We weren’t in a rush.
It was late afternoon, somewhere on the stretch between Tokyo and Mount Fuji. The kind of drive where time slows down just enough to notice things. We had music on low. The windows cracked. And the sun—already starting to dip—was turning everything gold.
That’s when I saw it.
A sound barrier running alongside the expressway, backlit and glowing. Rows of steel catching the light in perfect rhythm. Not a view anyone tells you to look out for. Not a landmark. Just infrastructure, lit up like it mattered.
I didn’t overthink it. I raised the camera.
Click.
And we kept driving.
A little later, we passed underneath a highway overpass. Thick columns. Giant slabs of steel. Everything towering overhead like a silent machine.
But it didn’t feel cold. It felt… intentional. Balanced. Like someone, somewhere, had cared how it looked—even if no one else would.
I didn’t even take a photo right away. I just stood there and listened to the hum of traffic overhead. The whole thing felt quiet in its own way, like standing under a heartbeat.
That drive to Fuji stuck with me more than I thought it would.
Not for any one moment. Not for a view. But for how much I noticed when I wasn’t trying to.
The soft light on ordinary surfaces.
The geometry of roads and bridges.
The feeling of watching the world move around you while you stay still.
Japan has a way of making the unnoticed feel important.
And maybe that’s the thing I’ll remember most.
Not the mountain.
Not the destination.
But the drive.
JAPAN
