I arrived home close to midnight, or so it felt. I slipped quietly into the bath, careful not to wake my wife. This is my nightly ritual, a sanctuary I’ve crafted for myself. With the weight of the day still clinging to me, I let the warm water work its magic for an hour, soothing the tension in my body. I usually set the temperature around 39 degrees Celsius, just right for unwinding. I always keep five or six kinds of bath additives on hand, selecting one based on the mood of the evening. No matter how late I return, this hour grants me the deep, restorative sleep I crave.

Today was filled with business presentations. I work in urban planning, a field inextricably linked to the natural disasters that often threaten Japan. My role involves devising and executing development projects in areas at high risk for such calamities. It’s urban planning aimed at prevention, yet in recent years, some areas have been spared, and people living in disaster-free zones often feel detached from the urgency of our work. Today, I spent my time carefully explaining the importance of our efforts, hoping to bridge that gap in understanding. It was a departure from my usual tasks—demanding both physically and mentally.

As I soaked, I chose bath additives with scents derived from nature, eschewing anything artificial. Wrapped in the fragrance of natural herbs, I allowed myself to sink into my favorite music or the pages of a book left half-read. This was my uninterrupted time, a precious solitude. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the gentle embrace of the water’s warmth.

There is no such thing as meaningless urban planning. It is essential to demonstrate the significance of our work widely, to advance large-scale projects with purpose. Yet, in this moment, I was free from anyone’s expectation of meaning. I found comfort in the soft warmth, the rippling waves, the sound of water cascading. It was a space where presence alone felt like enough, where each element existed in serene harmony.

After a full hour, I emerged, brushing my teeth as usual, feeling a twinge of regret for the time I’d taken. I made my way to the bedroom where my wife slept, carrying with me the peace of my evening ritual.

— Urban Planning, 28 y.o

A book selection from this writer:
"The Sociology of Fragments" by Masahiko Kishi

"Street guitar players, night workers, former yakuza...
Listening to someone's story means stepping into their life.
This collection of essays revolves around 'events that defy interpretation,' as encountered by a sociologist in real life."