Chapter 17 – What Comes After
The train was a quiet hum in Airi's ears long after she returned home.
Even hours later, unpacking her bag, she could still feel the warmth of Akira's hug. It wasn't just the embrace itself—it was what it carried: the weight of time, the softness of distance finally closing, and the whisper of something more.
Not a promise.
Not yet.
But a possibility.
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
So she opened their manuscript again.
Dream Frequency.
She started reading from chapter one, tracing the evolution of their characters as if searching for a hidden thread that connected it all. By chapter fifteen, she was crying.
But it wasn't sadness.
It was recognition.
> We wrote this when we didn't know what the future looked like, she thought.
And maybe we still don't. But we know each other.
---
Meanwhile, Akira was back at his usual spot under the maple tree behind the library.
He was writing something new.
Not fiction.
Not a journal.
A letter.
> Dear Airi,
I know you just left, but I wanted to write while your voice was still here.
I didn't say everything I wanted to. I think I was afraid I'd mess it up. That I'd say too much, or worse, say it wrong.
So here it is, quiet and simple: I think I love you not just for who you are—but for who I get to be when I write with you.
You make silence feel like music.
And I think that matters more than I ever knew.
– A
He folded it carefully.
Then didn't send it.
Not yet.
---
Over the next week, their communication returned to normal—but now "normal" meant something more.
Their messages were softer. Shorter. But filled with understanding. They no longer needed to explain everything.
Sometimes, they just shared a line from a book. A blurry photo of the sky. A screenshot of a half-written sentence.
And each time, it was enough.
---
Then came the news.
Airi had been invited to attend a weekend writing seminar in the capital—led by a novelist both of them admired.
She sent Akira the email with shaking fingers.
> "It's huge. But... I'm scared."
He responded within minutes:
> "Then I'll be scared with you. But you should go."
> "Even if it's far?"
> "Especially if it's far."
---
The seminar was held in a glass building by the river, with wide conference rooms and walls covered in old typewriter keys.
Airi arrived with a single notebook and the courage Akira had mailed to her in every word he'd ever written.
The lead instructor, a quiet woman with silver-streaked hair, asked the students on the first day:
"What do you write toward?"
Not "what do you want."
Not "what are you trying to say."
But:
What do you write toward.
Airi wrote one sentence on her page:
> "I write toward a boy who waits under a maple tree."
---
On the last day, the instructor stopped her after the final workshop.
"You write as if you're in love," she said, flipping through Airi's submitted pages.
Airi smiled. "Maybe I am."
The woman nodded, returning the papers.
"Good. Love keeps stories alive."
---
That night, Airi sent Akira a photo of her name tag from the seminar.
Taped beneath it was a sticky note:
> "Love keeps stories alive."
His reply came a moment later:
> "Then I'll keep writing."
---
But reality crept in.
University application deadlines loomed. Conversations at home became sharper, more pressing. Airi's parents wanted her to apply to schools abroad—where scholarships were generous, and programs prestigious.
She stared at brochures with glossy covers and foreign skylines.
And she wondered:
Could love survive a continent?
---
She called Akira on a quiet Sunday.
"I might leave the country," she said.
He didn't answer right away.
Finally: "Okay."
"That's all?"
"No," he said, voice softer now. "But it's not my decision to make."
She breathed in slowly. "Would you wait for me?"
"I already do," he said.
---
The silence between them that night wasn't painful.
It was sacred.
A space held open by trust.
---
Later, Akira sat alone in his room and opened the letter he hadn't sent.
The one that said, "I think I love you not just for who you are, but for who I get to be when I write with you."
This time, he added something more:
> "So if you go—go bravely.
And I'll meet you wherever the words lead us."
Then he sent it.
---
Airi read it on the train the next morning.
She didn't cry.
But she closed her eyes and whispered, "Thank you."
---
Over the following weeks, they returned to Dream Frequency—but not to write more chapters. Just to reread.
It had become their mirror.
Their memory.
Their map.
And even if they never added another word, they knew:
They'd already written something that would outlast the distance.
---
On a crisp autumn morning, Airi sent Akira a message:
> "I applied to two schools abroad.
But also one here.
The one near you."
He stared at it for a long time.
Then typed back:
> "I'll wait either way."
---
That night, he opened a blank document.
And wrote:
> "Chapter One.
The first time they met again, the world didn't cheer.
It just exhaled."
---