When Love Break Ties

Chapter 2: First Impressions

Nathan stood in the elevator of the sleek glass building where the writing workshop was being held, staring at his reflection in the polished steel walls. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion from the sleepless night before, but the knots in his stomach told him it wasn't just jet lag. Today was the first day of the workshop—a moment he had dreamed of for years. He had fought to get here, to be one of the few chosen for this prestigious program, yet all he could feel was a growing sense of dread.

He had spent most of his life surrounded by his family's warmth and constant presence. Now, standing in this unfamiliar elevator, Nathan had never felt so alone. His thoughts drifted to his mother, who had probably already sent him two messages this morning, asking if he'd eaten breakfast or how his first day was going. He hadn't even opened his phone.

You're supposed to be excited, he told himself, trying to shake off the heavy feeling. This is Tokyo. This is the big break you've been waiting for. But his heart remained heavy, weighed down by homesickness and the unknown faces he was about to encounter.

The doors slid open, revealing a large conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Tokyo skyline. The city stretched endlessly, a maze of towering buildings and busy streets. Nathan inhaled deeply and walked into the room. There were about a dozen people there, all of them writers like him, gathered around the tables in small groups, chatting animatedly in a mix of languages.

As Nathan entered, a few heads turned to acknowledge him with polite nods before returning to their conversations. He could tell right away that most of the participants were already familiar with each other—likely having connected online or during past workshops. The easy flow of their conversations, the inside jokes, and the way they moved together as if part of the same circle made Nathan feel more like an outsider than ever.

He scanned the room for an empty seat and found one at the far end of the long table. Setting his bag down quietly, he glanced around, hoping someone would strike up a conversation. But the chatter continued without him, and the tightness in his chest grew.

The first part of the workshop was an icebreaker session. A facilitator entered the room, an energetic Japanese woman in her early thirties, with bright eyes and a warm smile. "Good morning, everyone!" she greeted in clear, accented English. "Welcome to the International Writers' Workshop. My name is Yuki, and I'll be your guide through this exciting journey. Let's start with introductions, shall we? Let's go around and have each of you tell us a little about yourselves—where you're from, what you write, and what you hope to get out of this experience."

Nathan's heart raced as the introductions began. Each writer stood up confidently, their voices loud and self-assured. There was Kara from New York, a poet who had been published in various literary journals; Alex from London, who was working on his second novel; and Mariko from Japan, who had written several short story collections. They all had impressive résumés, and Nathan felt his stomach churn with insecurity.

When it was finally his turn, he stood up awkwardly, his palms damp with sweat. "I'm Nathan Salvador, from Manila, Philippines," he began, his voice quiet compared to the others. "I write short stories... mostly about family and relationships." He paused, unsure of what to say next. "I'm here to learn, I guess," he added lamely before sitting down, feeling the weight of his inadequacy press even harder against him.

As the morning session continued, Nathan found it difficult to focus. The discussions about literary theory, narrative structure, and character development swirled around him, but his mind kept drifting back to home. Back in Manila, he knew who he was. He had his family to lean on, his friends to joke with. Here, he was just another writer in a room full of talent that overshadowed him at every turn.

During the lunch break, Nathan wandered into the workshop's cafeteria. The space buzzed with life as groups of writers sat together, laughing, sharing stories, and exchanging ideas. Nathan spotted Kara, Alex, and a few others at a table near the window. They looked up briefly as he approached, but their conversation continued without a pause. Nathan hesitated for a moment, feeling the all-too-familiar sensation of being on the outside looking in.

He grabbed a plate of food and found a quiet corner, watching the others from a distance. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, seeing his mother's name on the screen. He sighed, reading her message:

"Hi, anak. How's your first day going? We're thinking of you. Hope it's all going well. Love you, son."

Nathan stared at the message, feeling the lump in his throat grow. He typed a quick reply—"I'm fine, Ma. Workshop's good. Love you too."—before shoving the phone back into his pocket. The homesickness hit him like a wave, stronger than before.

Back in the workshop room for the afternoon session, Nathan's isolation only deepened. The other participants seemed to thrive in the collaborative environment, bouncing ideas off one another, sharing insights, and forming quick friendships. But for Nathan, every attempt to engage felt like pushing against a wall. His thoughts were in Manila, with his family, with the warmth and laughter that he had taken for granted.

He thought about the countless evenings he had spent at home, writing at his small desk while his parents cooked dinner in the next room, the scent of garlic and soy sauce wafting through the air. His sister would pop in occasionally, teasing him about his "serious writer face." Even then, when he had longed for independence and adventure, he had felt anchored, loved. Now, in this room full of strangers, that sense of belonging was gone.

Why can't I connect with anyone here? he wondered. He had always been quiet, introspective, but back home, that had never mattered. People knew him, understood him. Here, in Tokyo, he was invisible.

By the time the workshop wrapped up for the day, Nathan was exhausted—not from the discussions, but from the emotional toll of feeling so out of place. As the other writers gathered their things and made plans to explore the city, Nathan found himself drifting toward the exit, eager to escape. He overheard Kara inviting Alex and Mariko to a nearby café, their voices filled with excitement as they planned their evening.

"Do you want to join us?" a voice asked suddenly.

Nathan turned, surprised to see Yuki, the facilitator, standing next to him. She smiled warmly, her eyes filled with kindness.

"You looked a bit lost today," she said gently. "First days can be tough. Tokyo can be overwhelming, especially if it's your first time here."

Nathan forced a smile. "Yeah, I guess I'm just... still adjusting."

Yuki nodded. "It gets easier. Trust me. Tokyo has a way of growing on you. And this workshop—well, you're here because you belong. Don't forget that."

Her words were kind, but they didn't sink in the way she intended. Nathan thanked her and excused himself, heading back to his apartment. The evening was cool, the sky turning shades of pink and orange as the sun began to set over the city. Nathan walked the quiet streets, the ache in his chest growing heavier with each step.

Back in his apartment, the silence was deafening. Nathan dropped his bag on the floor and sank onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The city outside his window seemed alive with possibilities, but inside, he felt completely alone.

He grabbed his phone, scrolling through the photos his family had sent him earlier—his parents sitting at the dinner table, his sister holding up a freshly baked cake. They looked so happy, so... together. And here he was, in a foreign land, surrounded by people he couldn't seem to connect with.

Nathan sighed and set the phone aside, burying his face in his hands. What am I doing here? The excitement of being in Tokyo, of being part of the workshop, had faded into the background, overshadowed by the emptiness that gnawed at him. He had thought this trip would be the adventure of a lifetime, but now he wasn't so sure.

Maybe it was a mistake, he thought. Maybe I'm not cut out for this.

The day had left him feeling more disconnected than ever—from his family, from the other writers, even from himself. He had hoped that Tokyo would offer him something new, something transformative, but all he felt was the vast distance between who he was and where he now found himself.

Nathan lay back on the bed, closing his eyes against the fading light. Tomorrow, he would try again. But for tonight, all he wanted was to be home.