The leaves had changed again.
Golden, then red, then scattered—like confetti after a long celebration. November arrived with a bite in the air, and Takara found himself pulling Kayo's old hoodie tighter around his shoulders as he walked through campus. The sleeves still smelled faintly like him: that soft cologne Kayo barely remembered to wear and the sharper scent of his charcoal pencils.
It had been over a month since Kayo left for France.
It had also been one of the longest months of Takara's life.
He wasn't falling apart—not exactly. He was functioning, laughing with friends, turning in assignments, showing up to his theater elective with too much energy, even texting Kayo daily.
But there was an emptiness in his days that nothing could quite fill.
And every now and then, when the world slowed down, he would sit on the apartment balcony with two mugs—his, and the one Kayo always used—and pretend they were just on different schedules. That Kayo would walk in at any second, earbuds hanging around his neck, book under one arm.
That life could go back to what it was.
One evening, as the wind howled through the alley beside the building, Takara lit a candle and sat at the coffee table with his journal.
He hadn't written in a week.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because everything he felt lately felt too much.
He finally put pen to paper and wrote:
Dear Kayo,
There are nights when I can still feel your weight on the other side of the bed.
Not like a ghost. Not like grief. More like a promise.
You're out there. Under the same moon. Breathing the same air.
And even if your feet are planted in a different country, your heart is still here.
With me.
Takara paused, then scribbled a quick sketch beside the words: a figure sitting on a balcony, two mugs between them. A little star above each cup.
He smiled sadly.
Then closed the journal.
At the same time, on the other side of the ocean, Kayo stood on his own tiny balcony—barely wide enough for one chair, but enough space for him to see the stars above Lyon's skyline.
He sipped tea slowly, flipping through a sketchbook.
There, pressed like petals between his pages, were drawings of Takara:
– Laughing under fairy lights
– Sleeping on the couch with a half-eaten cookie beside him
– Crying during a movie and pretending it was just "allergies"
– Dancing barefoot to music Kayo secretly recorded because he never wanted to forget it
Kayo touched the edge of one page.
He missed him.
More than he thought possible.
They video-called the next morning.
"Your hair's getting long," Kayo said, sipping from a thermos.
Takara grinned, running a hand through it. "I'm going for tragic hero in a period drama."
Kayo laughed, the sound softer than usual.
"And you?" Takara asked. "Still brooding in cafés?"
"I prefer observing humanity in solitude."
"Brooding. Got it."
Kayo rolled his eyes. "What about you? How's campus life?"
Takara hesitated. "It's good. Busy. I started helping out at the writing center."
Kayo's eyebrows lifted. "Really?"
"I like listening. I like helping people tell their stories."
A pause.
Then: "You helped me tell mine," Kayo said quietly.
Takara blinked.
"You helped me say things I didn't know how to say," Kayo continued. "You still do."
Takara smiled, his throat tight. "That's all I ever wanted."
Later that day, Takara got a surprise delivery.
A box. No return address.
Inside: a soft wool scarf in his favorite green, a book of Japanese poetry, and a letter written in Kayo's careful handwriting.
I found this scarf in a shop that smelled like pine and old records. The owner reminded me of my grandfather. He told me green was a lucky color.
You always said I never wore enough of it. So I bought it for you instead.
The book is full of poems about distance and memory. About how some things don't fade, even with time. I've marked my favorites.
Read them when the nights get heavy.
I'll be home soon.
—Kayo
Takara pressed the scarf to his face and cried.
Not because he was sad.
But because love was still real, even from 4,000 miles away.
A few nights later, Takara stood on the rooftop of his building.
He'd brought up a thermos of cocoa, his scarf wrapped tight around his neck.
And a piece of paper with a message written in bold black ink:
LOOK UP. I'M WITH YOU.
He held it toward the stars.
Just in case.
Just in hope.
Just in love.
At that same moment, across the world, Kayo stood on a bridge over the Rhône River.
The water glittered with city lights. Tourists passed by. A violinist played something aching and beautiful nearby.
Kayo pulled a photo from his coat pocket—a Polaroid of Takara sleeping with marker on his cheek.
He smiled.
Then whispered into the night, "I'm with you too."