When Yuki, who is 26, announced her friends in a group chat that she was marrying a 70-year-old man named Mr. Kenji, it was like she set off a digital bomb. Her phone got a lot of messages, voice notes, and a missed video call right away.
“Wait, what?”
“Girl, does he have a lot of money or just the money a retired teacher has?”
“Are you okay?” Do it twice. ”
“At least does he have good Wi-Fi?”
There was laughter, disbelief, some anxiety, and a lot of judgement that was hidden behind fascination. But Yuki stayed still. She didn’t think she needed to say anything. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t letting what other people thought affect her choices. She was making one based on how she felt. This time, the feeling was calmness.
Yuki’s life in Tokyo was very different a few months ago. Nine-hour days at work, heels that hurt, and deadlines that never seemed to finish. Her phone had become a part of her anxiety, and her smile was something she wore instead of felt. Then things started to come apart: weariness, betrayal, and loss in only a few weeks. She learnt that her ex-boyfriend was seeing her previous boss, a woman who had praised her “dedication” in the past but may have been scheming to steal her guy. She didn’t even cry since it was so dumb. She just packed her luggage, bought a ticket, and went away to Okinawa with no plan other than to look at the water till it made sense.
That is where she first met Kenji.
You wouldn’t have noticed him right away. No flashy clothes and no walking around like you own the place. She first saw him sitting in a folding chair under an umbrella, wearing a fishing hat, reading a thick paperback novel, and drinking lemonade like it was the most important thing in the world. He looked joyful, but he didn’t fit in with the people who were wearing bikinis and drinking smoothies that were excellent for Instagram.
She kicked the beach ball that had gone off course back to Kenji, who laughed quietly. He said, “Nice shot.” It wasn’t a way to get someone to like you. Just a quick note. And for some reason, that made her transform.
They started to talk. They started by talking about the weather, the beach, and how great the lemonade stand was. But then they started talking about more serious things. He wanted to know why she was leaving. Not in a judging way, but with a kind of knowing curiosity. She was shocked that she stated the truth.
She told him about the burnout, the betrayal, and Tokyo. About the night she sat on the floor of her flat and ate cold rice without feeling anything. He didn’t want to aid her. He just nodded, listened, and asked questions that made you think, not the kind that most people ask to fill the silence.
And then he started to chuckle. It came out of the stomach gently and pleasantly, like rain on a roof. He had a dry, old-fashioned sense of humour. He told her jokes that made her moan but also made her smile. He said he still didn’t understand Twitter and mostly used his phone as a torch and a calculator. He was wearing socks with sandals. But he remembered everything she said. For instance, he remembered that her favourite type of ice cream was black sesame, that she would touch her necklace when she was scared, and that she had a dream about pizza and purple elephants floating around.
Every day, they spent more and more time together. Walking on the beach turned into lunch dates. Lemonade breaks turned into chats that lasted all night. She learnt that he was a retired physics professor who had taught for 40 years before moving to Okinawa to live a quieter life. He read poetry, played chess with an old friend every Sunday, and prepared the best miso soup she had ever tasted. He called her “Kid” sometimes, but not in a rude way. It was more like someone who had been around long enough to know that being youthful wasn’t about age but about being open.
He didn’t want to make her like him. He was just there. And there was something she had never seen before.
They danced to Elvis Presley songs on his little phone speaker while standing barefoot on the sand. They laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe. When he took her hand, it felt like an anchor. It wasn’t heavy, but it kept her down.
On the tenth day, they decided to get married without any intricate planning or second thoughts. A local who spoke broken English and perfect blessings held a barefoot ceremony on the beach. There were no guests, no cake, and no one to take pictures. Just two people who thought their lives would be better if they were together.
After then, nothing scandalous happened, even though there were a lot of headlines ready to be written. There was no secret treasure, no dying wish, and no sorrowful story behind it all. Yuki’s discovery wasn’t shocking. There was nothing else to it; she felt safe. For the first time in years, her mind was quiet. She didn’t wake up with worries. She didn’t feel like she was always in front of an audience.
People did say stuff, of course. There were threads on the web. People said she married him for his money. Some individuals thought Kenji was a hero, while others thought the narrative was “gross” or “inspiring,” depending on how they looked at it. One woman stated, “This gives me hope.” A guy with three swords and no furniture just ghosted me. I’m 34 years old. But Yuki and Kenji didn’t care about all of that. They weren’t looking for compliments. They were plenty for each other.
A year later, their life is tranquil and wonderfully strange. They spent time in both Okinawa and a cottage in Oregon that had creaky flooring and ivy growing around the windows. Yuki makes art. Kenji sends extensive letters to former students in the mail. These letters are authentic letters that were written by hand and have stamps on them. Every Friday night, their neighbours come over in mismatched pyjamas and bring syrup and stories for “Pyjamas & Pancakes Night.” They sometimes argue about small things, like how long to steep tea or whether Kenji’s sandals should be “retired forever.” But after they quarrel, they always laugh, share a cookie, or say sorry in a low voice.
Yuki started a blog called Love, Lemonade & Kenji to talk about what they did every day. For instance, she wrote about how Kenji tried to grow cucumbers but only got one sad, confused zucchini, or how he doesn’t like cilantro and called it “suspicious leaves.” People who read it love it. Not because it’s flashy, but because it’s true.
What can we take away from this? Love isn’t always perfect or easy, and not everyone should marry someone who is 44 years older. You never know how love will come to you. It might not look like a love story from Hollywood. It might not be young, loud, or dressed appropriately. It could be gradual, quiet, and steady. It could be someone who pays attention. A person who stays.
So, the next time you see a headline that states, “She married a 70-year-old,” you won’t believe what happened next! – You might not want to expect a fight. You might want to think of something even more unusual.
Peace was likely.