I lost myself in overly convenient Japan.

Four years since I came to Japan. When I first arrived, I was overwhelmed by the perfection of this country. Station announcements told me everything, my smartphone showed me the shortest route, and systems proactively solved any problems. I was moved, wondering if such a perfectly developed society could exist. However, as I got used to life here, I realized my heart grew heavy every time I rode the train. When I sat down, the seat next to me would remain empty until the final stop. Was my presence something someone wanted to avoid? Convenient systems couldn't solve that loneliness. In the first year, I was hurt; in the second, I tried to get used to it; in the third, I gave up. And in the fourth year, I realized a truth: I myself had been building the wall, having become complacent with convenience and stopped talking to others. One day, my smartphone battery died. I tried to ask for help, but I couldn't get the words out. Having not spoken to a stranger for four years, I had forgotten how. Convenience is a gift, but it has a shadow. I was gradually losing the courage to talk to people, and the connections that arise from inconvenience. Since then, I've consciously chosen "inconvenience." I deliberately walk without a map, getting lost. One day, an elderly woman I asked for directions walked with me all the way to my destination. It was only ten minutes, but it was the moment I felt closest to Japan in four years. Convenient systems have no "gaps." However, people always meet within those imperfect gaps. What I had lost was the habit of saying "Please help me" and extending a hand with "Here you go." No matter how convenient society becomes, there needs to be space for people to connect. I am now convinced that true richness lies precisely within those gaps.