Calling this New Post because I don't have a good title.
「気がついたら、あれ、なんでここにいるんだっけ？ラーメンの一蘭ってあるじゃない。あれと一緒。個人ごとのカウンターに座って、周りを見ないまま、ただ前を向いてる。」
Ichiran Ramen—you know it? It’s that place where you eat in silence, behind dividers, head down, eyes forward. No talking. No distractions. Just you and the ramen. They call it the “味集中カウンター”. You don’t even see the person who gives you the food. Sometimes life feels like that. You sit down, start doing your thing, and you don't look up for hours… or years.
Lately, I’ve been wondering how I got here — not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. In my life.
There’s this Minecraft advancement called “How Did We Get Here?” You unlock it by having every single status effect applied to you at the same time. It’s absurdly complicated. You need a plan, perfect timing, and an almost comical amount of coordination.
But in real life? I feel like I’ve somehow ended up with all those effects too — confusion, guilt, fatigue, comparison, ambition — except no one told me I was collecting them. I didn’t plan for any of them. They just stacked up quietly while I wasn’t paying attention.
What really gets me is that in Minecraft, How Did We Get Here? is a hidden advancement. You don’t even know it exists until you’ve already done it. And that’s exactly how life has felt lately. One day you wake up, mentally worn out, emotionally heavy, and only then do you realize: something’s been building up this whole time.
You might be walking around under the weight of burnout, shame, numbness, hope—and not even know it. The game doesn’t care where the effects came from, and neither does life. It doesn’t matter whether the exhaustion came from trying too hard or not trying enough. You just feel it.
And before you even realize it, you’ve unlocked something you never meant to. You look around, take stock, and think: How did I get here?
My girlfriend and I were lying on the floor in her apartment, the kind of quiet evening where the conversation drifts naturally—sometimes deep, sometimes silly. She was talking about her plans for Japan, how everything she worked for is finally lining up. I was proud of her. I still am. But then came the silence. That long pause after she asked me, "What about you? What do you want next?"
And I didn’t have an answer. Or maybe I had too many. I thought about everything I’d started and never finished. The projects that never became anything. The dreams that quietly dried up when no one was watching. And suddenly, I felt like I was still in that Ichiran booth. Still sitting. Still staring forward. Except now, the person I thought I was walking alongside had reached the finish line — and I was nowhere close.
It wasn’t jealousy. It was more like… grief for a version of myself I thought would have gotten further by now.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about the gap between us—not just in terms of achievements, but in clarity. She knew what she wanted. She claimed it. I’ve just been moving.
I don’t have a neat conclusion. I’m not writing this from the other side of some great realization. There’s no motivational quote here, no five-step plan to find your path. Just a quiet moment of looking up.
For the first time in a while, I’m turning my head to the side—away from the booth, away from the tunnel vision—and noticing where I actually am. Maybe that’s all I can do right now. Not keep pretending I’m further along. Not compare timelines. Just admit that I got a little lost, and that I’m still figuring it out.
If you’re reading this and it feels familiar, maybe you’re sitting in your own booth too. Maybe you’ve been moving forward without realizing where you're going, or why.
気がついたら、どこにいる？ When you finally look up — where are you?