I didn’t think finding a one-room apartment in Tokyo would make me feel… this much. But it did. More than I expected. At first it was just boxes to check — distance to work, price under 70,000 yen, near a station that wouldn’t suffocate me during rush hour. Pretty normal list, right? But then again, nothing about starting over ever really feels normal.
I was two months into my first real job. First paycheck. First weekday commute. First time I didn’t know where to hang my wet laundry without it dripping on someone else’s balcony. I was staying with a friend’s cousin, crashing on a futon in a living room that wasn’t mine. I needed a place. A corner. Something with a door that locked and maybe enough floor space for a coffee table.
That’s when I found Chintai EST. It didn’t scream “tech startup” or “optimized experience.” It just… worked. Quietly. Click a station. See some options. Narrow it down by price or layout or if it’s pet-friendly (I don’t have a pet, but it was oddly comforting to know the filter was there).
One apartment had a triangle-shaped kitchen. Another had a bathtub, which felt luxurious. I didn’t pick either. But browsing started to feel like breathing — like each click was me saying, “Okay. You’re allowed to picture something. You’re allowed to want space.”
Most of the listings didn’t have glossy photos. Some were almost pixelated. I didn’t mind. There was something real about it. And maybe that’s why I trusted it more than the shiny global apps. It felt local. It felt like the listings were actually lived in — like someone had boiled noodles in that kitchen, or spilled tea on that tatami.
I read about “reikin” and “shikikin” so many times I started writing it on autopilot in my budget spreadsheet. There’s a helpful article from Japan Guide that breaks down the rental system. Bookmark it. Seriously. The system’s confusing and no one explains it clearly in person.
I ended up renting a small place off the Seibu line. Fourth floor, no elevator, but the window caught the morning sun just right. There was a grocery store with half-price bentos after 8pm and a park two blocks away with benches that always stayed warm in autumn. None of that showed up in the listing. But that’s what made it home.
Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t overthink it. Chintai EST helped me get to the part that mattered — finding somewhere I could be alone, but not lonely. Somewhere I could eat cup ramen on the floor and not feel like I was failing at adulthood.
Sometimes, a home isn’t about the square meters or the rent breakdown. It’s about standing in the doorway, dropping your bag, and thinking, “Yeah… this will do.”
