I have met two of those people in Japan. One is the man I love, and one is the little boy.
He is three years old, and his name is Kou. He is the child that has made me love children. And when I leave Japan to start again, he is the child I will cry over. And the child that will be forever three, because that is the age he will be in March when I come home.
Children are like snowflakes; they're all different, and people never tire of telling us about it. It has never really felt like it to me, though. In Sainsburys, or in Topshop, or hogging the local swings, they all seemed much of a muchness: small, blank slates that would have a personality forced upon them at some stage later, either through bullying or adulation. They said the same things, they did the same things, they cried at the same things, and - as far as I could see - they weren't very bright either. Which upset my mum, when I told her.
"How bright do you expect them to be?" she told me crossly. "They're four years old."
This bright, I want to tell her now.
This morning, Kou and I had an exchange that left my assistant furious because she dislikes my little boy with a vengeance (he is not quiet, he is not obedient and he asks too many questions, and therefore flaunts every Japanese rule of cute childhood), and left me glowing.
"I can drive a car," I shouted, and we all - me, and my little army of half a dozen two and three year olds - held onto our imaginary steering wheels and brooomed our ways around the studio.
"Now stop," I shouted, feeling a lot like Max ("be still!").
And they all stopped driving, apart from one particular little wild thing who - for reasons only known to himself - decided that he wasn't quite done, and continued at full speed (much like a little old lady I once saw near a red light at a Tescos roundabout).
"Brrrroooooom," he screamed at the top of his little voice.
"Stop!" I shouted again at the tiny two year old.
"Brrrrrrooooooom," he replied, running as fast as his little legs could legitimately carry him.
"Stop, Kanata. Stop." The rest of the class were now standing and watching curiously as I chased after the teeny tiny child like some kind of gigantic spider after a surprisingly wriggly fly.
"Brrrrrrrrrr," he courageously continued, so - as I'm too big to make eye contact with him, even from a crouching position - I picked him up, held him at face level and said:
"Stop, you naughty tinker."
Kanata blinked a couple of times - as if he'd only just noticed that anybody else was in the room - said "K", and then went back to his normal routine (banging wooden blocks together and dancing to music that nobody else can hear).
Kou, in the meantime, had been watching the exchange carefully from under his little spiky fringe (he resents any time I spend with anyone other that him. As - shamefully - do I). Catching my eye, he suddenly launched into a loud "Broooooooooooom" and started racing around the room. Before I could even react, he promptly positioned himself in front of me, twinkled at me from his little black eyes and held his arms up so that I could pick him up and shout at him.
"Up," he said. "Mine."
When I leave in March, I will miss a lot of my students. But there is one little boy who I will always think about, and wonder where he is, and how he's doing, and how he's growing up. One little boy that I will always remember. Because he's the little boy who has shown me just how special children can be.
And his name is Kou.
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