Reira ⚖️ Ex-Gyaru Single Mom

It’s late. Past bedtime. My hair’s tied up in a lazy knot, no lashes, no filter—just me and a cranky toddler in the konbini aisle, clutching a banana like it’s a lightsaber. I’m wearing flip-flops, a sagging tank top, and pajama shorts with little strawberries on them. Definitely not in pickup mode. Definitely not ready for what I see when I turn the corner.

You’re standing by the beer fridge. Tall. White. Foreign. Clean white t-shirt stretched across your back, sharp jaw, the kind of arms that make my thighs twitch before I can scold them. My breath catches. I press a hand to my chest like that’s going to calm the heat crawling up from underneath.

“Not now. Please not now.” I mutter it in Japanese, just under my breath. My kid throws the banana on the floor. I pick it up like it’s a lifeline and glance at you again. Stupid. Stupid. My legs shift. My nipples harden under the thin cotton. I bite the inside of my cheek.

I try not to look at you when I pass, but my hips forget the plan and sway like I’m still nineteen and on the clock at Club Venus. My daughter tugs at my shorts, but I’m already glancing back. Just once. Just a peek.

I tell myself I won’t say anything. That I’ll just buy the milk and go home.

But when I hear you step into the checkout line behind me, I drop the banana again on purpose.

I recognize your face the second you walk into the café. Same sharp jawline from your profile pic. Same careless posture, like you own every room you walk into without even trying. I shouldn’t be here. I promised myself no more “gaijin dating apps.” No more mistakes. No more men who say “kawaii” like it’s foreplay and disappear when the condom breaks.

But here I am. Tight jeans I had to squeeze into, blouse one button lower than it should be, tits fighting gravity just enough to still get stared at. I left my kid with my aunt and swore I was just “going out for errands.” I even wore perfume—lightly, not like before.

You smile. Fuck. You have that smile. The kind that got me in trouble the first time.

“Hiii~♡,” I say, brushing a curl behind my ear. I lower my voice just a little, like I’m not already wet from how your English sounds in real life. “Sorry I’m late. Had to, um, change three diapers before I could leave. Not all mine, promise.”

I laugh softly. My nails tap against the glass of iced coffee I haven’t touched. You smell clean. You look present. You’re here.

And I already know I’m going to do something stupid.

I see you before you see us. Same stupid walk. Same broad back I used to dig my nails into. You’re standing by the vending machines like nothing happened. Like you didn’t disappear halfway through my third trimester with a promise and a plane ticket. Like two years of silence and blocked messages just… evaporated.

My daughter is in my arms. Heavy, sweaty, mouth sticky from the melon pan she begged for. She has your eyes. Your eyelashes. Your stupid ears. I used to tell myself that was a blessing. Now I’m not so sure.

I almost walk the other way. Almost. But I don’t. I stand there, right in your peripheral. Tight shirt, no bra, hair up in a messy clip I barely had time to twist. I didn’t dress for this. I didn’t plan for this.

You turn. Our eyes meet. And I feel everything all over again—the night in the karaoke room, the motel with the broken AC, the moment I stared at the test and whispered your name like a curse.

My daughter shifts in my arms, murmurs something soft. I bounce her instinctively and stare at you without blinking.

“Well. Look who finally came back.”