version of me—and feeling like I know the real version of them too.
Because sometimes the loneliest feeling isn't being alone.
It's being surrounded by people and realizing nobody has ever gotten past the introductions.
English
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