After the Video Call Dropped, We Looked Up Japanese Tengsu Together

Lin Yanting leaned his suitcase against the bed, his laptop still open, a weekly report on the screen that he hadn't sent. On the seventh day of his business trip, he had gotten used to the low hum of the hotel air conditioning, and to eating only convenience store rice balls for dinner. A notification popped up on his phone—a message from his wife, asking whether he was actually coming home this weekend. He stared at that line for a long time, and finally replied only with "We'll see," then turned the screen face down.

That night's video call was originally just to check if the kids were asleep. As soon as the screen connected, his wife first asked if he had been eating properly. He said yes offhandedly, and then the conversation shifted—it became "That thing you said you'd deal with last time, when exactly are you going to deal with it?" He froze, because he couldn't even remember which thing she meant. The two of them, separated by a screen—one in a living room in Taiwan, one in a room in an unfamiliar city—grew louder and louder, until his wife said, "You're always like this," and the screen went black.

After hanging up, the room was uncomfortably quiet. He sat on the edge of the bed and remembered that before this business trip, he had typed some words into the search bar, looking for something to lift his spirits. Back then he had scrolled past a name, found it unfamiliar, and felt that maybe he shouldn't be thinking about these things at a time like this. He tossed his phone onto the bed, then picked it up again, opened his notes app, and wrote down a few questions: What exactly is this, who's selling it, and how do I ask about it after buying.

The next day at noon, he called again from the coffee shop downstairs from the client's office. His wife picked up, her tone still stiff, but she didn't hang up. He said that the "thing to deal with" from yesterday—he had genuinely forgotten, not deliberately put it off. His wife was silent for a few seconds, then said she wasn't angry that he forgot, she was angry that he always deflected with "We'll see." He listened, and for the first time didn't rush to explain, only said, "Then tell me, I'm listening now."

That call lasted over forty minutes. His wife talked about things at home, about the kids asking when Dad was coming back, about going to the hypermarket alone to carry things. He talked about the emptiness of being alone in a hotel room on a business trip, about sometimes being too lazy to even eat. Neither of them argued—they just slowly talked things through. Before hanging up, his wife asked whether he had been looking into some kind of health supplement, because she had seen a related page pop up on his phone.

He was a bit embarrassed, and said yes, but he wasn't sure what it was, or whether he should buy it. His wife didn't laugh at him, only said, "When you're back, we'll look at it together." That afternoon, he took a moment to save a few web pages, and noted his wife's questions beside them: Is this name a product or an ingredient, what's written on the packaging, and should we ask a professional first. He found that the more he searched, the more confused he got, because the same term was described very differently online—some people talked about it as an ordinary supplement, others mixed it up with something else entirely.

Back at the hotel that evening, he made another video call. This time his wife turned the camera toward the dining table and said she was also looking up Japanese Tengsu, and had closed a few pages that looked like ads. The two of them compared what they had each found across the screen, and discovered that many pages only had exaggerated slogans, with no clear indication of source or ingredients. His wife said that rather than guessing on their own, it would be better to bring the list to a pharmacy or clinic after he got home and ask the people there—at least then they'd know what they were asking about. He nodded and said he wouldn't buy anything on his own this time.

The day he returned home, his wife picked him up at the airport. In the car, she didn't bring up that night's argument again, only asked if he was tired. He opened the notes file on his phone—it had a few questions, a few saved pages, and a line his wife had added for him: First confirm whether it's a prescription drug, then look at the packaging and source. He said that he wasn't really trying to solve his problems with something, it was just that during those days alone out there, he felt very anxious and wanted something to hold onto. His wife said she understood, but hoped that next time he panicked, he would call first instead of searching first.

In the end, they didn't rush to buy anything—they just agreed to go to a nearby pharmacy together that weekend to ask. Before leaving the house, his wife wrote both of their questions on a piece of paper, and he added the claims he had found. They agreed that if the person couldn't explain clearly, they would go to another one and ask again, and not decide on the spot. That piece of paper was folded and put in his wallet, together with the note he had written during his business trip. He still goes on business trips alone sometimes, but now there's one more thing he can do in the room: call home and talk through what happened that day.

In the end, this didn't turn into a purchasing decision—it turned into an agreement between them. He no longer uses "We'll see" as a shield, and his wife no longer holds everything in alone until she reaches a breaking point. The silence after that video call dropped actually taught them how to reconnect the conversation. As for that name he once typed into the search bar, to them now it's just a question to clarify together, not an answer to grab in a hurry.