I used to get up on purpose for the sunrise.
From the third-floor balcony of the share house, Yugawara filled the valley below. Dark ridges framed the town, and the valley opened out towards the sea. Before dawn the houses were still half in shadow. Then the sun came up over the water and orange light spread across the sea.
No two mornings were the same. Some were clear and golden, others blue-grey under cloud. The habit wasn't worth it because every sunrise was spectacular. It was worth it because I could step outside every morning and see the whole town waiting for the light.
Someone I cared about lived in Tokyo then. I photographed the sunrise for her and wrote messages by hand across the pictures before I sent them. The balcony gave me something beautiful to share while we were apart. Once, when she stayed over, we watched it together.
The photos show sky and sea, but what I remember is getting up. I chose to be there for the start of the day. I watched the light cross the water before it reached the streets. I noticed the weather, the colours and the shape of the valley, because they were there every morning and never quite repeated.
The share house itself was far from perfect. Living together could be messy and difficult, and the building wasn't well looked after. The balcony didn't fix any of that. It just opened up above it.
Maybe that's why the view meant so much. A building didn't have to be ideal to give me a place to love someone, pay attention and start the day with something beautiful. Yugawara didn't wait for my life to get tidy before it offered me something good.