Chapter 18 – Between Here and Someday
Chapter 18 – Between Here and Someday
The maple tree behind the library had begun to turn gold.
Leaves curled at the edges, whispering in the breeze. Akira stood beneath it, watching them fall, one by one—small, quiet pieces of time drifting gently to the ground.
He had come here almost every day since Airi's visit.
Even now, with autumn painting the sky orange, this place felt like a memory that kept growing. Not fading.
---
His phone buzzed.
Airi:
> "Results come out in three days."
He replied immediately:
> "I know."
> "I'm scared."
> "Me too."
He stared at the screen.
Then added:
> "But I'm here."
---
Airi sat at her desk, holding the acceptance envelopes she hadn't opened yet.
Three schools.
Three different paths.
Two of them were across oceans.
One was across a train ride.
She closed her eyes and listened to her heart.
It sounded like Akira reading a story under the stars.
It sounded like silence, full of understanding.
---
Later that evening, she called.
They didn't talk about school.
Instead, they talked about the anthology again. Airi mentioned how her teacher had read their story in class, and a girl had cried during Chapter 17.
Akira chuckled. "The one with the maple tree?"
"Yes," Airi said. "She said it felt like her own goodbye."
"Isn't it strange?" he asked.
"What?"
"That something we wrote for each other... could become someone else's memory."
She smiled.
"No. I think it's the best part."
---
They stayed on the call without speaking for a while.
Just breathing.
Together.
---
The next morning, Akira walked to the post office.
He had a package to send—something he had been working on for weeks.
Inside: a leather-bound notebook. Blank. Untouched.
The first page read:
> "Wherever you go, let this be the place you come back to."
It wasn't much.
But it felt like a piece of him.
A quiet anchor.
A soft reminder.
He mailed it to Airi with a simple note:
> "Use it when the world feels too loud. I'll be listening."
---
When Airi received it, she cried for the first time in days.
Not because she was sad.
But because someone in the world knew her enough to prepare for the storm before it came.
She pressed her forehead to the notebook and whispered, "Thank you."
---
That night, she wrote the first page.
> "I haven't decided yet. But I know what I'm afraid of losing. And it's not the city. Or the school.
It's the sound of your voice when you say my name like it means something."
---
Three days later, the emails arrived.
Akira was sitting under the tree when his phone vibrated.
Airi:
> "I got into all three."
> "Even the one near me?"
> "Yes."
> "Do you know yet?"
> "Not fully."
> "That's okay."
> "But I think I'm closer to knowing."
---
The next week moved slowly.
Every hour felt like a question mark.
Every sentence Akira wrote bent toward her name.
He told himself he'd be okay either way.
But he didn't believe it.
Not entirely.
---
One evening, she called.
"I want to ask you something," she said.
"Anything."
"If I don't choose the school near you... if I choose to go abroad... would we still write?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
"Even when it gets hard?"
"Yes."
"Even when we forget why we started?"
He paused.
Then said, softer:
"We won't forget. We'll just remember differently."
She didn't answer right away.
Then said, "I think I believe you."
---
She told him she needed two more days.
He gave her infinite.
---
On the first day, Airi walked to the station and stood at the platform.
She didn't board any train.
She just stood and watched them come and go, each one carrying strangers to different futures.
She imagined herself on every single one.
And in all but one, Akira was missing.
---
On the second day, she visited her old classroom. Sat at the desk where she first wrote "Dream Frequency" in the corner of a math test paper.
She closed her eyes and whispered, "You're still here."
Not to the desk.
Not to the room.
But to the part of herself that still believed in beginnings.
---
That night, she texted him.
> "Can I call?"
He answered on the first ring.
---
She didn't say hello.
She just said:
"I'm staying."
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was full.
Like a page holding its breath.
Akira finally said:
"Thank you."
Airi whispered, "For what?"
"For letting the story continue."
---
The next morning, Akira biked to the maple tree with a printed page in his bag.
The final chapter of Dream Frequency.
He had rewritten it last night.
Now it ended not with a goodbye, but a letter left behind on the windowsill.
It said:
> "I'm not dreaming anymore.
Because this—this is what awake feels like.
And you're here."
He folded it.
Taped it into the green journal.
And whispered, "We made it."
---