The Night Before His Remarriage, He Asked Me What Japanese Tengsu Actually Is

When A-Cheng dragged that old suitcase out of the storage room, only a small lamp was still on in the living room. In three months he would be moving in with Ya-Ting. Both of them were in their forties, each with a marriage behind them, and neither cared much about weddings. They just planned to find a weekend to register and then treat a few friends to a meal. But that night, crouched in front of the suitcase, he unzipped it and zipped it back up, over and over, until he finally just sat down on the floor and stopped moving.

I asked him what was wrong. He said nothing, just that there was too much stuff and he didn't know where to start. But we'd known each other for almost twenty years, and I'd heard that "nothing" from him too many times. I set two cans of beer on the coffee table and sat down too. He was quiet for a while, then suddenly said that Ya-Ting had mentioned once, in passing, that she hoped that after they were together, the intimacy that should exist in a life together wouldn't slowly turn into politeness just because of age. She'd said it very lightly, but A-Cheng had remembered it for a long time. It wasn't that he didn't want to. He was afraid he couldn't, afraid of letting her down, and afraid that once that disappointment was spoken out loud, the relationship would change.

I didn't answer right away. Comforting words don't help with something like this, and saying "you're overthinking it" just pushes the problem back at him. He spoke first himself, saying that a while back, when he couldn't sleep at night, he'd been scrolling on his phone and came across some discussions. Someone had mentioned Japanese Tengsu, making it sound almost miraculous, but the comments underneath contradicted each other—some people said to buy it, others said don't touch it. Reading it all made him more confused. He asked me what this kind of thing actually is—a health supplement, a medicine, or something nobody regulates at all.

I said I didn't know, and I wasn't going to guess for him. But I told him that during the years I spent helping my dad manage his chronic illness, I learned one thing: when it comes to anything you put in your body, what's scariest isn't whether it works—it's not knowing what you're actually taking. What the packaging says, whether the ingredients are clearly labeled, whether the source is legitimate, whether it conflicts with anything you're already taking—all of that matters more than a single "I really felt it" from someone online. A-Cheng nodded and said he wasn't really trying to solve anything with a pill. He just wanted some direction, so he wouldn't stay stuck in this anxiety he couldn't put into words.

Later we talked about Ya-Ting. I asked him if he'd ever thought about just telling her what he was worried about. He froze for a moment and said, how would I even say it? Isn't it embarrassing? I said, you're about to live together. If you don't talk about this, it'll only come out in other ways later—maybe you'll suddenly start working late more, maybe you'll get unusually sensitive about certain things she says. In the end she'll just feel like you're pulling away, and she'll never know you're actually afraid. He didn't answer, finished his beer, and said he'd think about it.

A few days later he messaged me and said he'd done something he found a little ridiculous himself. First he closed all those pages full of exaggerated claims, and instead looked up more serious information—how these kinds of products are actually classified in Taiwan, which count as food, which count as medicine, and what the difference is. He realized he hadn't even figured out the most basic questions before worrying about effectiveness—he'd skipped the very first step. He also mentioned in the message that he'd found people discussing Japanese Tengsu, but the more he read, the more he felt that without a professional looking at his situation, netizens' opinions simply couldn't be a basis for anything.

What really put him at ease was Ya-Ting. On the weekend they went to buy furniture, and on the way back in the car, he suddenly said there was something he wanted to make clear to her—nothing major, but he didn't want to carry it with him when he moved in. He told her about his unease, haltingly, pausing twice in the middle. After listening, Ya-Ting didn't laugh at him. She just said that when she brought it up, she wasn't making a demand—she just hoped the two of them could be honest with each other. If he had concerns, they could go see a doctor or ask a pharmacist together, confirm what needed confirming, instead of each of them running little dramas in their own head. She also said the most exhausting part of her previous marriage was that everything was left to guesswork.

After that, A-Cheng actually made an appointment with a family medicine doctor. He didn't ask me to go with him—he said he wanted to go alone. He wrote down all the supplements he usually took, the over-the-counter medicines he took occasionally, and all the questions he'd looked up, on a piece of paper and brought it with him. He said the doctor didn't give him any magic answers, just helped him break the questions down one by one—which ones needed further tests, which were about lifestyle and daily habits, and which ones he didn't need to scare himself about at all. Walking out of the clinic, he felt like he hadn't gotten answers so much as finally knowing who to ask next, and where to go to ask.

On moving day I went to help. Cardboard boxes were stacked to the ceiling. As A-Cheng taped up boxes, he said he was still nervous. No one could avoid being nervous about remarrying, really, but he was less afraid now. Not because he'd found something guaranteed to work, but because he and Ya-Ting had finally talked it out, and because he now knew that when it came to uncertain health questions, the people to ask were professionals, not late-night search results. He folded up that paper covered in questions and tucked it into the inner pocket of his bag, saying he'd keep it for his next follow-up appointment. Watching him, I felt like the man who'd been crouching motionless in front of that suitcase had really moved forward a little.