He Left His Search History on the Tablet, and His Fiancée Asked Just One Thing: Have You Been Sleeping Badly Lately?

Ajie is forty-two, divorced for five years, and getting remarried this autumn. His partner was introduced by a coworker. They've been together for a year and a half, and things have been smooth—no dramatic romance, just the kind of relationship where they grab dinner after work and go to the market together on weekends. As the wedding gets closer, he's actually gotten quieter. It's not that he doesn't love her—it's a nervousness he can't quite put into words. He tells himself his last marriage ended badly, and he doesn't want to screw this one up too.

The problem is, he doesn't know what he's nervous about. At work during the day, everything's normal—he talks in meetings like always. But at night, once he lies down, his mind starts spinning. He thinks about the things his ex-wife said toward the end, and how he was so consumed by work that he didn't catch any of it. When those thoughts come, he rolls over, grabs his tablet, and scrolls until one or two in the morning. The next day he's exhausted, blames it on age, and starts reading about health supplements online.

One Friday night, his good friend Lao Zhou came over for drinks. Lao Zhou is the blunt type. Seeing how rough Ajie looked, he asked if it was pre-wedding anxiety. Ajie tried to brush it off, but after a couple of drinks, he opened up. He said he was afraid his body wasn't what it used to be, afraid of letting his fiancée down, and afraid of being compared to someone else again. Lao Zhou didn't laugh at him. He just said one thing: "What you're worried about right now—is it your body, or is it that you've never actually told her you're worried?"

That sentence hit him like a needle. Ajie sat there stunned for a long time. He realized he had never talked to his fiancée about any of this. He'd just been looking things up alone, worrying alone, and packaging his anxiety as "I need to be prepared." Lao Zhou added that he'd gone through something similar before. What helped was going to a clinic for a basic checkup, laying the numbers out on the table, and realizing that most of his fears were things he'd imagined. Lao Zhou didn't recommend any product. He just said: "Instead of scrolling around at midnight, write your questions down and go ask a professional."

The next day, Ajie actually started looking into it. He typed "Japan Tengsu" into the search bar, and a flood of forum threads, listings, and reviews popped up. He clicked through a few pages and found the claims contradicted each other—some were wildly exaggerated, and some didn't even list the ingredients clearly. The more he read, the more confused he got, so he just closed it all. He told himself what he needed wasn't a specific product—it was a basis for making a judgment: What is this stuff, exactly? Does it need a doctor's evaluation? Could it interact with the blood pressure medication he's already taking? He decided to jot these questions down in his phone's notes app.

A week later, he made an appointment with a family medicine doctor. While waiting, he opened his notes. Five questions were listed: What's behind my recent poor sleep? What should I watch out for with my current medications? How should I choose health supplements? Do I need further testing? If I need a referral, which department should I go to? The doctor didn't give him any magic answers. He just said to start with sleep and stress management, and asked Ajie to make a list of everything he was currently taking and bring it next time. Walking out of the exam room, Ajie felt relieved—not because he had answers, but because his questions finally had a direction.

The real turning point happened at the dinner table. His fiancée asked if something was on his mind. He almost said "nothing" again, but then he thought of what Lao Zhou had said, and he told her the truth. He said he hadn't been sleeping well, that he was worried about his condition, and he admitted that his previous marriage had left some things unresolved. After listening, his fiancée didn't press for details. She just said: "I wish you'd told me sooner. We can figure it out together." That meal didn't have a dramatic reconciliation, but the distance between them clearly shrank.

After that, they did a few things together: they pulled out all the supplements in the house and checked the labels—tossed the expired ones, set aside the duplicates; they agreed not to look at their phones for half an hour before bed; and Ajie put his test results somewhere safe to bring to his next appointment. The wedding date stayed the same. He still gets nervous, but it's no longer the kind of nervousness that smolders inside him alone. Every now and then he still thinks about that search history—but now he knows: what really put him at ease wasn't a keyword. It was the version of himself who was willing to speak up, willing to verify, and willing to bring his list of questions to someone who could answer them.