The String that Pulls the Stars

出る杭は打たれる.

Deru kugi wa utareru

The nail that sticks out gets hammered in.

Yoshitaka Soraoka had heard this saying for as long as he could remember—a quiet yet firm mantra passed down through the lips of his teachers, parents, and even strangers in the station. Never break the mold. Conform without question. If life were like a river, then he was the stone—his rough edges, his individuality—these were things meant to be worn down and smoothed away, because uniqueness would only interrupt an already perfect flow.

He had not told anyone where he was going, nor offered any explanation for his sudden departure from a well-paying job. He had even broken decorum by leaving without apology—no bowed heads or rehearsed regret, no thank-you notes to the colleagues now left to shoulder his burdens. In truth, Yoshitaka had longed for the chance to disappear from the face of the earth. But he had never acted on those urges—until now. For too long, he had played the role of the model hotelier: ever-smiling, ever-gracious, with only the customer’s desires in mind. But beneath that polished exterior, something inside him had begun to fray. The performance ate away at him, day by day, and the void within began to swell—threatening to consume whatever was left of his spirit.

Checking his phone as he grabbed his heavy suitcase from the carousel, Yoshitaka noticed yet another string of messages and missed calls from his mother and father. He was surprised they had caught on so quickly. Perhaps a co-worker had let something slip—or maybe, after all these years, his parents simply knew the signs. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d found him in a precarious state.

Though they had never said the words outright, their love had always been there—quiet, restrained, folded into the corners of daily life. Sliced fruit on exam days. A reminder to wear his coat. And once, the way they sat beside his hospital bed for days after he tried to take his life, refusing to leave. He knew that if he had told them, they would have done everything in their power to stop him. And that’s exactly why he didn’t. He needed this trip.

As he muted the notifications on his phone, Yoshitaka prayed that his parents would forgive him one day, then stepped into the airport lobby.I t was organized chaos—travelers moving in every direction, women calling out offers for taxis and SIM cards as he passed. Though the front doors only opened in small bursts, the air that slipped through carried the sharp scent of salt and the fainter sting of gasoline, remnants from the motorbikes whizzing by just beyond the glass. He still didn’t know why he had chosen Phú Quốc, of all places. But something had drawn him to this corner of the world. That invisible pull had guided him to book the earliest flight out of Osaka—along with a modest, isolated bungalow on the island’s northern coast.

Yoshitaka found the scene outside the airport to be equally jarring and full of color. He paused beneath the cluster of coconut trees, letting the sea breeze kiss his skin as the warm sun enveloped him completely. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to simply stand still, to absorb the air, the light, the motion around him. The Vietnamese, he noticed, had a way of smiling that made your heart ache in the softest, most unexpected way—gentle, bright, and effortlessly warm. As he made his way toward the taxi rank, he recalled what his hostess, Bích, had told him: a driver would be waiting. Narrowing his caramel-colored eyes against the brightness, he scanned the row of drivers until he saw his name scrawled in thick black ink across a makeshift sign. At the far end, next to a modest electric vehicle, stood a man dressed in a navy polo and beside him, a woman wearing a traditional áo bà ba in pale green. They waved as he approached, and like every other Vietnamese person he had seen since landing, their smiles were disarmingly sincere—like sunlight breaking through water.

The woman approached him first, though Yoshitaka noticed a flicker of hesitation in her expression as she took in his face—polite, but flustered. “Mr. Soraoka? I am Ngọc, I work for the guesthouse, with Mrs. Bích.” Her English was clear, though marked with the familiar rhythm of someone taught to speak formally. She tilted her head slightly. “You can speak English, yes?”

Yoshitaka gave a tired nod. “I can speak English well.” He gestured toward the electric car parked nearby. “Will we be traveling by this? Will the driver be long? I’m a little tired from the flight.”

Ngọc smiled sweetly: “These are electric, they go very fast. We should be there in maybe an hour or two.”

The drive to the guesthouse was scenic, and reminded Yoshitaka of the sleepy seaside towns tucked along the coast between Osaka and Hiroshima. From time to time, Ngọc would point out local sights, her voice soft but practiced, and Yoshitaka responded by snapping quiet, steady photos with his phone. He admired the soft green and blue hues of the traditional fishing boats moored along the harbor, their paint faded by sea and time. The beaches, pale and wide, were dyed orange by the slanting light of the late afternoon sun, and his nose was tempted by the smell of grilled and fried squid drifting in from roadside vendors going the opposite direction on their motorbikes.

Ngọc, he noticed, rarely looked him in the eye when she spoke, as if embarrassed or unsure. Her English never faltered, but there was a stiffness in her posture—something not quite professional, not quite casual. The driver, on the other hand, seemed to notice it too, laughing as he gently teased her in Vietnamese, his words punctuated with playful shoves. Yoshitaka didn’t understand what was being said, but he understood the tone—and from the flush creeping up Ngọc’s neck, he understood her just as well.

As the car rounded a hairpin turn, Yoshitaka’s gaze met the driver’s in the rearview mirror. With a wide grin, the man gave a cheerful thumbs up and said the only English word he seemed to know. “Handsome.”

Placed not too far from a small enclosed beach, flanked on either side by mangrove trees, Mrs. Bích’s bungalows looked exactly like the pictures—and possessed that quiet seaside charm Yoshitaka hadn’t realized he needed. Modeled after traditional Vietnamese stilt houses, each bungalow had been subtly adapted: the lower level now served as a compact living room and kitchen, while the upper offered a small bedroom and balcony that faced the endless sprawl of blue sea. Framed in reddish-brown wood and painted a soft, weathered white, the bungalows were clearly well maintained, though not without a rustic charm—the paint gently flaking from years of salt-heavy wind, the eaves hung with maritime-themed windchimes that whispered in the breeze like distant bells.

Yoshitaka took it all in with a small smile, and thanked both the driver and Ngọc for their hospitality. As he stepped inside the bungalow, he felt Ngọc’s gaze linger on him for just a moment—quiet, unreadable—before he heard the electric hum of the car pulling away.

The bungalow’s interior was decorated as one might expect of a Vietnamese home from another time, with furnishings arranged in a careful, lived-in manner. An Indochinese-style sofa sat low to the ground, flanked by carved Mandarin armchairs with rattan panels worn smooth at the edges. Above the couch hung a faded picture of a traditional street market from long ago, and the sofa’s cushions were a soft, avocado green that reminded him faintly of childhood. The kitchenette was modest but functional—equipped with a water kettle, a single electric burner, and a neat plate of fresh fruit arranged beside a folded welcome note from his host.

Yoshitaka wandered quietly through the space, letting his fingers trail along the delicate bamboo lampshades that hung from the ceiling, tracing the weaving with a kind of gentle reverence. A subtle scent of lemongrass drifted from a small ceramic diffuser, its curl of steam barely visible in the late afternoon light. It was cozier than he’d imagined—humble, but clearly cared for. It felt like Mrs. Bích had gone to great lengths to make sure everything came together in quiet harmony.

Enjoying the soothing ocean breeze as it washed over his skin, Yoshitaka bit into the tender flesh of the dragon fruit and mangoes that Mrs. Bích had laid out for him, their sweetness sharp and clean on his tongue. Before him, the sky had begun its slow, luminous unraveling — streaked with lavender and inky blue, fading into deep oranges and molten gold along the horizon. It reminded him of an intricately woven kimono, each layer dyed by invisible hands. The sunset held his undivided attention., and for the first time in what felt like ages, Yoshitaka felt the weight on his shoulders begin to lift.

Though he missed Japan and knew he would eventually return, a quiet resentment stirred beneath the thought — the old ache of never truly belonging anywhere. His life had become a careful performance of routine: days blurred by monotony, smiles offered like currency, and a version of himself wrapped so tightly in obligation that it no longer felt like living. Treated like a fragile glass figure by his well-meaning parents, Yoshitaka felt his identity thinning by degrees — worn down by expectations, by politeness, by the effort it took just to keep being palatable. Every smile he gave to yet another guest felt heavier than the last, as if it took something from him each time.

Leaning back against the soft cushions of the papasan chair, Yoshitaka shivered slightly as the wind lifted the edge of his linen shirt. That’s when he noticed something beside the fruit plate — a neatly folded note, addressed to him in handwriting so precise it looked almost like a font. It was bound with a thin red string, vivid against the weathered wood, and Yoshitaka felt inexplicably drawn to it.

He reached for it without thinking. The string was soft beneath his fingers, its ends slightly frayed, like something that had been tied and untied many times. With a gentle tug, the knot gave way. As he opened the paper, a faint scent rose to meet him — the sharp, familiar tinge of green medicinal oil that many older Vietnamese favored, mingled with a softer note beneath it: the delicate sweetness of tea leaves and lotus.

“Mr. Soraoka,

Welcome to Việt Nam — and to my humble home. I hope the room suits you, and that the sea air brings you some peace.

Each evening, my husband and I prepare dinner for our guests. You are welcome to join us, if you feel up to it. There are a few other travelers staying here now — kind people, I think — and good company at the table can soften even a long day.

Ngọc will likely stop by to ask. She is kind and sincere.

— Bích”

Yoshitaka carefully folded the note and tucked it into the pocket of his linen shirt. It was a simple gesture, but a thoughtful one — and though he hadn’t yet met Mrs. Bích, she already struck him as a gracious, attentive host.

He closed his eyes and let the hush of the sea wash over him — the rhythmic crash of waves mingling with the creak of the balcony’s wooden beams. With the red string still in hand, he began wrapping it slowly around his fingers, then unwinding it again, a quiet, absent gesture. There was something calming in its softness, its faint fray, like it had passed through other hands before his.

But then, a voice rose gently from below.

“Mr. Soraoka?” Ngọc’s voice floated upward, soft and lilting, carried on the sea breeze. “Are you awake?”

Yoshitaka opened his eyes and stood, stepping toward the edge of the balcony. She was still dressed in the pale green áo bà ba from earlier, but something in her posture had relaxed. The stiffness was gone, replaced by a quiet ease, and her dark eyes shimmered faintly with the last golden traces of daylight as she looked up at him with a warm, unguarded smile.

“Yes,” he said, returning the smile. “I was about to sleep, but I’m still awake.”

“Mrs. Bích has cooked dinner,” Ngọc called gently, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Everyone is already gathering. Would you like to join us? She… she really hopes you will.”

Yoshitaka hesitated for a moment. Even with colleagues who had known him for years, he seldom interacted with them outside of work, and he often preferred his own company. For a brief second, the word no began to form on his lips — but then he felt it: a familiar pull around his waist, subtle but unmistakable. His hand moved instinctively to his stomach as a strange tingle swept across his skin.

He hadn’t felt that tug in a long time.

The last time was on a cold, sleepless night — standing at the edge of a bridge, staring down at the dark water, trying to convince himself that no one would miss him. He never understood what stopped him from climbing over the railing. Only that something — that pull — had been there then, too.

He still didn’t know what it was.

But there was warmth in Mrs. Bích’s invitation, and something sincere in Ngọc’s smile. And somehow, Yoshitaka found he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

Yoshitaka quickly descended the stairs and slipped on his sandals, then fell into step beside Ngọc with a pace somewhere between a walk and a jog. The air was cooler now, the sun tucked away beneath the horizon, and the breeze carried something new with the salt — the warm, familiar scents of dinner being prepared.

His stomach gave an audible grumble as the smells of fish sauce, spices, and lemongrass drifted past, and Ngọc let out a soft laugh behind her hand.

Ngọc said little as they climbed a small hill leading to the main house. Yoshitaka found himself quietly enamored by the soft glow of Hoi An–style paper lanterns lining the path on either side — their warm light flickering like fireflies caught in silk.

Unlike the tall, narrow tube houses of Saigon that he had glimpsed from the airplane window, Mrs. Bích’s home reminded him of the quaint, timber-framed dwellings of Kyoto — though clearly shaped by Vietnamese hands. It was a single-story house, wide rather than tall, with indochinese-style windows and a gently sloping roof that caught the lantern light in soft amber tones. Yoshitaka took a quiet mental photograph of the scene — as if to keep it with him, just in case this moment turned out to matter.

The two large wooden entrance doors had been propped open. Ngọc gave him a gentle nod and gestured inward with her hand, allowing him to enter first. Her smile was small, almost shy, but reassuring — as if to say: you’re doing fine, without a single word escaping her ruby-red lips.

Yoshitaka stepped through the threshold and walked down a short hallway, his sandals quiet against the tile. Inhaling deeply, he exhaled in one steady breath — a small act of preparation — then pushed open the inner doors and entered the dining room.

The air inside was warm and fragrant. At the center of the room sat a long wooden table, low to the ground, with guests seated on cushions facing one another in the traditional style. Soft voices blended with the sound of clinking glasses and the faint hum of a ceiling fan. Staff moved in and out of view, carrying cans of beer, chilled soda bottles, and trays of wet napkins with practiced grace.

Ngọc appeared at his side, her presence light but firm. With a gentle nudge of her hand at the small of his back, she guided him toward an open cushion near the center of the table. She sat beside him and began to quietly describe each dish, her voice soft and reverent — as if introducing a gallery of familiar, beloved paintings.

“Mr. Soraoka,” Ngọc began, her voice low but clear, “the main dish tonight is cá kho sả ớt — salmon braised in coconut milk and fish sauce, then seasoned with pepper, chili, lemongrass, and onion. It’s traditional to eat it with white rice and rau muống xào, stir-fried water spinach. And to complete the meal, we have canh chua — sour soup, made with tamarind, pineapple, and herbs.” She paused, then added gently, “We’ll be starting soon, but we wait for Mrs. Bích and her husband to join us first.”

Yoshitaka bowed politely as Ngọc scooped delicate portions of fluffy white rice and sour soup into his bowl. A staff member approached with a can of beer, and as Yoshitaka accepted it, their eyes met for a brief second — the girl giggled shyly before slipping away.

He adjusted his position into a quiet seiza, folding his legs beneath him on the cushion, and brought the soup to his nose. The aroma was comforting — tamarind, herbs, something faintly floral beneath the sourness — and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply breathe it in.

Then he felt it again.

The pull.

But this time it wasn’t at his waist. It was around his finger — urgent, almost insistent. He looked down. Nothing was there, but the sensation gripped him all the same: a tightness, like invisible thread drawn taut. It wasn’t gentle, nor tingly like before. It felt like a sudden command.

Yoshitaka looked around, confused. Ngọc was deep in conversation with a French couple across from her, gesturing toward one of the dishes with a fond smile.

The seat across from him was empty.

Strange, he thought. He tried to follow the sensation, to understand where it was pulling from — but his attention was drawn back as Ngọc stood.

Yoshitaka barely had time to process the sensation in his hand when someone slipped quietly into the room. The conversations around the table carried on without pause, and only Ngọc lifted her gaze to acknowledge the newcomer. But Yoshitaka noticed him immediately.The man moved with gentle steps, like someone who had learned early on not to take up more space than necessary, and not to draw attention to himself. There was nothing timid in his movement — only control, the kind born from long practice.Ngọc stepped toward him with easy familiarity, said something too soft for Yoshitaka to hear, then swept her arm across the room in quiet welcome. With a small smile, she guided the newcomer to the empty seat directly across from him.

The man gave a polite nod as he lowered himself onto the cushion, folding his long legs beneath the table with practiced ease. He didn’t speak, but when he looked up again and their eyes met, Yoshitaka was struck by the steadiness of his gaze — warm, unguarded, almost inviting in its quiet clarity

.And then it happened.

The invisible thread tightened again — not sharply this time, but with the slow certainty of something finding its mark. Yoshitaka felt it not at his waist, but at his pinky finger, and this time, it seemed to lead directly across the table.He blinked, heart stuttering, and in that moment, he noticed something strange.The man — the stranger — was looking down at his own hand, brows faintly furrowed as his thumb brushed along his pinky, the same one Yoshitaka felt the pull from. He wasn’t alarmed. Just… puzzled. As if he too had felt something he couldn’t quite name.

For a moment, they simply looked at one another — not speaking, not moving — suspended in a silence that felt both newly formed and impossibly old.

Yoshitaka let his gaze focus then, quietly studying the stranger in the warm amber light.

His face was disarmingly warm — boyish in some lights, sharply handsome in others. His skin had a smooth, sun-kissed glow, the kind that hinted at time spent outdoors rather than beneath fluorescents. His features were open and symmetrical, grounded by a strong jawline softened by the natural curve of his cheeks, giving him a steady, inviting presence.

His eyes were almond-shaped, clear and bright, set beneath expressive brows that arched just slightly when curious — which, Yoshitaka guessed, might be often. There was a glint to them, something between mischief and melancholy, like someone who had learned to wear confidence but hadn’t entirely grown into it. His nose was gently defined, unassuming, while his lips — full, unguarded — carried a kind of quiet softness that made people lean in before they realized they were doing it.

He looked… familiar. Not in the way of memory, but in the way of déjà vu — the feeling of standing in a place you’ve never been, and knowing instinctively where everything is.

Ngọc’s voice broke the silence then. “Oh—Mr. Soraoka, this is Mr. Kuykendahl.” She hesitated slightly over the pronunciation, then recovered with a smile. “He arrived yesterday evening. You two should get to know each other. I’m going to help Mrs. Bích with dessert.”

The stranger turned toward him fully, smile warm and unforced, and extended a hand. “You can call me Eugene. I’m from the U.S.”

Yoshitaka accepted the gesture, his fingers brushing against Eugene’s palm — soft, warmer than he expected. “My name is Yoshitaka,” he said quietly. “I’m from Japan.”

Eugene took a sip of iced tea from his glass. “I could tell you were Japanese. You have the face.”

Yoshitaka blinked, unsure of what exactly he meant. But now that he looked more closely, he realized Eugene wasn’t quite what he had expected an American to look like, either. “Is your family… from somewhere else?”

Eugene shook his head, and for a moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression. “My parents?” he said, pausing briefly. “They’re born and raised Americans. Minnesotans through and through.” He nibbled at a piece of fish, then offered a small, knowing smile. “I’m guessing you noticed I don’t look very American. At least… not white.”

A flush rose to Yoshitaka’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he said quickly, bowing his head slightly. “I was just—curious.”

Yoshitaka heard a soft laugh, warm and sweet. “I’m not offended,” Eugene said gently. “I’m adopted. I was born in Korea.”

Yoshitaka pondered in silence as they ate, quietly observing the man across from him. There was something about Eugene that felt familiar — uncannily so. He was certain they had never met. Even during his brief time living in the States, Yoshitaka had never traveled east of California.And yet… this conversation, this topic — it felt like something that had already happened once, in another life. A half-forgotten script. He was still turning that thought over when Eugene’s voice gently pulled him back.

“What brought you to Vietnam, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Yoshitaka hesitated. There was no easy answer — at least not one that wouldn’t invite concern. “I just needed a break,” he said, carefully. He saw Eugene tilt his head, not in judgment, but as if trying to catch the unspoken words beneath the ones he had said. Not wanting to linger under that gaze, Yoshitaka deflected. “And you?”

Eugene placed his chopsticks across the rim of his bowl with quiet deliberation. The easy smile he had worn faded — not abruptly, but with the softness of something too heavy to carry for long. “I needed some time to think about something,” he said. “I’m only here for a couple of weeks. Thought the ocean might help.”

Just then, the doors to the dining room flew open, and an older woman entered with Ngọc at her side. She reminded Yoshitaka of a lively aunt — the kind who never let guests leave hungry — and her lipstick-stained smile lit up the room with ease. She wore a flashy áo dài embroidered with rhinestones arranged in a sweeping phoenix design, and her arms jingled with an assortment of gold and jade bracelets that sang softly with every step. Both women balanced large lacquered trays in their hands, each carrying a dozen small ceramic cups. Yoshitaka caught the aroma before they even reached the table — rich coconut, roasted peanuts, and the soft sweetness of warm bananas.

The older woman, whom Yoshitaka assumed to be Mrs. Bích, handed the trays off to the waiting staff. With a bright clink of her spoon against a glass, her voice rang out across the room — accented, bold, and full of cheer. “Welcome, my friends, to my home! I hope you enjoy your stay in Vietnam. Tonight, my husband and I have made chè chuối — the perfect dessert to end the night. Please enjoy!”

It seemed that Mrs. Bích wouldn’t allow Yoshitaka much time to speak with Eugene after that. The rest of the evening, she remained glued to his side — gushing loudly over his supposed good looks and asking, more than once, if he was single.

Ever polite and too well-mannered to offend his host, Yoshitaka could only nod along as she fawned over both him and Eugene in equal measure. He sipped his tea, smiled when prompted, and tried his best to endure the sudden pinching of cheeks and affectionate taps to the face. As he ate, all he could really do was watch Eugene — the way he responded to the decadent sweetness of the chè chuối, the way his nose scrunched slightly at the warmth of the coconut milk, and the quiet grin he wore as Mrs. Bích affectionately smoothed his hair like he were one of her own sons.

Much to Yoshitaka’s chagrin, the group parted ways not long after Mrs. Bích and her husband had drunk far more than they should have. With one final glance — a nod exchanged between them like a parting word — Eugene and Yoshitaka returned to their separate bungalows for the night.

Though the moment had been brief, Yoshitaka lay in bed with the distinct sense that their encounter had stretched far longer than it really had. It hadn’t felt like a simple introduction, but rather the quiet exchange of years. And as the warm haze of beer settled over him, Eugene’s face drifted into his thoughts — steady, curious, impossible to forget — until Yoshitaka slipped into sleep.