The sunlight slanted through my bedroom window, catching the edge of the Thai postcard taped to my desk—an old photo of a lotus pond in Chiang Mai, its petals pink and glossy like they'd just been kissed by rain. I traced the edge with my finger, then folded another hoodie into my suitcase. It was the third one I'd packed; Mom had rolled her eyes when she saw, but I knew Chiang Mai's sun was gonna be hotter than Tokyo's, even in fall.
"Jax! Did you grab your Thai phrasebook?" Mia's voice yelled from down the hall, shrill but excited. I heard her bedroom door slam, then the patter of her feet on the wooden floor.
I turned just as she skidded into my room, her dark hair flying. She held up a tattered blue book—Thai for Beginners—grinning so wide her eyes crinkled. "Dad said we can practice on the plane. He promised to order mango sticky rice as soon as we land."
I laughed, tossing a pair of shorts at her. "Catch. And yeah, I packed mine. It's under the socks." Mia yelped, swatting the shorts away, but she was still smiling. We'd been begging Mom and Dad to move to Thailand since last summer, when we binged that documentary about Lanna culture—temple festivals, silk weaving, street food that smelled like lemongrass and fire. Mom's a translator, Dad's an English teacher; they both spoke Thai enough to get by, and when we'd sat them down at the kitchen table last month, cups of green tea steaming between us, they'd exchanged a look and said, "Why not?"
It still felt like a dream. Tokyo's skyscrapers and crowded trains had been my whole life, but the thought of waking up to mango trees and temple bells? I zipped my suitcase shut, the postcard peeking out of the top pocket.
"Kids! Taxi's here!" Dad's voice boomed from the front door. I heard the jingle of his keys, then Mom's soft laugh—she was probably reminding him to grab the passport folder again.
Mia grabbed her own suitcase, decorated with stickers of Thai elephants, and hauled it toward the hall. I slung my backpack over my shoulder—phone, charger, and that postcard slipped into the side pocket—and followed. The living room was a mess of suitcases and last-minute bags: Mom's canvas tote with her translation notebooks, Dad's old camera bag (he kept saying he wanted to take photos of the temples), a plastic bag of snacks Mia had insisted on packing (matcha cookies, mostly).
Mom was standing by the door, adjusting her sunhat. "You two ready?" she asked, her eyes soft. She'd lived in Thailand for a year when she was in college, and she'd told us stories about sitting on street corners eating pad thai until her tongue burned. "Chiang Mai's gonna feel like a hug, I promise."
Dad grabbed two suitcases, grunting. "Hurry up, or we'll miss the flight! Haneda's a zoo at this time of day."
Mia grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door. "Race you to the taxi!" she said, and took off. I laughed, chasing after her, the sound of Mom and Dad's voices fading behind us.
The taxi was a beat-up white car, its windows fogged a little from the humidity. The driver nodded at us in Japanese, stowing our suitcases in the trunk while we climbed in the back. Mia pressed her face to the window, watching Tokyo's streets blur by—Tokyo's towers blurred past the window—familiar and fading at the same time. I leaned back, my knee bumping hers.
"Think the house will have a garden?" she asked, quiet now. For all her excitement, I knew she was nervous too—leaving her friends, her school, the little park near our apartment where we'd played since we were kids.
I nudged her shoulder. "Dad said it's got space for you to plant those jasmine flowers you wanted. And hey, if not, we'll make one. We can ask the neighbors for seeds."
Mia smiled, leaning her head on my shoulder. "Yeah. And you'll teach me how to talk to the kids at school, right? What if my Thai's bad?"
"I'll be right there with you," I said. It was true—I was the loud one, the one who'd strike up a conversation with a stranger at the convenience store, but Mia? She was softer, the one who'd sit and listen, who'd remember little things about people. I knew she'd fit in eventually, but I wasn't gonna let her feel alone until then.
Dad turned around from the front seat, grinning. "You two arguing about who gets the bigger room already?"
Mia sat up straight, indignant. "No! Jax said I can have the one with the window!"
I rolled my eyes. "I never said that—"
Mom laughed, cutting us off. "Enough, you two. We'll figure out rooms when we get there. First, let's focus on not missing our flight."
The taxi pulled up to Haneda Airport an hour later, the building towering over us, glass and steel shining in the sun. We grabbed our bags, Dad leading the way through the crowds. Mia stuck close to Mom, her hand in hers, while I followed behind, staring at the departure boards—so many places, so many people, but all I cared about was the one that said Tokyo Haneda → Chiang Mai International, 14:00.
Check-in was quick—Dad had printed the tickets the night before—and soon we were through security, sitting at a café near our gate. Mia ordered a strawberry milkshake, Mom a green tea, Dad a black coffee, and me a chocolate croissant. We sat in silence for a minute, watching people rush by, and then Dad pulled out his camera, snapping a photo of Mia with her milkshake, foam on her upper lip.
"For the album," he said, grinning. Mom shook her head, but she was smiling too.
The boarding call came at 13:30, and suddenly everything felt real. We joined the line, our boarding passes clutched in our hands, and walked down the jet bridge. The plane was a medium-sized one, its seats a faded blue. Mia and I took the window seats in the back, Mom and Dad in front of us.
I pressed my face to the window as the plane taxied down the runway. Tokyo's skyline got smaller, then smaller, until it was just a blur of buildings and water. Mia leaned over, her shoulder pressing against mine.
"Look," she whispered. "We're really going."
I nodded, my throat tight. I'd miss this—Tokyo, our old apartment, the way the cherry blossoms fell in spring—but when I closed my eyes, I could almost smell the lemongrass, hear the temple bells. This was new, this was scary, but it was ours.
The plane took off, and for a minute, my stomach dropped. Then we leveled out, the clouds fluffy below us like cotton candy. Mia pulled out her Thai phrasebook, flipping through the pages, and I pulled out my phone, taking a photo of the clouds. I sent it to my best friend back in Tokyo—Off to Thailand! Will send you mango pics!—then put it away.
Mom turned around, holding out a pack of gum. "Want one? It'll help with your ears."
I took a piece, minty and sharp. "Thanks, Mom."
Mia pouted, but she went back to her phrasebook. I leaned my head against the window, watching the clouds drift by. The hours passed slowly—we watched a movie, ate terrible airplane food (chicken and rice that tasted like cardboard), and Mia fell asleep on my shoulder, her head heavy.
I stayed awake, though, my mind racing. What would the house look like? Would the neighbors be nice? Would I be able to understand the teachers at school? But then I thought of that postcard, the lotus pond, and I smiled. It didn't matter—we were together, and that was enough.
The plane started to descend around 20:30 Chiang Mai time. I woke Mia up, gently shaking her shoulder. "C'mon," I said. "We're almost there."
Mia rubbed her eyes, yawning. "Already?"
I nodded, pressing my face to the window again. Below us, Chiang Mai was lit up, little lights twinkling like stars. I could see the outline of mountains in the distance, the glow of the city center, and somewhere, hidden in that glow, was our new home.
The plane landed with a bump, and Mia grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight. "We're here," she whispered.
"We're here," I repeated.
We grabbed our bags, stumbling off the plane into the airport. The air hit me first—warm, humid, smelling like jasmine and something spicy. Mia took a deep breath, grinning. "It smells like the documentary!"
Dad laughed, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Told you it'd be good."
Mom led the way to baggage claim, her tote slung over her shoulder. We waited for our suitcases, Mia bouncing on her toes, and then we were walking out into the airport lobby, the sound of Thai and English mixing in the air.
It was late, and Mom yawned. "Let's find a hotel near the airport for tonight," she said. "We can look for the house tomorrow."
Dad nodded, pulling out his phone to search for hotels. Mia and I stood by the door, watching people go by—tourists with backpacks, locals in colorful shirts, a little kid chasing a dog. I pulled out my phone, taking a photo of the airport sign—Chiang Mai International Airport—and sent it to my friend.
"Found one," Dad said, pocketing his phone. "Five minutes away by taxi. C'mon."
We piled into another taxi, this one smaller than the one in Tokyo, its seats covered in floral fabric. The driver spoke a little English, asking where we were from, what we were doing in Chiang Mai. Dad told him we were moving here, and the driver nodded, grinning. "Chiang Mai good place," he said. "Quiet, nice. You'll like it."
I hoped he was right.
The hotel was a little place, its sign glowing neon pink. The lobby was small, with a couch and a desk where an old woman sat, watching TV. Dad checked us in, and we got a room with two beds—Mom and Dad in one, Mia and I in the other. It was simple, but clean, with a window that looked out at a mango tree.
Mia collapsed onto the bed, sighing. "I'm so tired."
I sat down next to her, kicking off my shoes. "Me too. But tomorrow we get to see the house. Dad said it's kind of remote, but nice."
Mom unpacked her toothbrush from her tote. "You two should shower and go to bed. We'll be up early tomorrow."
I nodded, grabbing my pajamas from my suitcase. The shower was small, the water warm, and when I came out, Mia was already half-asleep, her head on the pillow. I climbed into bed next to her, turning off the lamp.
The room was quiet, except for the sound of crickets outside and Mom and Dad whispering by the window. I closed my eyes, the smell of jasmine still in my nose.
Tokyo felt far away. Chiang Mai felt like home.
I smiled, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Tomorrow was a new day—a new house, a new city, a new life. And I was ready.