Mayumi sat in her modest kitchen in the early morning light, a half-drunk cup of green tea warming her hands. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound accompanying her thoughts. Two photographs were tucked into the corner of the refrigerator door, held up by a cherry blossom magnet—one slightly curled at the edges, the other crisp and newer.

In the first photo, Mayumi stood beside Eze at a campus debate club social, surrounded by a diverse mix of students—some older, some younger, from various academic and cultural backgrounds. Eze stood close beside her, tall, dark-haired, of average build, and grinning with that clever spark in his eyes.

The second photo captured a moment of ease and joy. Mayumi and Naim were seated on the campus lawn with a group of international students, the spring sunlight filtering through the trees. Naim, a little buff from his love of intramural sports and always a little goofy, had his arm raised in mock victory while Mayumi laughed beside him, caught mid-sarcasm. Their friend circle radiated warmth, a shared bond forged through homesickness, language fumbles, and late-night noodle runs.

One photo showed her younger self with Eze, surrounded by a diverse group of students—some older, some younger, from a mix of backgrounds and majors—gathered at a debate club social. Eze stood close beside her, tall, dark-haired, of average build, and grinning with that clever spark in his eyes.

The other photo was of Mayumi with Naim and a group of international students, taken on a warm spring day on campus. Naim, a little buff from his love of intramural sports and always a little goofy, had his arm raised in mock victory, while Mayumi laughed beside him, caught mid-sarcasm. Their friend circle was relaxed, multicultural, and bound by shared experiences of homesickness, language mishaps, and the joys of cultural exchange.

It had been over two decades since those pictures were taken.

Eze had swept into her life like a storm. He was from a completely different culture, mysterious and sharp-witted, his mind always leaping from one topic to the next. Mayumi admired his intellect, his confidence, the way he could carry on a conversation about politics, literature, and philosophy in the same breath. She had followed his lead in everything: his favorite music, the way he dissected books, even his taste in food. But in doing so, she had dulled parts of herself. With Eze, she was agreeable, docile, careful not to disturb the current.

She had loved him. God, how she had loved him.

They had spoken of marriage once, half-laughing, half-serious, during a quiet evening on the library steps, their conversation stretching long after the campus had fallen asleep. But the laughter faded as reality crept in. Their cultures, expectations, and family values clashed—loudly. What started as passionate debates turned into arguments. Eventually, everything shattered. The breakup had been messy, brutal even. And yet, at forty-three, Mayumi still found herself aching for him in quiet moments like these.

If she had known back then that it wasn’t just Eze she craved, but the kind of mental stimulation he provided, maybe she wouldn’t have spent so long chasing a ghost.

And then there was Naim.

Naim was the opposite of Eze in every way. Easygoing, from the same cultural background as hers, he had been a constant companion during her college years. He always called her by her last name, ‘Ishika,’ his signature mix of endearment and teasing that somehow always made her smile. He’d tease her endlessly, and she’d volley back with cutting sarcasm that made them the favorite banter duo in their circle. With him, she didn’t have to be careful. She could be loud, moody, hilarious. She could be herself.

They spent countless evenings together: late-night study sessions, boba tea runs, and long walks around campus. He was reliable, kind. But Mayumi had always dismissed the idea of a relationship with him. She wanted someone who could challenge her mind, someone brilliant. And Naim, sweet as he was, never seemed to provoke the same spark.

Still, he had been there.

When her car broke down. When she was sick with the flu and too stubborn to ask for help. When she got her internship interview and panicked—Naim had shown up with dumplings and a pep talk.

But he never made a move. Maybe he didn’t see her that way. Maybe he did, and she was too wrapped up in Eze to notice.

Now, in her forties, Mayumi looked at the photos and wondered: What if she had chosen differently?

What if she had said yes to comfort instead of chasing after fire? What if she had recognized Naim’s quiet presence as a kind of intelligence—emotional intelligence—that she’d only learned to value later in life?

Her phone buzzed on the table. A message from an old college group chat. Someone had found an old video of their graduation party.

She clicked on it.

There they were, laughing under string lights in the backyard of a rental house. Eze twirling her in a dance, his eyes alight. Then a cut to Naim, holding a plate of noodles and trying to teach someone how to use chopsticks properly, grinning ear to ear.

Mayumi laughed softly.

Years later, she would learn through mutual friends that both Eze and Naim had married and started families of their own. Eze was now a professor overseas, still sharp and articulate, always in motion. Naim ran a small business and coached youth soccer on weekends, his Instagram filled with dad jokes and group selfies.

She felt no bitterness—just a quiet gratitude. Each man had given her something valuable: one had awakened her intellect, the other had allowed her to be utterly herself. For too long, she had believed she had to choose between the two.

But maybe what she really needed—what she still needed—was someone with a little of both. Someone who could challenge her and laugh with her. Someone who could match her wit and also bring her dumplings when she panicked.

She stood up, rinsed her teacup, and opened the window to let in the morning air.

There was still time.