strawberryeuphoria

Missing is a Japanese film about a six-year-old girl, Miu, who disappears while walking back home. What makes this movie stand out immediately is where it chooses to begin. Instead of focusing on the kidnapping itself, the story starts three months after Miu has already gone missing. By then, the shock has settled, routines have returned, and the tragedy has become something the family is forced to live with every day.

The film gives us a perspective we don’t often see in kidnapping stories. Rather than dramatizing the moment of loss, it throws us into the quiet aftermathwhen the case is no longer breaking news, when hope and despair coexist, and when grief becomes almost chronic. Life continues for the world, but not for the people directly involved.
We are shown multiple perspectives, and they depict human emotions in an incredibly honest and uncomfortable way.

Miu’s mother, Saori, is portrayed as emotionally unstable and deeply desperate to find her child. She is consumed by guilt for letting Miu walk home alone that day so she could attend a concert by her favorite boy band. That guilt follows her everywhere, amplified by cruel and malicious online comments that constantly remind her of her “mistake.”
Saori is a fascinating and painful character to watch. She moves through layers of emotiondesperation, hope, anger, resentment, guiltand sometimes she appears almost “crazy.” But the film makes it clear that this is not madness; it’s grief in its rawest form. She struggles to understand why others, especially her husband, don’t grieve the way she does. She is willing to do anything, push anyone, endure anything for Miu’s sake, and she can’t accept that others cope differently. At the same time, there’s a part of her that wants someone especially her husband to blame her, because blame might give her something solid to hold onto. She never rests. Every second is torture. Through Saori, the film shows us the overwhelming and conflicting emotions a mother lives with in a situation like this.

Miu's father, Yutaka, is a more passive figure, contrasting with Saori's frantic efforts on behalf of Miu. He struggles to express his desperation, illustrating another aspect of grief that the film aims to convey the internal suffering that can be difficult to articulate, rather than outward expressions like shouting or crying.


Alongside the parents, we follow Sunada, the reporter covering the case. He faces pressure from the TV network to sensationalize the story, to “add spice,” but with no leads and no progress, there is very little he can do. Sunada wants to believe he has integrity, that he is showing reality rather than chasing ratings. Yet he is also fighting an internal battle—watching younger colleagues rise in their careers by bending the truth, while he remains stuck.
What makes his character compelling is that the movie doesn’t paint him as purely right or wrong. While he claims he wants to help the family, we slowly realize that part of him is also trying to help himself. He pushes the parents at times, crossing emotional boundaries, and eventually he is forced to confront the uncomfortable truth that maybe he was lying to himself about his intentions all along.

The story also introduces a possible suspect: Keigo, Miu’s uncle and Saori’s brother, who was the last person to see Miu and allowed her to walk home alone. Everything initially points toward him, making him one of the most intriguing characters in the film. Layer by layer, however, the movie reveals the truth about him, challenging our assumptions and showing how easily suspicion can destroy a person.

Beyond its characters, Missing makes a powerful statement about society. These cases may capture public attention for a while, but eventually they fade away. People move on. The news cycle moves on. But the parents don’t. They remain trapped in a nightmare that never ends. From the outside, it can even start to look unreasonable that they “can’t move on” and if we’re honest, most of us have been guilty of thinking this way when we’re not directly involved. The movie forces us to confront that uncomfortable reality: the gap between public reaction and a parent’s lived experience.
As the film progresses, we see how support slowly disappears. The people who were once actively helping begin to fade away, leaving the parents increasingly alone.
It’s a deeply emotional and heavy movie. The ending wasn’t what I wanted, but maybe it was what we needed. Not all stories end with answers. Not all pain is resolved. Some losses don’t end you simply learn how to live with them. And that lingering feeling is exactly what Missing leaves you with.