When I was twenty, I spent some time alone in the south of France.
Rent in Nice was expensive, so I stayed in a place about forty minutes away by bus—somewhere obscure, a town no one really knew.
During that stay, I met a French man who spoke Japanese. We started going out together, and eventually became slightly intimate—kissing, at most. It seemed he had fallen for me.
I hadn’t. I thought of it as a summer adventure, something loosely resembling a relationship, but I never had any intention of continuing it seriously.
Even after I returned to Japan, we kept in touch through long emails and video calls on Skype. Eventually, it became tiresome. Around that time, my paternal grandfather passed away, and I told him I wasn’t in the emotional state to continue the relationship.
The breakup itself was straightforward.
After that, he moved to Japan.
That same year, a small package arrived from him at Christmas.
The postmark showed it had been sent from Narita Airport. He had probably mailed it while briefly returning home for the holidays. When you’re at an airport, about to board a plane, you’re usually absorbed in your own affairs—so the fact that he sent something from there felt unsettling.
The contents were labeled simply: jam.
Inside was a bottle of Dior’s J’adore perfume.
We hadn’t been in contact at all, and yet a Christmas gift, sent from Narita. It felt like a form of attachment that hadn’t ended. I sent a brief thank-you message, but didn’t send anything in return. I also told him that Christmas gifts made me uncomfortable and that I didn’t want him to send any more.
Despite that, another package arrived the following Christmas.
This time, it was a large container—about the size of a food storage box—with a small wooden figurine inside: a Snufkin doll, about five centimeters tall, placed neatly in the middle.
I don’t like Snufkin. I had never once mentioned liking him.
It made me uneasy.
I messaged him again—thanking him, and telling him clearly to stop.
He said he did this for all his friends, that I shouldn’t worry about it. I told him again to please stop.
Months before that Christmas, we had exchanged a few messages. He asked to see me, but I declined, saying my boyfriend would be jealous. It also seemed that he had a girlfriend of his own. We were communicating in Japanese, but his Japanese hadn’t improved at all. So I told him: Your girlfriend is Japanese and only speaks Japanese, yet your Japanese hasn’t improved at all.
I said it because, when I was still a beginner in French, he had once told me that my French was terrible. Saying it back felt unexpectedly satisfying.
After the Snufkin incident, there were no more messages or gifts. It seemed he had blocked me on Facebook.
Looking back, our dates had always been split evenly.
He never bought me drinks.
And I never offered him anything either.
At the time, I didn’t think this was wrong. I wasn’t serious about him, and I didn’t want a relationship where money or feelings were exchanged excessively.
But now, I think he was someone who was deeply uncomfortable with giving something in the moment.
That doesn’t mean he gave nothing at all.
When I said I wanted curry, he would cook it for me at his place.
He wouldn’t buy things, and he wouldn’t treat me outside.
He gave only within his own space, with his own hands.
The curry was good—made with Japanese roux and lamb.
But it felt less like care within daily life, and more like an act of inviting me into his world.
He was someone who offered nothing to the outside world,
but gave only once you stepped into his territory.
He ignored immediate needs—heat, thirst—
yet, after time and distance had passed,
sent perfume from an airport.
His affection always arrived
one beat behind reality.
