Chapter 12 — The Distance Between Stars
The cicadas had grown louder, their chorus becoming the ever-present hum of summer. For Elena, it marked the passage of days without Elira's laughter echoing through their shared room. She had grown used to the silence, but not fond of it.
Their grandparents were gentle about the absence, offering Elena small comforts: her favorite meals, movie nights, drives to the bookstore. Yet, none of it truly filled the space Elira had left behind.
She spent her days writing more than ever. Her latest project—a story about a girl trapped in a dream where her twin sister was a stranger—had begun to evolve into something deeply personal.
It was eerie how easily the metaphors spilled out: mirrors, shadows, flickering lights.
"Maybe I'm writing this to hold onto her," she confessed during a Zoom meeting with Rintaro.
He nodded, listening intently. "Or maybe you're discovering a new part of yourself."
"I don't want to be 'just me.'"
"You're not. You're still you and also more."
Elena didn't respond. She didn't know how.
Meanwhile, in Sapporo, Elira was thriving in ways she hadn't imagined. Her days were packed with workshops—figure drawing, color theory, storytelling through still life.
She had filled nearly two sketchbooks, her fingers callused from hours of pencil work.
Nagi had introduced her to digital art. They spent entire nights tinkering with layers and brushes on Elira's borrowed tablet.
"You learn fast," Nagi said as Elira shaded in an expression line on a comic-style portrait.
"I think I'm just really focused."
"Focused is good. But don't forget to breathe."
That night, Elira stood on the dorm balcony under a sky full of stars and let the wind play with her hair. She missed the scent of Elena's shampoo, the way their voices harmonized without effort.
In her journal, she wrote:
Day 19
I realized something today. I'm scared of coming back to you different. Like you'll look at me and wonder where the old Elira went. But maybe we're both becoming constellations—separate stars with the same sky.
I hope you're okay.
Elena read the entry before school the next morning and felt the sting of tears. She quickly scribbled her reply before heading out:
Day 19 — Home
Eli,
Do you remember when we were nine and tried to memorize every star's name from that astronomy book? You named yours "Elara" and I chose "Lyra." We never got it all right, but we believed those stars would always lead us home.
You're not drifting. You're shining. And I'm learning how to see you from here.
Back at school, Elena found herself slowly drawn into the circle of peers who had once ignored her. Rintaro's influence helped—he spoke about her stories openly in class, even complimented her analysis in front of others.
During lunch, Haruka, a girl from the Editing Club, sat beside her.
"You write like someone who's seen too much," Haruka said bluntly.
Elena blinked. "Too much?"
"In a good way. Like your eyes go deeper than the surface."
Elena managed a small laugh. "I think my sister says I read too much into things."
Haruka shrugged. "Maybe that's what makes you good."
One evening, Elira received a surprise invitation from the institute director.
"There's a summer youth exhibition in Tokyo next month," she explained. "We're nominating a few students. Your work—'Distance' especially—stood out."
Elira's mouth opened, but no words came out.
"You'd represent our school," the director continued. "And you'd be interviewed by art journals."
It felt surreal. She accepted, heart pounding.
Nagi whooped when she heard. "Told you you're built for more."
But later that night, Elira stared at her reflection in the window and whispered, "Would she still recognize me?"
She wrote another letter to Elena:
Day 24
They chose me for an exhibition. In Tokyo. I should be thrilled… but all I can think is: I want you there. Not just in spirit or on a screen. I want to see your eyes when I tell you. Hear your laugh. Hug you until my arms go numb.
Is that selfish?
Elena's reply came the next morning.
Day 25
Elira,
You've always been the artist. But I never thought your art would take you this far this fast. I'm so proud I can barely breathe.
I wish I could be there too. But maybe this is the part where I cheer for you from the crowd.
Shine. As bright as you want. I'll be watching.
...
The Tokyo showcase preparations consumed Elira's final week at the institute. She refined pieces, added new ones, and even collaborated with Nagi on a joint work titled Echoes of Duality—a blend of ink and graphite, depicting two girls crossing paths in a dream-like forest.
The final night before she returned home, Elira and Nagi sat by the pond behind the dorms, fireflies blinking like lazy stars.
"Scared to leave?" Nagi asked.
"A little. It feels like I grew a second skin here."
"Then wear it proudly. Just because you go back doesn't mean you go backward."
Elira smiled. "You're really good at saying the right things."
"I know. I'm amazing."
They both laughed.
The train ride home was different this time. There was no fear. Only a flutter of anticipation.
Elira watched the landscapes shift again—from cities to suburbs to small towns that felt like warm memories.
When she stepped off the platform, Elena was waiting.
They didn't say a word at first. Just hugged. Tightly. Like the weeks apart had been an eternity and a heartbeat all at once.
"You look different," Elena finally whispered.
"So do you."
They smiled. No more fear.
Just understanding.
That night, back in their room, Elira placed her sketchbook on the table.
Elena opened her laptop and brought out her printed stories.
They exchanged them without a word.
For the next hour, neither spoke. They read each other's work, page by page, sketch by sketch.
And when they finished, Elena looked at Elira and said, "You've always drawn me better than I could write you."
Elira shook her head. "You've always written me braver than I could see myself."
They sat by the window after that, watching the stars.
"Do you think," Elira asked softly, "we'll keep growing like this? Apart and together?"
"I hope so," Elena said. "It means we're alive."
Silence fell.
Not empty.
Full.
In the shared journal, the final entry of the summer read:
We became stars in different skies.
But we never stopped shining for each other.
—E&E
To be continued...