The party was held in one of Guadalajara’s most exclusive venues, on the glass-enclosed terrace of the Demetria Hotel, from where the orange sky fused with the city lights. It was an elegant wedding, full of forced smiles, tailored suits, and expensive perfumes floating in the air. The orchestra played a bolero with technical precision, but lacking in soul.
Everyone tried hard to look happy, everyone except one. At a round table, set back from the center of the room, sat a man who seemed to have been placed there as a protocol error. Kenji Yamasaki, Japanese, with an impassive face, a dark suit without a single wrinkle, his hands resting stiffly on his legs.
He didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t look at anyone, just watched in silence, as if the world around him were a silent movie he’d seen many times before. Around him, the guests avoided even meeting glances. Some whispered about him openly. They say he’s a millionaire, but he doesn’t look it. I heard he has car factories or that he bought half of Jalisco, but no one came near.
And even though the dance floor was beginning to fill with people moving awkwardly between laughter and drinks, he remained there motionless, as if he didn’t know or didn’t want to be part of it. He didn’t understand a word they were saying, but he understood the gestures, the suppressed laughter, the averted glances.
The discomfort doesn’t need translation. Meanwhile, between trays and empty glasses, Julia walked nimbly around the room, dodging conversations that didn’t belong to her. She was 24 years old, with alert eyes and an expression that tried to remain neutral, although her thoughts were rarely silent. She wore the staff uniform: a white shirt, black vest, and a neatly ironed apron.
No one knew she spoke Japanese. No one knew she had been an outstanding student at university before dropping out. At the wedding, she was just the dark-haired waitress in the corner and was used to being invisible. But that night her attention was drawn to Kenji, not out of superficial curiosity, but out of something deeper, more human.
There was a loneliness about him that seemed familiar, a rigidity born not of pride, but of rootlessness. From her corner, she watched him take just a sip of water. She noticed how he struggled to maintain his composure, as if defending a silent dignity that no one there seemed to recognize. There was no arrogance in his gaze, but a subtle, ancient weariness.
When their eyes met, for a moment, Julia instinctively lowered her gaze, but she felt something. It wasn’t a romantic connection or a flash of attraction, it was something else, as if in the midst of the party, they both knew they didn’t quite belong there. That exchange of glances was brief, so brief that no one else noticed.
But for both of them, without knowing it yet, that night would not be like the others. Julia didn’t usually get involved with guests; she knew her place: to go unnoticed, take her turn, and return home before tiredness turned to sadness. But that night, as the toasts were repeated with increasingly loud laughter, her gaze returned again and again to the corner, where Kenji remained like a shadow.
Alone, his hands firmly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the center of the room, not moving an inch. Something inside her wouldn’t let her ignore him. She’d seen plenty of people alone at parties, drunks without company, ignored women, divorced uncles with a blank stare. But this was different. It wasn’t the loneliness of someone who’s been excluded.
It was that of someone who, although present, had never actually been invited. Pulia watched him for several minutes amidst trays of snacks, chatter about investments, and classist comments thrown like darts wrapped in politeness. “That man seems mute,” said a woman in a red dress, smiling maliciously. “Or he’s waiting for them to come and worship him,” her friend replied. “Or he just doesn’t want to mix with Mexicans,” a man added, letting out a tense laugh. Julia felt those words tighten in her chest. Not because of him exactly, but because she’d heard that tone so many times directed at people like her, people who worked serving, cleaning, caring, people who didn’t matter.
Meanwhile, Kenji still didn’t react, but there was a slight tension in his shoulders, as if he understood more than he let on, as if each word touched him from afar, but touched him just the same. After half an hour, Julia approached their table with a tray of refreshments. She didn’t have to, since another waiter was in charge of that area, but something compelled her.
She placed a fresh glass in front of him with gentle movements. She was about to turn away. When she heard him say quietly, “Thank you.” His accent was clumsy, but understandable. Basic Spanish, with effort. Julia looked at him in surprise and, without thinking, answered in Japanese. Duita shimashite chini shinai de kudasai. Kenji’s head jerked up. His eyes opened slightly, and for the first time all night, something in his expression changed. A crack in the wall.
“You speak Japanese,” he said slowly, still in his own language. Julia nodded. “I studied it for three years. I really like their culture.” He didn’t respond immediately, but nodded with a slight bow that came from his heart. It was a brief, subtle gesture, but full of respect. Julia felt she had just crossed a line, an invisible one, not only with him, but with the entire party.
She knew that if anyone saw her talking to a guest, let alone that guest, the stares would soon arrive. But at that moment, she didn’t care. “Would you like anything else?” she asked, now in Spanish. Kenji looked at her for a long second, then shook his head. “Just thank you for talking.” Julia nodded. She smiled briefly, a shy smile, more to herself than to him, and went back to walking between the tables.
No one had noticed anything yet, but something had changed. After that brief exchange, Kulia continued working as if nothing had happened. But her body didn’t lie; her steps were lighter, her breathing more alert. She felt a different energy in her chest, a mix of adrenaline and doubt. She had done wrong.
Had she made him uncomfortable? Had anyone seen them? Actually, yes. Someone had. Álvaro, the head waiter, tall, dark-haired, with a dry voice and a face that seemed carved with annoyance, watched her from near the bar. He was a man who didn’t shout, but knew how to punish with a single sentence. And although he didn’t say anything at that moment, his eyes followed Julia with a silent judgment she knew all too well.
Meanwhile, in his corner, Kenji still didn’t move much, but something in him had changed. Now his eyes didn’t gaze distantly at the room, they searched. Every so often, discreetly, they glanced toward Julia as she passed between the tables. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t romanticism, it was something simpler and rarer: gratitude. It was as if for the first time all night, perhaps in many nights, someone had seen him as a person.
The other guests remained the same, laughing loudly, dancing without rhythm, feigning ease over expensive drinks, but the murmur around Kenji was beginning to become more acidic. What’s that guy doing here? He doesn’t dance or talk. He was probably invited out of obligation. Did you know he bought land in Sayulita? How ridiculous to have so much money and not know how to behave.
The criticism was disguised as a joke, but Julia, who was passing by, felt the words like poorly wrapped daggers. And although she knew it wasn’t her place to defend anyone, her stomach sank with every word. That night, during dinner, Julia approached his table again, not out of protocol, but because something was pushing her. She placed a plate in front of him that wasn’t hers to carry
Kenji looked at her gently. This time she said nothing, just looked at him for a second with a firm but serene expression, as if she were saying, “You’re not alone here.” Turning around, she heard a woman’s low voice behind her. “Did you see the waitress? What’s she doing talking to him like they were friends?” The words hit her harder than she wanted to admit, not out of shame, but out of helplessness.
In that room, she would never be seen as anything more than a server. And yet, she had just done something no one there had been able to do: speak to him, listen to him. That night, as the DJ took over the music and the lights dimmed, Julia knew something was stirring.
Not in the room, but in her, and in him too. Kenji looked up one last time at the dance floor, where couples were dancing without inviting him, without even considering it, and in that moment their eyes met again. She, without thinking, made a gesture that seemed like a silent invitation, barely perceptible, almost unforgivable for someone like her in that context.
He didn’t move, but he didn’t lower his gaze. The balance of the party was beginning to tip, and no one knew it yet. The music changed. The DJ replaced the boleros with a soft instrumental version of a romantic classic. The dance floor cleared a bit, giving way to the older couples, who embraced with slow, ceremonial movements.
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