Nanae Aoyama ’s A Perfect Day to Be Alone

To begin, this book does not follow a conventional plot; it is a delicate meditation on life, unfolding through the quiet lives of Chizu, a young girl embarking on her journey in the vast city of Tokyo, and Ginko, an elderly woman. The narrative meanders through their days, without any grand drama, simply exploring the rhythms of existence as they coexist under one roof. In its essence, this work functions more as a slice-of-life tale, unfolding like a fleeting moment, a mirror to the unadorned nature of reality, unfiltered and without embellishment.

As I turned the pages, I often found myself caught between irritation and disbelief at the characters’ actions. Chizu, newly emerged from high school, felt painfully indifferent—her words sometimes harsh, her gestures careless. There was an unguarded cruelty in the way she referred to Ginko as “the Old Lady,” a term that struck me with its lack of warmth. And yet, perhaps this is the author’s intent—capturing the turmoil of youth, the sharp edges of frustration that come with it. I suppose many of us have known this phase: the desire to retreat from the world, to find a space where we can breathe, alone, unseen.

But Ginko, too, carries her own form of indifference. She seems worn by years of loss, detached from Chizu’s struggles and unable to offer the comfort one might expect from a caregiver. There’s a certain coldness in her that mirrors Chizu’s own isolation—a mutual disregard, perhaps born of unspoken grief.

The relationship between Chizu and Ginko blooms slowly, almost imperceptibly, yet it remains unresolved, incomplete. In contrast to the typical narratives of healing and closure, where the bond between characters is often stitched up neatly, this story lingers in a more ambiguous space. Chizu departs without the expected catharsis, leaving the house and Ginko behind, still a stranger to the possibility of reconciliation. It is a poignant reminder of how human connections, no matter how deep or fleeting, are rarely tied up with perfect endings—rather, they are complex, requiring patience and care.

This is a quiet, deliberate book, one whose pace might leave you uncertain whether you love or dislike it. But even if the story itself is hard to pin down, I found the prose beautiful, and the translation a work of art in itself. Perhaps, in another time or another phase of life, this book might speak to me more profoundly. I wonder what it might feel like to return to it one day.