Blog #1　A Special Occasion

From the First Whistle: A Day to Remember on the Pitch

The moment the referee blew the whistle, my heartbeat synced with the rhythm of the game. The sound was small, but in that instant, it felt like everything had shifted. Nervousness, uncertainty, anticipation—all of it transformed into motion. This wasn’t just a soccer tournament. It was something I had been chasing passionately for years—a day that reminded me why I fell in love with this sport in the first place.

It was a humid, sticky Saturday night. Because of a brief rain earlier that morning, the grass beneath my football shoes was still damp in places, making a soft, squishy sound with every step. But the sky had completely cleared. The temperature was high, but the heat inside me—the anticipation and excitement—was even stronger.

Teammates from Malaysia, China, Japan, India—all gathered from different countries—stood side by side, wearing the same-colored uniforms, united by a single goal. The scene looked like a colorful painting that had suddenly come to life, and I felt a powerful sense of unity that words couldn’t fully capture. We came from different places and spoke different languages, but at that moment, we were all chasing the same ball—one team, one purpose.

Just before kickoff, the moment I stepped onto the pitch, all my senses sharpened at once.
The sharp, grassy smell of the turf, the salty sweat trickling down my sun-warmed skin, the distant cheers of the crowd, the thud of my football shoes striking the ground—everything fell into one perfect rhythm. Then the whistle blew. As the game began, my body moved instinctively. The plays I had replayed in my head over and over the night before began to unfold smoothly, almost like a recording being played back. Every time the ball came to my feet, it felt like it was directly connected to my senses—as if it had become a part of my body. The control, the pass, the dribble, the shot—each action rose naturally from somewhere deep inside me.

Then, just after the 20th minute of the first half, I saw an opening and made a run behind the defenders. Jason, one of my teammates, spotted it and delivered a perfect pass.

I controlled the ball, took one touch, and then struck it. The ball flew straight toward the goal, and the moment it touched the net, it felt like brushing against silk—soft, yet certain. Time seemed to slow down for a second, and then the crowd erupted in cheers from the stands. My teammates ran toward me, patting my back and shouting, “Well done!” and “Great shot!”

In that moment, something ignited deep inside my chest. It felt like my passion was bursting into sparks, exploding with energy. All the training and effort I had put in until now seemed to pay off, and I found myself looking up at the sky, overwhelmed.

As we entered halftime, the team gathered in a circle, drinking water and discussing strategy. My back was soaked with sweat, but strangely, I didn’t feel tired at all. In fact, I felt more energized than ever, eager for the second half to begin. We exchanged high-fives and encouraging words, voices ringing out: “One more goal and we’ve got this!”

The second half was nothing short of an all-out battle. The opposing team pushed back with everything they had, and the tension was so high that a single mistake could cost us the game. The sound of tackles, the fierce clashes as we fought for possession, the goalkeeper’s shouts, all of it spoke to the intensity of the match. I ran, slid, fell, and got back up—again and again.

 Then came the final whistle. The score was 1–2. We had narrowly missed the win. But strangely, I didn’t feel disappointed. Instead, I felt a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life. My pants were covered in mud, my shins were bruised, and I was out of breath from giving it everything I had. All of it became a symbol of pride—proof that I had left everything on the field. After the match, one of my Malaysian teammates patted me on the back and said with a big smile, “Bro, you were on fire today!” Those words filled my heart like a trophy. More than anything, I was happy knowing that my performance had reached someone—that I had made an impact.

Soccer isn’t just a sport. It’s movement, rhythm, connection with teammates—and above all, emotion that stirs the heart. Every pass, every step, every shout on the field carries meaning. That day, even though we didn’t win, I felt with every part of my body the beauty of giving my all. It’s not just about the final result. What truly matters is how deeply you commit, how hard you fight alongside your teammates. That, to me, was the real value of the sport.

Blog #2　A Special Place

A Gentle Stillness: a place where I can quietly rest my heart

Classes, deadlines, the noise of daily life—everything seems to move so fast. But even in the middle of all that busyness, I have one spot where I can truly breathe. It’s nothing fancy—just a shaded bench beside the swimming pool at my condominium. That’s all. And yet, to me, it’s become my little “oasis of calm.”

This bench sits right next to the pool, with an open view and no walls or trees blocking the scenery. In the early evening, when the sun starts to dip and the building casts a soft shadow across the area, the atmosphere completely shifts. The golden rays of sunset reflect on the water, flickering gently like hundreds of candles dancing in the breeze. It’s the kind of beauty that never gets old. A soft breeze occasionally stirs tiny ripples across the pool, and I sometimes imagine those waves as time itself, flowing quietly by.

The air carries a faint smell of chlorine from the pool, mixed with floral notes and the warm aroma of someone’s dinner cooking in a nearby unit. That strange combination of scents tickles my nose and makes me feel strangely nostalgic, even if I don’t know why. I usually come here with a book, or play some quiet music. Sometimes I just close my eyes and listen to the sound of the wind. No one bothers me here—and honestly, I don’t want them to. This is the one place where doing “nothing” feels like a luxury.

The bench itself is a simple plastic one, nothing special. But I like the texture—the smooth surface feels slightly cool when I sit down, offering a refreshing contrast to the warm, humid air. It’s like the heat is slowly being drawn away from my body. When I lean back and rest, a sense of calm gently washes over me.

The real magic, though, begins after sunset. At night, the pool glows with blue light from the underwater lamps, and the reflections shimmer across the water, the walls, the ceiling, even beneath the bench. Everything is bathed in a soft blue that makes the whole space feel dreamlike, as if time is standing still. When I look up, I can see stars peeking through the gaps in the clouds, adding a little sparkle to the quiet sky.

Sometimes on those nights, I play soft music through my phone and just sit there, doing nothing in particular. By the time the last song ends, I often feel like a small weight has lifted from my chest. Other times, I bring my laptop and try to work on assignments. When I’m in the zone, I can get hours of solid focus in—but even if I get nothing done, I don’t feel frustrated. Just having a place like this is enough.

Every now and then, I sit on this bench and quietly reflect on the day. The things that went well, the things that didn’t, the little moments of unease I felt during conversations—all of it usually passes by without much thought during the day, but when I come here, those feelings slowly rise to the surface. It’s like watching the moonlight gradually appear on the surface of the water, softly reflecting the glow of the night sky. Being able to sort through my emotions without interruption is something I’ve come to value deeply.

This bench isn’t just a calming spot—it’s a place where I rediscover myself. When I sit here, the rush and anxiety I carry begin to fade, and I start to feel like, “Well, maybe things will be okay.” In the middle of my busy days, having these small moments where my heart feels lighter—that, to me, is a kind of support. Even if the noise and pressure return once I go back to daily life, I know that as long as I can return to this bench, I can always find my way back to myself. That’s the quiet certainty this place gives me.

I’ve called my family from this bench more times than I can count. There’s something odd but comforting about hearing my own voice speaking Japanese in the middle of the warm Malaysian air. Whether it was a happy day or a difficult one, I always found myself back here. There were nights when I sat in silence, unable to put my feelings into words, letting tears quietly fall. And that was okay.

I’ve never told anyone this before, but this bench holds all the “now” moments of my life here. The loneliness, the challenges, the small joys of daily life as an international student—they’ve all passed through this little corner. Someday I’ll leave this place, but the quiet moments I spent here will stay with me.

To others, this bench might just be a simple piece of plastic furniture. But to me, it’s a place where I can truly breathe. A small escape from the chaos. A spot where I can feel like myself again. And sometimes, just one quiet place like that can make you feel strong enough to face the world.

Blog #3 A Person

The First Kindness: The Beginning of a Friendship Beyond Borders

When I first arrived in Malaysia in early 2024, everything around me felt new—and honestly, a little overwhelming. New country. New university. New language. New culture. I smiled and nodded at people in class, but I didn’t have the courage to start a real conversation. Most days, I sat quietly in the corner, watching the world move around me. That’s when someone extended a quiet kindness that changed everything. His name was Saif.

We first talked during a group assignment in one of our classes at HELP University. The room was full of voices and movement—everyone was finding group members, talking, laughing. I just froze. I didn’t know where to go or who to talk to. Then, Saif, who sat in front of me, suddenly turned around and said, “Wanna team up?” His voice was calm and friendly. That simple offer became the start of a new chapter for me.

He spoke clearly, patiently, even adjusting his pace so I could follow along. I replied with a shy “yes,” and he gave me a big smile. “Alright, let’s do this,” he said. That smile… it tore down the wall of fear I’d built around myself. I felt like I was reconnecting with an old friend, not meeting someone new.

Saif is a little older than me, a local Malaysian student with a warm, easygoing personality. He seems to get along with everyone—one of those people who naturally becomes the heart of the group. “I know what it’s like to be an international student,” he told me once. And it showed. He explained everything, from how our assignments worked, to where the best cheap eats were near campus, to how to use local delivery apps. He even gave tips about local customs and unspoken rules.

“If you’re confused about anything, just ask,” he said one day. Those words meant more to me than I can explain.

One day, I was struggling to understand the assignment we were given in class. The instructions were confusing, and the content was full of unfamiliar technical terms. After the class ended, Saif stayed behind with me and patiently explained everything while we looked at my laptop screen together. Seeing how lost I was, he gently said, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out together—you’ll understand it soon.” That moment eased something tight inside me. I couldn’t stop saying thank you.

But Saif isn’t just “a helpful guy.” He has a natural way of making everyone feel included. He throws in light jokes during class that make even the quietest people smile. When he’s around, the room feels softer and safer. Spending time with him gave me the confidence to speak up more, to reach out first instead of waiting. His kindness made me want to be kinder, too.

One afternoon after class, a few of us went to hang out at a friend’s place. There was a guitar leaning against the wall. Saif casually picked it up and began to play. His fingers moved across the strings so smoothly, pressing chords like he was pouring emotion through each note. The sound was warm and clear—unexpectedly beautiful. It didn’t need lyrics; the music alone filled the space like a quiet conversation. “It’s just a hobby,” he said shyly, but honestly, it sounded like something from a movie.

I sat there, letting the melody wash over me. In that moment, I didn’t feel like a foreigner. I felt like I was home. Like I was back in Japan, sitting in my room as the sun set outside. That sound, and that stillness, made something in my chest feel warm again.

As I listened to the music he played, I found myself quietly reflecting on how much I had grown over the past few weeks. In the beginning, every day had been filled with anxiety, but spending more time with a friend I could trust gradually eased the tension in my heart. I could genuinely feel myself finding a sense of belonging in this foreign land called Malaysia. That day marked a turning point—one that helped me face new experiences with a little more courage. The simple act of Saif reaching out to me, and the warm moments we shared together, will no doubt continue to be a source of strength for me in the days to come.

Saif is not just a classmate. He is the person who made Malaysia feel less scary and more like a place I could belong. He reminded me that kindness has no nationality. It speaks no language, but everyone can feel it. I’ll never forget the little moments: his simple offer to work together, our walks after class filled with laughter, the gentle sound of his guitar on a quiet night.

Because of Saif, I’ve started to find my place in this country. His quiet support and thoughtful gestures are now some of my most treasured memories. Maybe he doesn’t realize how much of a difference he made. But for me, his kindness was the beginning of everything.

From Kitchen to Heart: My Mom’s Omurice

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon and out of nowhere I started really missing my mom’s cooking. I craved something warm, nostalgic and comforting. The first thing that popped into my head was the omurice my mom used to make for me. That fluffy omelet and ketchup -flavored rice felt like exactly what I needed. So, I decided to try making it myself using the recipe she once taught me, just by memory.