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We stroll north, toward the cartoonishly packed intersection near the Shibuya subway station. Schoolchildren huddle and cackle and retreat to phones and then re-erupt.

Every other shirt shouts a bright, nonsensical slogan—i’m just being emo yesterday—capitalist exuberance overpowering sense.

They’re one of those sweet and unassuming couples that exist just to radiate koala-like gentleness.

The afternoon is steamy, and we’re in the back of a tiny, dark izakaya in the city’s jumbly Sangenjaya neighborhood.

She speaks good English but still wobbles, so her husband, Taka, joins us.

There was the head of a prominent company, rich and “very clever” but conversationally marooned at “hello.” Discreetly and patiently, Miyabi helped draw other words out.

There was the string of teenage girls struggling to navigate mystifying social dynamics; at their parents’ request, Miyabi would show up and just be a friend.

Contrived Instagram photos aside, Miyabi’s career mostly comprises the small, unremarkable acts of ordinary friendship: Shooting the breeze over dinner. Speaking simple kindnesses on a simple drive to the client’s parents’ house, simply to pretend you two are in love and absolutely on the verge of getting married, so don’t even worry, Mom and Dad.

As a girl, Miyabi longed to be a flight attendant—Continental, for some reason—and that tidy solicitousness still emanates.

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