It’s raining tonight.

It was raining when we left Yokohama too.

And somehow, it feels like the weather followed me home. Now that I think about it, it almost always rains when we go there. Japan probably knows I love it.

I’m back now—back to familiar spaces, familiar routines, everything right where I left it. And still, something feels just slightly… in between.

Not quite there anymore. Not fully settled here yet.

Just…in between.

Trips like this don’t end all at once. They linger. In quiet flashes. In the way certain moments replay when everything slows down.

The cherry blossoms at night. All the shades of pink—soft, deep, almost glowing under the lights. Petals scattered along the ground like a quiet sakura carpet.

The softness in the air.

The ease of walking 20 thousand steps a day without needing to be anywhere.

Even now, sitting here with the rain steady against the windows, it doesn’t feel entirely different.

Just a different view. A different city. The same quiet.

I think that’s what I didn’t expect. I thought coming home would feel like a clean shift—like closing one chapter and stepping neatly into another. But instead, it feels like both are still here, overlapping in the gentlest way.

Tokyo, Kyoto, Himeji, Itsukushima, Yokohama…. all still within reach.

Home, settling around me.

I miss it. Japan.

Not in a heavy way. Just enough to notice. The kind of missing that sits softly, like something good you’re not quite ready to put away.

And at the same time, I’m grateful to be back.

Back to my space, my rhythm, my ohana.

Chewy curled up nearby like I never left, Whiskey nearby plotting his next scheme, Mama Girl tucked in with her kittens—they grew so much while we were gone— and Bronson moving through the house in that familiar, easy way that somehow makes everything feel settled again.

We both came home a little under the weather—Bronson more than me—and while that wasn’t exactly part of the plan, there’s something about being back that makes even that feel manageable. The kind of quiet where you take care of each other, slow everything down, and let the body catch up.

The kind of presence you don’t have to think about—you just feel it.

Even the rain feels familiar.

Like it’s welcoming me back without asking anything of me.

So tonight, I’m letting it all sit.

This in-between feeling, this quiet melancholy.

This steady kind of gratitude for having somewhere to go… and somewhere to return to.

Somewhere between Tokyo and home.

I think I’ll stay here a little longer tonight… and catch up on the rest of our Japan stories soon.

In the meantime, here’s the last photo I took—the view of Minato Mirai from our premier suite at InterContinental Yokohama Pier 8. Still as stunning as I remember it.

Love,

Honey