Six weeks after Utopia opened its northern gate, our passports came back with Malaysian visas inside them.
The exchange office returned each one by name beneath the repaired Grand Fountain. Nobody joked about losing them. After watching a government disappear records during the coup, even JP checked his passport four times before placing it inside a bright orange travel pouch Anna had tied around his neck.
"I look like a kindergarten student," he complained.
"Kindergarten students lose fewer legal documents than you," Anna said.
The government bus carried us to Yandong International Airport before sunrise.
For most of the drive, nobody spoke.
The city outside had begun rebuilding, but recovery remained visible in layers. New glass covered shop windows while bullet marks remained above them. Congress had reopened. Traffic lights worked again. The Wall Memorial appeared briefly between two buildings, its wet stone reflecting the headlights of our bus.
Weak sulfuric rain followed us toward the airport.
It no longer fell every day. Civilian engineers had lowered the hidden reactor's output, and international inspectors published readings each morning. Still, every dark cloud made my shoulders tighten before the first drop touched the road.
June sat two rows ahead beside Kitty.
Their reflections floated together in the bus window. Kitty watched the city. June watched her phone.
A message appeared.
She read it, turned the screen toward her coat, and locked it before either Kitty or NS could glance over.
NS noticed the movement from across the aisle.
So did I.
Neither of us asked.
The airport departures hall looked more peaceful than any place containing four hundred anxious people had a right to look.
Families argued over suitcase weight. Children slept across luggage carts. An announcement repeated above the check-in lines while a cleaning machine moved slowly around a man who refused to lift his feet.
Ordinary irritation had returned to Yandong.
I had missed it.
The National Student Recovery and Exchange Program occupied three counters near the international entrance. Program officers checked our passports against a printed manifest, confirmed medical clearance, weighed checked luggage, and attached blue tags marked MASHARA INTERNATIONAL MEDICAL UNIVERSITY.
JP's suitcase exceeded the allowance because he had packed six pairs of shoes.
"Different academic environments require different footwear," he explained.
"Remove two pairs," the officer said.
"Which two would international medicine sacrifice?"
TZ opened the suitcase and pulled out three family-sized bags of snacks.
"Start with the emergency food reserve."
"Traitor."
JP was still recovering from the Wall Raid, so airport staff brought wheelchair assistance for the long walk to the gate. He tried to refuse until his injured leg buckled while he argued. TZ used a folding cane. NS's eye had healed enough to lose the patch, though a pale line remained near his eyebrow. HS carried two schedules, one for the exchange and another for the additional lectures and laboratory sessions required by his Year 2 bridge program.
"You brought anatomy notes on an international trip?" Bunny asked.
"I brought them because the university attached an examination to my return."
"That sounds like a personal problem."
"All anatomy eventually becomes personal."
Government media waited behind a barrier near security. Some reporters called us Wall defenders. One asked whether the trip was an expensive reward for students who had encouraged violence.
The program coordinator did not let us answer.
"This is an academic exchange for the affected cohort," she said. "Questions about the national inquiry belong at the commission office."
The camera remained on me until I entered security.
A constitutional police officer raised one hand to direct our line.
For half a second, I saw red cloth around his sleeve.
There was none.
My breathing shortened anyway.
I pressed my thumb against each fingertip, named five objects around me, and listened to the airport announcement until the present returned. The counselor had taught me the exercise three weeks earlier.
June had noticed.
She did not rush toward me or ask whether I was all right in front of everyone. She simply placed my backpack beside the correct tray and waited until I could move again.
"Laptop," she reminded me.
"Right."
"And your watch."
"I knew that."
"Of course."
At the other end, her phone vibrated inside her coat.
She left it there until NS walked past.
June's mother met us beyond security through a family-access authorization arranged by the recovery program.
She hugged June with one arm and inspected her carry-on with the other.
"Medication?"
"Inside."
"The written schedule?"
"Inside."
"Your university contact?"
"Mom."
Her mother lowered her voice.
"Reply when he messages you. Do not ignore him for the entire trip."
June looked toward me.
I pretended to study the departure screen.
NS stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence to Kitty.
"I know," June told her mother.
"This is your future. Treat it seriously."
"I said I know."
Her mother kissed her forehead, then faced me.
"Bring her back safely."
The request sounded almost like trust until she added, "All of you. Bring all of them back."
I nodded.
June watched her mother leave without waving.
"Who are you supposed to reply to?" I asked.
"A family friend."
"Does the friend have a name?"
"Most people do."
"June."
"We are boarding an airplane, XH. Please don't begin an interrogation at the departure gate."
She walked toward Kitty before I could answer.
NS remained beside me.
"You heard that," I said.
"The airport heard that."
"Do you know who she's talking about?"
He picked up his carry-on.
"If June wants us to know, she will tell us."
It was a reasonable answer.
That was why I did not trust it.
The duty-free shop placed miniature whisky bottles beside the path to our gate.
I saw them before I saw the bottled water.
My feet slowed.
Kitty stopped beside me without looking at the shelf.
"Do you need something?"
"Gum."
"Then buy gum."
She stayed while I chose the strongest mint package I could find. She did not congratulate me when I paid. She did not tell June.
Outside the shop, I handed Kitty one piece.
"For emotional support," I said.
"This tastes like punishment."
"Sometimes they're the same flavor."
She laughed, but sorrow remained beneath it.
Kitty and I had once hidden our relationship because we feared what June and NS would feel. Now all four of us had survived enough truth to stop pretending, yet none of us knew what shape our honesty was supposed to take.
June watched us from the gate.
Her smile arrived a moment late.
The aircraft had three seats on each side of one narrow aisle.
Whoever arranged the government booking either had no knowledge of our history or a cruel sense of humor.
June received the window seat. I sat in the middle. Kitty took the aisle. Directly across from us sat NS, JP, and TZ. HS occupied the row behind with NC and Anna. Jihye, Bunny, and Cherry immediately began negotiating window rights farther back.
"This seating chart requires an independent inquiry," I said.
"No more inquiries," NS replied. "Sit down."
Cabin crew helped JP transfer from the airport wheelchair and stored his crutches. Bags filled the overhead compartments. Seat belts clicked. Phones changed to airplane mode one after another.
June kept hers connected until the final announcement.
The message preview showed only two initials.
A.V.: Your mother says you finally agreed to think about us.
June covered the screen with her palm.
Our eyes met.
"Family friend?" I asked.
"Airplane mode," she said.
She switched it on and placed the phone facedown against her thigh.
The aircraft began moving.
As the engines grew louder, my body remembered armored vehicles outside Utopia. My fingers locked around the armrests.
June placed her hand over my left one.
Kitty noticed my right hand shaking and covered it with hers.
For several seconds, I sat between them holding both.
It did not feel like winning a love triangle.
It felt like three survivors confirming that the sound beneath us belonged to an airplane, not a tank.
Across the aisle, NS looked out at the runway.
He gave us the privacy of pretending not to see.
The wheels left Yandong.
The city became a gray map beneath the clouds. I found Utopia only because the repaired tower caught one line of morning light. Then the clouds closed, and the country disappeared below us.
June did not release my hand until there was nothing left to see.
The flight lasted a little more than three hours.
Cabin crew served rice, vegetables, and chicken in foil trays. JP attempted to trade his fruit for NS's dessert. TZ fell asleep before eating. HS studied the emergency card as if an examination might ask him to operate the exit.
Above the sea, the sky became clear.
June turned off airplane mode when the crew announced that onboard messaging was available.
Her phone filled with notifications.
She angled the screen toward the window.
In the reflection, I saw her open the conversation marked A.V.
A.V.: Send me the view. I want to see what you see.
June photographed the white clouds beneath us.
She typed:
Maybe you should have come with me.
A reply appeared almost immediately.
Invite me properly and I might follow you anywhere.
June locked the screen.
There had been no warmth on her face while she typed. Every word looked chosen rather than felt.
That should have comforted me.
It did not.
"Someone interesting?" Kitty asked softly.
"My mother checking the flight."
Kitty looked at me.
I looked across the aisle at NS.
He had seen enough of the window reflection to understand.
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The silence among the four of us followed the plane all the way to Malaysia.
Humidity met us at the aircraft door.
Yandong's sulfur rain had left the morning cool. Malaysia felt alive with heat. By the time we followed the arrival signs toward immigration, my shirt had already begun sticking to my back.
Program officers kept us together in smaller groups. We queued with our passports, admission letters, accommodation addresses, and return itineraries ready. Officers checked each face against each document, stamped the passports, and directed us toward baggage claim.
JP's suitcase was the last one on the carousel.
"International medicine tried to steal my shoes," he said.
"International medicine rejected them," Cherry replied.
Beyond customs, two students held a blue sign above the crowd.
MASHARA INTERNATIONAL MEDICAL UNIVERSITY
WELCOME, UTOPIA COHORT
The pickup team wore university polo shirts and name badges. Aina, a final-year medical student, checked our names against her tablet. Farid, the transport coordinator, counted luggage while another volunteer handed out bottled water, local SIM information, residence keys, meal cards, and emergency contact sheets.
"Please keep your passport with you," Aina said. "We need copies during registration tomorrow, but nobody should surrender the original unless the international office gives you a written receipt."
After the last seven days in Yandong, that instruction earned immediate respect.
Two university buses waited outside.
I looked the wrong way before crossing the pickup lane because traffic moved on the left. Aina caught my sleeve before a luggage cart struck me.
"First survival lesson," she said. "Look right."
"I fought a military coup and nearly lost to airport traffic."
"Malaysia likes to humble visitors quickly."
The buses carried us away from the airport beneath enormous green signs. Palm trees lined the highway. Elevated trains crossed above wet roads. The distant skyline rose through tropical haze, glass towers beside mosque domes, construction cranes, apartment blocks, and hills so green they looked painted.
Food stalls appeared beneath bright awnings whenever the highway entered a neighborhood. Motorcycles moved between lanes with terrifying confidence.
Everyone began taking photographs.
Even the sadness became quiet enough to look out the window.
Mashara's campus stood beside a wide artificial lake forty minutes later. White academic buildings curved around gardens filled with palms and flowering trees. A glass clinical simulation center reflected the late afternoon sky. Covered walkways connected lecture halls to separate residence buildings.
The place looked untouched by our war.
That beauty hurt in a way destruction had not.
It showed us how ordinary our lives might have been somewhere else.
The residence assignments placed NS and me in one room, JP and TZ in another, and HS beside a local Public Health student who had volunteered to help with his bridge schedule.
June and Kitty were assigned together across the courtyard. NC and Anna shared the next room. Jihye, Bunny, and Cherry received a three-person unit and immediately argued over the bed nearest the air conditioner.
While we unloaded, Jihye opened the replacement tarot deck she had bought at Yandong Airport.
One card slipped from the box and landed faceup on the wet pavement.
A stone tower split beneath lightning.
"The Tower," she said.
Farid looked at the card.
"Is that bad?"
"It can mean sudden destruction. Collapse. Truth arriving violently."
Nobody from Utopia found that explanation amusing.
Jihye picked it up and wiped away the rainwater.
"Or," she added, "it can describe the disaster behind us."
"Which one is it?" Bunny asked.
Jihye looked toward the beautiful campus.
"Ask me after the trip."
That night, I stood at our residence window watching lights move across the lake.
The distant call to prayer drifted between the buildings. Students laughed beneath the covered walkway. Somewhere below, JP was trying to order food through an app he could not understand.
I sent June one message.
Good night. Malaysia looks better with you in it.
The reply came two minutes later.
Good night, my guiding star.
Across the courtyard, the light in her room remained on.
I could not see June sitting beside the window after Kitty entered the shower.
I could not see her reopen the hidden conversation.
A.V.: Did you land safely, beautiful?
June stared at the word for a long time before replying.
Safely. You would like the view here.
I would like any place where you were waiting for me.
Her fingers paused.
Then she typed the sentence she had already decided to send before leaving Yandong.
Then perhaps I will give you a reason to come.
There was no smile on her face.
She muted the conversation, cleared the notification preview, and placed the phone beneath her pillow before Kitty returned.
Every word had been deliberate.
None of it explained why.
Between two conversations and two possible futures, June sat alone beneath a foreign sky and quietly prepared to break something she still loved.