Words in the air

The sky was already bright–the kind of deep, cloudless blue that only summer seemed to conjure. The heat clung to the cobblestones like breath, the city not yet bustling but awake in its own lazy way.

I’d never ridden a motorcycle before. At least not like that. Not pressed against someone’s back for an hour and twenty minutes, wind roaring in my ears, my arms wrapped around a torso that felt carved out of steel and still somehow warm.

I tried to talk—twice. Once at the ten-minute mark and again halfway through—but Ryōji didn’t respond. Not rudely, only… unbothered. I started counting road signs just to stay sane.

He helped tighten my light scarf after the third turn nearly yanked it loose, his hand brushing mine without a word. The silence should’ve been awkward, but weirdly—it wasn’t.

By the time we pulled into the Venice Airport drop-off, my legs were jelly, my heart was sprinting, and my hair was a war zone. But I was laughing. Giddy. Like I’d just gotten off a roller coaster I didn’t know I wanted to ride twice.

We walked side by side into the terminal. He carried my bag without asking.

“You always drive like that?” I asked, falling in step.

Ryōji glanced sideways. “You didn’t fall off.”

“Because I held on for dear life.”

“Good strategy.”

He didn’t smile, but there was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

At security, I fumbled for my passport and boarding pass, dropping them both. Ryōji bent and picked them up before I could reach.

“You nervous?” he asked.

I blinked. “What? No. I—maybe a little.”

“Breathe through your nose. Slow. Works for me.”

That was the longest sentence he’d said since Verona.

While we waited for boarding, he pulled out a worn paperback—some tattered noir thriller in English—and leaned back in his seat like this was just another Tuesday.

I stared. “Didn’t peg you for a reader.”

He didn’t look up. “Didn’t peg you for a biker.”

Touché.

Five minutes later, I caught him watching my reflection in the glass wall. Not directly—just a quick flick of the eyes.

But I saw it.

I decided to test it. “You judging my outfit?”

“I was debating if you’d trip on the jet bridge.”

I grinned. “Bet you’d catch me.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t deny it either.

After a beat, he spoke again—lower this time, almost thoughtful. “We’ll switch to Japanese from here on. Ears travel in airports.”

I blinked, surprised by the shift in tone. But I nodded. Of course. From now on, it wasn’t just casual banter. We were on the clock.

When they called our gate, he stood before I did. Somehow that felt old-fashioned. Kind. Like he was watching my blind spots. I hadn’t realized how much I missed that feeling.

“You want tea?” I asked at the café kiosk.

“I don’t drink tea.”

He said it in Japanese now—fluid, effortless. Not just fluent. Flawless. Not a trace of hesitation or foreign rhythm. It caught me off guard for a moment.

I didn’t know why, but hearing it from him made the world feel sharper. Like I wasn’t the only one carrying something hidden.

We sit together on the plane. He takes the aisle; I get the window.

He’s already buckled in before I even sit. Arms crossed, expression unreadable. His leather jacket is folded neatly in the overhead bin, revealing the charcoal shirt clinging just enough to look tailored by fate. His scent lingers somewhere between asphalt and aftershave—clean, dry, just a little dangerous.

I dig through my handbag like it’s a tactical mission, pretending to be busy while sneaking sideways glances. My hair’s still a mess from the ride. I probably smell like dust, almond shampoo, and nerves.

“So…” I start, bright as a matchstick, “what’s your favorite airport food?”

He doesn’t look up.

I smile anyway. “Mine’s mochi. Not that you can ever find decent ones here, but I like to hope.”

Still nothing.

I clear my throat. “Okay. Not a mochi guy. Got it.”

A few rows behind us, a toddler starts crying. I wait for the chaos to pass. Then try again.

“You always this quiet? Or is it just with overly talkative seatmates who smell like adrenaline and hotel soap?”

That earns a glance. Brief. Like a flicker of interest before a door clicks shut again.

“Okay, okay,” I wave it off with a grin. “Just trying to fill the silence. I get… itchy when it’s too quiet.”

He nods slightly. Still facing forward. “You fill it well.”

“Not sure if that’s a compliment or a warning.”

A faint breath from him. Maybe even the ghost of a smile.

I lean a bit closer, dropping my voice. “You didn’t seem all that keen when we called. So what made you change your mind?”

He doesn’t move. But the reply comes.

“You insisted.”

I blink. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “Reason enough.”

I stare at him for a beat. I don’t get it. And he’s clearly not planning to elaborate. So, I let it go. For now.

Outside the window, the sun paints the wing in amber. A perfect day to fly towards unresolved memories.

Then, his voice again—quieter this time.

“The legal matter,” he says. “It’s not a big deal. So why are you afraid to go to Japan?”

I freeze for a second, blink down at my lap. “I—what makes you think I’m afraid?”

“You wear it.”

“Oh?”

He raises one hand, ticking off fingers without even looking.

“Your left leg hasn’t stopped bouncing since the gate. You only stopped when I shifted in my seat.”

A second finger. “You checked your watch. Twenty times in a minute.”

I quickly hide my wrist beneath my light jacket.

A third. “You dropped your passport and apologized to the floor.”

A fourth. “You laughed too loud earlier. It was hollow.”

Then he pauses and adds, “And you keep looking out the window like there’s something out there waiting to follow.”

My throat tightens. “Wow. That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says simply.

I turn to the window. “There are people I left behind. People I thought I’d never see again. And now, maybe I will. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t even know which scares me more.”

He doesn’t respond. He just lets the silence settle, easy and steady like a blanket.

I look back at him. “Do you always psychoanalyze your clients mid-air?”

He finally turns his head, just slightly. “Only the ones that talk this much.”

I grin. “That’s fair.”

He leans back again, closes his eyes.

I turn to the window, smiling faintly.

The flight stretched on in that oddly suspended time-space only long-hauls seem to summon. Outside, sunlight spilled across clouds, endless and distant. Inside, it was recycled air, plastic trays, and the occasional crinkle of snack wrappers.

I talked. I mean—really talked.

Not nervously, not to fill the silence, but just… because it felt like if I kept tossing pebbles into the well, eventually one would hit water.

He didn’t say much. But he listened. And he didn’t shift away, or ask me to stop. So I kept going.

I told him about Paris—the studios, the cracked floorboards, the bunion cream nobody admits to buying. About the stage light that once blew out mid-solo, and how I kept dancing like it was part of the act. About Sylvie’s obsession with crime dramas and the one time she tried to tail our instructor because she thought he was laundering money (he wasn’t—he just had bad taste in watches). About the first time I ever wore pointe shoes and bled right through them. He raised an eyebrow at that one.

He asked two questions, the entire time. One was: “How long did you dance on the broken toe before anyone noticed?”

The other: “You did all that for applause?”

And I remember answering both seriously, like I owed him the truth. Because somehow, he didn’t ask like he was judging. He just wanted to understand.

Then, somewhere over central Asia, after a shared silence and the last of the in-flight ginger biscuits, I finally asked:

“So… Osaka. You said you lived there, right?”

His jaw shifted slightly. “From time to time. Depends on the job.”

“Was… or is it nice?”

“Rains a lot.”

“Do you miss it?”

“No.”

That was it. Three words. But I could feel them hiding a paragraph.

I leaned closer, cheek against the headrest, half-whispering. “Is there someone dear to you there?”

His eyes stayed forward for a beat too long. Then slowly, he turned just enough that I saw his profile in the cold cabin light.

“Yes,” he said.

The word felt final.

But I couldn’t help myself. “Someone… recent?”

He shook his head once.

“Family?”

“No.”

I hesitated. “Then who?”

His voice was low. Not harsh. Just… deliberate.

“Someone who helped me”

I blinked. “Are they still in Osaka?”

He paused, then added, “It wasn’t in Osaka.”

That wasn’t a threat. It was reverence. Like saying the name might break something sacred.

I didn’t push further. Didn’t need to.

Instead, I sat back and let the silence fill the space between us again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like a wall. It felt like a door—closed, but not locked.

Was he going back for this person? For answers? For something like closure?

I didn’t ask. Maybe because I was afraid he’d say yes. Or worse—that he’d say no, and I’d still see the truth in his eyes.

But in that moment, I realized something: we weren’t so different. Two people flying across the world, haunted by names we didn’t dare say too loud. Trying to outrun our own shadows—or maybe just meet them halfway.

Maybe he didn’t come with me for the money. Or the mystery. Or even for me. Maybe he came because going back alone is the hardest thing of all.

My eyes were tired. My thoughts were a soft, swirling tide. I turned my head slightly, catching the way his arms folded again—like armor, or habit. His profile was calm now, unreadable as always, but something about his stillness made me feel safe.

I let the warmth of that thought carry me.

The low drone of the engines softened. Somewhere, in the white noise, I imagined I could hear seagulls. Waves lapping gently against old docks. The scent of salt air and cedar wood drifting from a childhood I hadn’t dared remember.

And beside me, not touching but close enough to feel real, was a man I barely knew.

And yet—I wasn’t afraid.

I let myself drift, the hum of motion beneath us, the sky wide open above.

And for the first time in years, I slept without dreaming. And maybe… just maybe… this wasn’t just my journey.