The Night We Video-Called from the Business Trip, We Looked Up the Four Words "Japanese Tengsu" Together

Chen Guanyu's suitcase was always neater than his wardrobe at home. Three shirts, two pairs of dress pants, a bundle of charging cables, and a notebook with curled edges from being flipped through so many times. He was the kind of engineer who printed out his itinerary before boarding and highlighted the key points with a marker. This trip to Tokyo was to find out why a client's production line kept crashing over and over. The problem was, the production line didn't crash—his marriage did first.

On his first night in Tokyo, he stayed at a business hotel in Shinagawa. The room was small, and outside the window was the glass curtain wall of another building, reflecting his own image back at him. After his shower, he sat on the edge of the bed and opened his phone. His wife Lin Yating's video call came through right on cue. On the screen she was in her loungewear, with that yellow desk lamp behind her—the one at home that had never been replaced. "Have you eaten?" she asked. "Yeah," he answered. In truth, he'd only bought a rice ball at the convenience store.

After a few seconds of silence, Lin Yating suddenly said, "That thing you said you were going to look into last time—did you ever go?" Chen Guanyu froze for a moment before remembering that two months ago he'd casually mentioned it—some coworkers had been talking about men's health products, and he'd been a little curious. At the time he'd said "I'll deal with it when I'm back," and then forgot about it. Now that she was asking, he felt a bit guilty and blurted out, "That kind of stuff is just random talk online. Even if I looked, it wouldn't help." That sentence was like a needle, quietly pricking something open.

Lin Yating's tone shifted: "So you think it's unnecessary for me to even ask?" "That's not what I meant." "Then what exactly do you mean?" On the video screen her face leaned closer to the camera, but her voice seemed to drift further away. Chen Guanyu looked at his own shrunken face in the bottom right corner of the screen and suddenly felt exhausted. He wanted to explain, but his engineer's training had taught him to find the root of the problem first rather than soothe emotions. He said a few logical things and got back "You just don't want to talk to me at all," and then the call ended.

He stared at the darkened screen, the air conditioner humming in the room. He opened his laptop, originally intending to continue reading the report the client had sent, but somehow his fingers typed a few words into the search bar. He remembered the name his coworker had mentioned and wanted to figure out what it actually was, where the information came from, and whether there was any legitimate explanation. He didn't want to be like he was just now—unable to explain anything clearly. The first term he searched was Japanese Tengsu, because it was the only word he could remember.

As he searched, he realized he couldn't even tell whether it was a prescription drug or a health supplement. Some web pages described it like a miracle cure, while others said it was illegal advertising. He remembered that a few days ago in the family group chat in Taiwan, someone had forwarded a news story about how taking too many health supplements can actually harm your body, and an elder had commented, "Natural stuff is fine even if you take a lot." He hadn't replied at the time, but now that sentence felt jarring. He decided not to buy anything recklessly and not to guess recklessly either.

He called the video chat again. This time Lin Yating picked up, her face still sour, but she didn't hang up. Chen Guanyu spoke first: "I'm sorry. Just now I wasn't annoyed that you were meddling. I just didn't know how to say it—I was afraid of saying the wrong thing." He told her one by one what he'd found, including that some products had unclear labeling and some didn't even list where their ingredients came from. As Lin Yating listened, her tone gradually softened: "You should have just said it like this from the start. I'm not asking you to buy it—I'm asking you to go see a doctor and bring everything you're taking to ask about."

After they talked it out, they actually laughed. Lin Yating said, "You can't even remember what you've bought, and you want to look things up for other people." Chen Guanyu replied, "That's why I need a project manager." She said, "Alright, when you're back I'll go with you. You're in charge of making the list." They agreed that after returning to Taiwan, they'd go together to a clinic near home and put all of Chen Guanyu's health supplements, vitamins, and anything else he was taking into a ziplock bag to bring in, so a professional could look at it. Not playing doctor themselves, and not jumping to conclusions online.

Before hanging up, Lin Yating reminded him: "Don't stay up late by yourself looking at those one-page ads anymore." Chen Guanyu looked out the window, and the reflection on the glass curtain wall didn't seem so lonely anymore. He closed his laptop and decided to focus on solving the production line problem tomorrow. As for all that health stuff, they'd deal with it when he got home. He knew that some things weren't about how fast you could look them up—they were about having someone to look, ask, and face them together with.

The next morning, while he was waiting for the client in the hotel lobby, he received a message from Lin Yating. It was a photo she'd taken of the dining table at home, with an empty ziplock bag on it and a note beside it that read, "Waiting for you to come back and fill it." He smiled and sent back an OK sticker. In that moment, he felt that the hardest part of a business trip was never the jet lag—it was the words left unsaid. Now that they'd been said, his suitcase seemed a little lighter too.