You wouldn’t think a bright, stop-motion story about a young woman and her three stuffed animal friends would offer such consistently piercing meditations on aging and purpose, but here we are. Rilakkuma and Kaoru’s first episode offered a direct and familiar punch to the jaw, centered on the difficulty of maintaining contact with friends as you move into adulthood, and the fear of being left behind by the people you love. In the end, Kaoru’s friends didn’t all suddenly reappear in a glorious refutation of those fears; after all, that process of separation is an inescapable fact of adulthood. It’s not all sunshine and roses – in fact, it’s more often about coming to terms with imperfect circumstances, and finding the joy in what you can. Kaoru can’t rekindle her college friendships, but she can sit and watch the stars by the riverbank, and maybe that’s enough.

The question of what Kaoru’s companions actually are wasn’t answered in that episode, and frankly, I hope it’s never answered. This is not a show about uncovering fantastical secrets – this is a show about life as it is lived, with perhaps just an extra dash of warmth added for flavor. As such, Rilakkuma and her other friends exist in a vague and metaphorical space, something Kaoru herself acknowledges when she directly asks them “are you my pets?” Whether actual pets, symbols of her inner child, or something else entirely, they are perfect guides for this story, embodying the innocence and honest joy Kaoru dearly hopes the world still holds for her.

Rilakkuma and Kaoru’s second episode opens on one more quietly happy moment, as Kaoru and her family take a walk along a sunny riverbank. Artificial riverbanks like Kaoru’s aren’t really a common sight where I live, and yet seeing them in anime always managed to comfort me; like many anime visual staples, these landmarks still possess a nostalgic hold on me, even if only via the anime I watched as a child. Perhaps that tickle of nostalgia could even be tied to Kaoru’s feelings, as if touchstones like these might signify a path onto the grand narrative that adulthood never provides. But in truth, the only guarantee of adulthood is the attainment of loss; loss of your childhood sense of self and purpose, loss of the certainty of innocence, and most painfully, loss of the people and places you once loved.

Kaoru carries that weight of loss with her in her every step, but her companions are unburdened by such concerns, and their buoyant strides raise her spirits as well. Looking across the river, Kaoru points out a group of carp streamers flying in the breeze, which her companions marvel at. Doing their best to imitate fishes swimming in a current, Kaoru’s friends seem like any other happy children, and Kaoru responds to their excitement with a smile and an accommodating “you want one?”

That dynamic – Kaoru’s joy in life being reinvigorated by the needs of her more-or-less family – forms the crux of this episode. From an adult perspective, children can seem almost like magic; they are still blessed with the sense of innocent, easily provoked wonder that experience tends to deflate, and encouraging that sense of wonder can rekindle our own sense of joy and purpose in turn. If it makes you happy, having and caring for children can provide all the purpose you need; to many people, life’s grand quest is to make sure the acquisition of loss and perspective is a gentler journey for those who follow you. And of course, this sense of purpose isn’t exclusive to parents and guardians; I don’t think I’d write if I were doing it purely for myself, and not to hopefully make life easier or a little less lonely for the people who read it.

And on a more basic, immediate level, there are few surer routes to joy as an adult than satisfying the simple needs and desires of others. In perhaps her most genuinely happy moment of either of these first two episodes, Kaoru arrives home with a pile of packages, announcing “presents for you” before doling out takoyaki and carp streamers. For Kaoru, a few takoyaki and some carp streamers (or really, anything her middling income could afford) don’t really mean anything; her money cannot make her happy. But for her friends, these gifts mean everything, and immediately make a celebration of their evening.

Kaoru’s victory here is also one of the chief appeals of pets; having someone nearby who doesn’t just love you, but who you know you can make happy. If there’s anything that can save us as a species, it might be the fact that creating happiness for others is one of the surest routes to your own happiness and sense of purpose; when someone you love is smiling because of something you did, the question of whether your life is following some grand narrative design becomes a lot less urgent.

Unfortunately, sinister forces are lurking just outside of Kaoru’s home. The next day, she finds a hastily scrawled “No Pets” sign on her door, prompting that confused exchange I mentioned earlier. Through a series of charmingly inept capers, we see one of Kaoru’s neighbors, a young boy who lives in an apartment downstairs, attempt to capture one of Kaoru’s companions. And sure enough, Rilakkuma is soon captured, and replaced by an ominous ransom note: “If you want Rilakkuma back, I’ll exchange him for three pancakes.”

In the end, it turns out Rilakkuma’s abduction was a bit less traumatic than anticipated, and he actually spent most of the day playing videogames with his kidnapper. But though Kaoru is initially angry at being deceived, her position softens when she hears her antagonist’s voice crack on the simple, desperate “please stay until I finish eating.” At last looking around this boy Tokio’s apartment, she sees a life too much like her own, and a boy desperate for affection. “Where is your mother?” she asks, and is answered with a sullen “she’ll be home late today.” “Where is your father?” she asks, and there’s no answer at all.

Our time isn’t necessarily our own as adults, but there is a joy in that. Simply satisfying your own immediate cravings is a hollow kind of happiness, a well that eventually runs dry; you can only make and eat your own cookie dough so long before the appeal wears off. But fueling and fostering the happiness of others, and supporting the people who depend on you – that satisfaction can last forever, and give you a sense of purpose and accomplishment that warms you from the inside. And so Kaoru invites the lonely Tokio up to her own apartment, and they share food with all their friends, and make plans to hang those carp streamers the next day.

As with Rilakkuma and Kaoru’s first episode, this episode’s conclusion does not resolve all of the ambiguities it raises, and does not truly solve its most urgent conflicts. Tokio’s father is still gone, and his mother is still absent most of the time. Kaoru still lacks much sense of direction, and is emotionally reliant on a crew of stuffed animals. But even though the modern world doesn’t offer the storybook endings we seek, we can still find what we’re missing in each other, and write our own happy endings. We are all adult and child in one, knowing the pain of separation and loss, yet eager for simple joys and assurance that things will work out. No life resolves into a contented “happily ever after” – we must keep on living, and do our best to offer the joy for others that we seek for ourselves.

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