Chapter 11 — Summer Skies and Silent Promises
The gentle rumble of the train lulled Elira into a state between wakefulness and dream. Outside the window, the countryside stretched endlessly, a blur of green fields and distant mountains.
Her sketchbook rested on her lap, open to a blank page, the pencil in her hand untouched.
It had been hours since she left the platform. Since she had waved goodbye to Elena. Since she had seen Kaito's quiet smile disappear into the crowd.
It felt like part of her had remained behind—rooted to that place where everything had felt so tightly woven together.
Sapporo was still hours away.
And with every mile, the weight of being alone crept closer.
...
The dormitory for the Sapporo Art Institute's summer exchange was tucked at the edge of a campus lined with blooming hydrangeas and towering maples.
A mixture of old brick architecture and modern glass buildings, the place radiated a quiet charm.
Elira arrived just after sunset, greeted by a cheerful staff member who led her to a small private room on the second floor.
The walls were white. The bed plain. A desk by the window looked out onto a courtyard where wind chimes sang in the evening breeze.
She unpacked slowly. Sketchbooks, colored pencils, her favorite novel, a photo of her and Elena from last year's New Year's Eve—silly hats, wide grins, glitter all over their faces.
When she was done, she sat at the desk and opened the shared journal.
Day 1
Elena,
The train ride was long, and I couldn't bring myself to draw anything. Not yet. I think the world looks too big right now. But the dorm smells like lavender, and there's a wind chime outside my window that sounds like laughter. Maybe that's a good sign.
I already miss you.
—Eli
Back home, Elena read the entry under the soft light of their room. Her own page was already filled with a typed poem, printed and taped in. She smiled at Elira's handwriting.
That night, she stayed up late finishing a story draft and thought about how quiet the house was without her twin's occasional muttering while sketching.
The next morning, Elira's orientation group toured the campus. Her name tag felt heavy on her chest, and her fingers ached to hold a pencil again.
She walked beside a few students from other prefectures, some chatting easily about their art clubs and goals.
A girl with short silver hair and a bandana around her wrist fell into step beside her.
"First-timer?" she asked.
Elira nodded.
"I'm Nagi. From Tokyo. Specialize in ink landscapes."
"Elira. From... a small town."
Nagi grinned. "Small towns make the best artists. Too much city noise ruins the soul."
Elira smiled. A genuine one.
That afternoon, their first session began—"Visual Storytelling Through Personal Lens." The professor, a tall woman with a paint-splattered apron and bright eyes, encouraged them to illustrate a memory that defined their artistic journey.
Elira stared at her blank page.
A memory...
The first sketch she ever loved: a drawing of Elena in the school library, nose deep in a novel, eyes aglow. She remembered how proud she felt capturing that expression.
She began to draw.
Hours passed unnoticed.
When she looked up, the professor was standing behind her, silent.
"This is full of love," the woman said.
Elira flushed. "It's my sister."
"She's your muse, then?"
"I guess... she's my anchor."
The professor smiled. "Keep her close in your art. That bond is rare."
Elira returned to her work, heart lighter.
That night, her message in the journal read:
Day 2
I met a girl named Nagi. She talks like she's already famous. But she's kind. We painted together in the afternoon. I drew you, by the way. The library pose—the one you always hate. The professor liked it.
I didn't tell her that I still don't know how to draw without you sitting beside me. But I think I'll learn.
Miss you.
—Eli
Elena's days passed in a whirlwind of solo study, Editing Club reviews, and occasional messages from Rintaro. He had shared another short story—this one more personal, about a boy and his twin brother.
"You inspired me," he said when they bumped into each other at a local cafe.
Elena blinked. "Me?"
"You and your sister. There's something powerful about how closely you care for each other."
She looked down at her coffee. "Sometimes I think I only know how to live as half of something."
"That's still something whole," he replied.
She smiled.
Back in Sapporo, days blurred into creative bursts and quiet reflection. Elira found herself sketching more than ever before—portraits of strangers, cityscapes, abstractions of emotion. Each drawing felt like a letter to her sister, even when the journal wasn't near.
Nagi became her first true friend beyond Elena. They talked about everything—comics, grief, ambitions. One night, while eating instant curry in the common room, Nagi asked:
"Do you always draw like you're holding your breath?"
Elira paused. "I think... I'm scared of letting go."
"Of what?"
"Of becoming someone I don't recognize."
Nagi looked thoughtful. "Maybe that's part of it. Becoming someone new doesn't erase who you were. It just adds layers."
...
One week later, during the mid-program showcase, Elira presented three pieces. One was the portrait of Elena.
Another was a city scene inspired by her walks with Nagi. The third was abstract: a swirling composition of hands reaching across a void.
She titled it Distance.
It caught the attention of the program director.
"This one tells a story beyond the canvas," she said. "Where did you learn to express so much without words?"
Elira smiled quietly. "By listening to silence."
Meanwhile, Kaito sent messages almost daily. Photos of Kyoto gardens, little updates on the festival prep there, questions about her art.
She replied with journal snapshots, silly doodles, stories from her dorm.
In one message, he wrote:
You're shining more in every message. I don't know what it means, but it makes me proud.
She reread that message three times.
And didn't delete it.
...
...
Day 14
Elena,
I saw a couple of sisters drawing together in the park today. One kept correcting the other's line work. It made me laugh. You'd have been annoyed.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm changing too fast. Like I'll come back and you won't recognize me. But then I look at the drawings. I still see you in all of them.
Maybe we're never really apart.
Love,
—Eli
Elena's reply was simple.
Day 14 — From Home
Eli,
I read your letter on the rooftop. The sky looked like it had been drawn with watercolors—blues bleeding into gold. You would've loved it.
I think we are changing. But I see you in every page I write. And I think… I'm starting to write for myself too.
Maybe we're both expanding.
Come home soon. There's still so much to tell each other.
—Lena
And somewhere between those two messages, the silence between them softened. Not out of fear. But from understanding.
Sometimes distance wasn't about losing someone.
Sometimes it was the space needed to see them more clearly.
The summer had just begun, but the seeds planted in quiet were already blooming.
To be continued...