It was Yui's idea.
Out of nowhere, while they were staring blankly at the departure board at Tokyo Station, she suddenly extended both arms and made a "choo choo" gesture—complete with sound effects and a determined expression like a train conductor from an anime.
Shiyam blinked. "Kyoto? Seriously?"
She nodded with that same grin that always seemed to know more than it let on.
Then she pointed at the screen filled with train destinations, and softly said,
("Your friends maybe go there? Many festivals. Famous place.")
It wasn't logical.
It wasn't even likely.
But something in her voice calm, sure, almost childlike in its conviction pierced right through his hesitation. That look in her eyes again: not just certainty, but curiosity, and something else.
Something that said: Trust me. Let's just see.
And so he nodded.
---
By mid-morning, they were on the Shinkansen, Japan's legendary bullet train.
It felt less like boarding a train and more like stepping into a spaceship. Everything was futuristic yet comforting—sliding doors, pristine seats, and that quiet whoosh as it accelerated out of the city.
They had window seats, side by side.
Outside, the cities blurred into farmland, the farmland into green hills, the hills into a dream. Rice paddies flickered past like green glass, telephone wires swooped in rhythm, and now and then a river flashed like silver between the trees.
The landscape streamed by so quickly that it almost didn't feel real.
Shiyam leaned back, a quiet sigh escaping him.
It was the first time in days his mind wasn't racing.
He looked at the clouds outside the window and murmured to himself, "Fastest train I've ever been on…"
Yui heard him. She tapped his arm, then held up her phone, smiling shyly.
("My first Shinkansen too.")
Shiyam turned to her, surprised. "You've never been to Kyoto?"
She shook her head, then looked down, fingers tapping slowly, thoughtfully.
When she showed him the screen, it read:
("I follow you now.")
He read it twice.
A stranger, who didn't speak his language.
Who barely knew his world.
Who had no reason to help him.
Yet here she was, following him halfway across the country.
A strange silence hung between them—soft, warm, and strangely intimate.
He wanted to ask why.
But he didn't.
Because maybe… he already knew.
---
Kyoto welcomed them with rain.
Not a storm—just a soft, polite drizzle that gently painted the city's old rooftops and temple paths with a quiet sheen. The air smelled of cedar and wet stone. The streets were quieter here, older, like the city was breathing slower than Tokyo.
Together, they walked along the narrow lanes leading to Fushimi Inari Shrine—the famous path lined with thousands of vermilion torii gates, stretching into the green hills like a trail carved into time.
At one point, they paused under one of the gates.
Shiyam looked up. The rain tapped against the wood, and sunlight trickled through the leaves above in slanted beams. He turned to Yui.
She was still, her face tilted upward, eyes half-closed, like she was listening to something only she could hear—like the wind was telling her secrets.
He stepped closer, hesitant. "You really don't mind helping me?"
She didn't speak.
Instead, she held out her phone.
Typed. Showed him.
("You remind me of movie hero.")
He laughed. "What movie?"
She hesitated, cheeks reddening. Then she shyly typed again:
("I like Indian movie. Tamil. Big fight. Dance. Tears. Rain.")
He blinked. "Wait… Theri?"
Her face lit up. She clapped her hands. "Yes! That!"
Then, without warning, she raised one arm, struck a dramatic pose, and mimed the iconic rain-drenched slo-mo fight-dance scene with just enough awkwardness to be hilarious.
Shiyam burst out laughing, nearly stumbling backward under the gate.
"I can't believe you know Theri!"
She grinned. "I like hero cry. Then punch. Then dance."
He wiped his eyes from laughing. "That's literally every Tamil movie ever."
She looked serious for a moment. "I like that."
---
Later, they took shelter beneath a small food stall's awning.
The smell of fried tempura and miso soup wafted through the air. A chalkboard menu displayed dishes—each with tiny chili icons beside them. Yui squinted at one item, then pointed.
"Spicy?" she asked.
Shiyam raised an eyebrow. "You want Tamil spicy?"
She nodded confidently.
He stared at her like she'd challenged him to a duel.
"You sure?"
She nodded again, raising an imaginary sword.
That was all the permission he needed.
He ordered two bowls of curry rice and pulled out his secret weapon from his backpack—a tiny silver packet of extra-hot red chili powder. A Tamil traveler's best friend.
He mixed a generous amount into both bowls, grinning like a villain in a 90s film.
The first bite hit her like lightning.
Yui's eyes went comically wide.
She froze. Her hand slowly lifted to her throat.
Then to her ears—now bright red.
She fanned her mouth like it had caught fire. Her nose scrunched. Her cheeks puffed. Her lips trembled like she might cry or explode.
Shiyam jumped. "Water?! Oh no—do you want water?!"
She shook her head violently, holding back a squeal, tears forming at the corner of her eyes… and then—
She gave a shaky thumbs-up with trembling hands.
Shiyam stared at her.
She grinned—half-collapsing from the spice but victorious.
They both burst into laughter so loud, the vendor poked his head out to make sure they hadn't died.
---
That night, they checked into a tiny capsule hotel tucked between two narrow streets of Gion.
Shiyam was in Pod #17.
Yui in Pod #18.
Just a thin wall separated them, but somehow, it didn't feel like distance. It felt… safe. Intimate. Like they were sharing a space without having to fill it with noise.
Shiyam lay in his pod, eyes fixed on the low ceiling.
No fanfare. No big declarations.
Just memories.
A girl who danced in the rain like a Tamil heroine.
Who braved Tamil-level chili.
Who followed him across Japan with nothing but a phone and a feeling.
He thought about his friends.
He still hadn't found them.
And yet…
For the first time since landing in this country—
He didn't feel lost.
Not really.
---
One Plus Notification:
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You are one plus away from understanding someone without needing to translate them.
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