By Jenna L. Brooks — Taipei-based writer, daughter of grocery clerks, occasional romantic

I met him at 2:11 a.m., somewhere between the egg salad sandwiches and the oden station. He asked if I could reach the last box of red bean mochi on the top shelf, and I made a joke about how tall foreigners are good for something. He laughed. I laughed. And then, for reasons still unclear to both of us, we shared a warm milk tea on the plastic stools outside that 7/11 on Keelung Rd.

This wasn’t how I expected my first romance in Taiwan to begin. I’m 32, from Oakland, and moved to Taipei three months ago after a soul-numbing stint in the LA screenwriting industry. I’d grown tired of plot twists that weren’t mine. So I quit, packed my books and a Max Mara trench, and flew halfway across the world with the vague idea that I’d “find something true.”

It turns out that “something true” might look like a soft-spoken architect named Wei, who buys his breakfast at a convenience store because it feels “less lonely than cooking for one.” We ended up seeing each other nearly every night that week—always after midnight, always at some glowing 24-hour haven that served hot congee and dreams.

The Soft Life, Shrink-Wrapped

If you’re not from here, it’s easy to mistake Taiwan’s convenience stores as just that—convenient. But there’s something more tender happening inside. These places are temples of curated ease: a place to pay your rent, send a package, buy a Hello Kitty sleep mask, and print your divorce papers. And in my case, fall slowly, weirdly in love.

Wei introduced me to the unspoken poetry of it all. He’d bring me a steamed taro bun without asking, and I’d return the gesture by figuring out which flavor of pudding was his favorite (coffee, then mango). We never said much. We didn’t need to. There’s a kind of emotional minimalism in Taipei—feelings simmer low and long. The affection is in the gestures, the groceries, the way he always waited for me to step into the AC first.

Love in the Land of Fluorescent Lighting

I used to think love had to be cinematic to be real—montages, violins, split-screen misunderstandings. But what I found here was the slow boil of companionship. The kind that unfolds not in grand declarations, but in shared fish cakes and perfectly timed umbrella handoffs.

We only lasted a few weeks. He got a job offer in Singapore, and I said I wasn’t ready to leave Taiwan—or this strange new peace I’d found in plastic trays and predictable routines. But I still think of him when I pass that FamilyMart, and sometimes I go in and buy the same red bean mochi, even though I never really liked it.

In a city of vending machines and video calls, where everything moves fast and talks softly, love can happen in the small places. It might not be forever. But it’s real. And sometimes, it tastes like warm milk tea and the promise of someone who remembers how you like your eggs.