Chapter 2 - Beginning

Past

The first thing I feel when I wake up is pain. My head throbs and my limbs are heavy, the kind of exhaustion that comes from crossing too many time zones at once. I do not even remember taking off my shoes. I arrived in Japan less than twelve hours ago, dragged my suitcase into my dorm room, dropped everything on the floor, and collapsed face-first onto the bed.

I check the time, and my stomach drops. I’m late. Not fashionably late. Catastrophically late.

My first university class is Literature, and here I am brushing my teeth while hopping into my sneakers. I rush across campus with my hair in a half-done ponytail and my notebook pressed against my chest like a shield.

When I reach the building, I nearly collide with the glass door. I push it open and rush inside. I do not make it three steps before I slam into someone.

I stumble back, mortified. The girl I bumped into steadies herself. She has short black hair cut in a chic bob, and the ends shimmer with subtle blue highlights.

“I am so sorry,” I say in English first, then in Japanese, because panic deletes my language priorities.

She laughs. “It is fine. I was rushing too.”

Before I can say anything else, someone behind us clears their throat. Loud. Stern. I turn to see the professor staring at us with the kind of look that says you two are already on my list.

We scramble inside like guilty children and take the only empty seats left in the back row, right corner. My heart is still racing.

She leans toward me and whispers, “I’m Rie Nakamura. Call me Rie.”

“Aurora. Aurora Adams,” I whisper back. “You can call me Ro.”

Her eyes sparkle like she’s already decided we are friends. “Ro. I like that.”

Class begins. The professor dives into a lecture on symbolism in modern Japanese literature, but my mind keeps drifting to the girl beside me, her foot tapping silently under the table like her body’s always in motion even when she is sitting still. I scribble notes while trying not to fall asleep, reminding myself I didn’t travel across the ocean just to nap during Literature class.

When class finally ends, we walk out together. She looks at my schedule, and her smile stretches even wider.

“We have so many classes together,” she says. “Except language and electives. What did you choose?”

“French,” I say. “I studied a bit before.”

“Ah, I picked English. But we can still meet after class and gossip about how hard everything is. Deal?”

I laugh softly. “Deal.”

Her enthusiasm feels like sunlight warming my chest. I have never made friends this quickly. Usually I observe first, speak later, take time to learn a person before opening myself. But Rei makes it feel effortless.

Rei ends up guiding me everywhere, cafeteria, library, shortcuts between buildings. At lunch, she insists on choosing food for me after interrogating me about my preferences.

“You like mild spice, right? And sweet things? And no seafood with legs.”

I blink. “When did I say that?”

“You made a face at the octopus poster.”

So she’s observant. Very observant.

We sit together at the cafeteria, and the meal she picks is perfect. I almost cry. Maybe I’m easily impressed, or maybe jet lag turns me emotional, but the food tastes like comfort.

After lunch, we go our separate ways for language classes. I sit in a French classroom filled with students who look much more awake than I feel. The instructor speaks French so quickly that my brain protests by falling even more asleep.

When I finally step out, I already looking around for Rei. She is waiting at the university entrance, waving her hand like she is signaling a rescue team. “Ro! Come on, let’s go to this cafe near campus. They have the best matcha in Tokyo. Well, in my opinion. And my opinions are very reliable.”

I nod, and we fall into step together. The early autumn air is crisp and smells faintly of woodsmoke. Leaves rustle above us as we walk, and everything feels new and hopeful.

The café is cozy and warm, with a soft hum of chatter. We order matcha drinks and sit by the window. The conversation flows easily. We talk about everything: books, movies, music, desserts. She listens with her whole body, leaning forward, laughing loudly, gasping at the right moments. I find myself talking more than I expected.

“So, Ro,” she says between sips of matcha, “what do you want to do after graduation?”

I hesitate. Then I remind myself: This is why I came here.

“I want to be an actress,” I say softly. “I want to create something meaningful. The kind of roles that make people cry or think or stay awake at night. That’s why I chose Performing Arts.”

Her eyes widen with excitement, not judgment. “That is perfect for you,” she says. “You give off artistic, dreamy vibes. Like someone who sees the world differently.”

I feel my cheeks warm. “Thank you. What about you?”

“I want to be a J-pop idol,” she says immediately, gripping her cup dramatically. “I want to sing and perform and be on stage and maybe make people feel less lonely. I know it sounds big and impossible, but...”

“It is not impossible,” I say. “Not for you.”

She stares at me. Then she laughs, softer this time. “You are dangerously encouraging.”

We fall into a rhythm over the next few weeks. Classes together. Lunches together. Wandering around campus and discovering strange vending machine snacks. Study breaks that turn into long conversations. Evenings in cafés where we talk until the sky turns navy. She introduces me to her favorite manga, and I introduce her to my favorite indie films. Rie pulls me into spontaneous adventures, from street food walks, wandering through bookstores, late-night dessert runs. Her laughter slowly becomes something I look forward to hearing each day.

One evening, while we sit outside the university waiting for the bus, she turns to me with a serious expression. That alone is alarming. Rie is rarely quiet, let alone serious.

“Ro,” she says slowly, “there’s an audition next Sunday.”

“For what?”

“For Lumina Entertainment.” Her voice trembles slightly with excitement. "Actors, idols, models, all in the same company. I have been following them since high school."

I blink. “Lumina? They’re huge.”

“I know,” she says. “But I want to try. And…” She grips my sleeve. “I want you to come with me. If we both get in, imagine it. We could train together. Work together. Chase our dreams from the same place.”

Her eyes shine with hope and affection. My heart beats faster. I think of my first acting class. My childhood dreams. The old wooden stage in my school auditorium. The feeling of belonging I chased across an ocean.

“I will go with you,” I say.

Rie lets out a squeal so loud the people nearby turn to stare. She pulls me into a hug, warm and impulsive.

“That is it,” she says into my shoulder. “This is where everything begins.”