June 3rd, 2020

International Students Housing, Social Lounge, 2:20 P.M.

The trio sat in their usual triangle around the coffee table, their notes scattered like fallen leaves. The Zoom window glowed on all three screens. Dr. Elisabeth Grünwald, a sharp‑eyed, warm‑voiced, and impeccably organized Austrian woman, smiled from her office in Vienna.

"Thank you for meeting with me," she said. "I want to finalize the lesson plan for your next session with the Japanese School of Amsterdam. My goal is to observe how bilingual explanation affects comprehension of difficult and technical scientific concepts."

Kenta nodded politely. "I'll do my best to interpret everything clearly."

Grünwald clicked to the next slide. "The topic I've chosen is algal dormancy under cold stress. The goal of this lesson plan is for children to understand that even the toughest organisms slow down when conditions are unfavorable."

Kenta's shoulders tensed. He could translate the idea easily. But the species names? That was another story.

Grünwald continued, unaware of his growing panic. "We'll discuss several species: Arthrospira, which thrives in subtropical climates; Sorokiana, a heat‑loving species that grows extremely slowly in icy conditions; Ulva lactuca, or sea lettuce; Scenedesmus, which goes dormant in winter; Fucus spiralis, which survives winter only in saltwater; Oedogonium westii, which cannot survive winter but leaves spores; and Phormidium ambiguum, which is unproductive during winter."

Kenta's pen hovered uselessly above his notebook. He could already imagine the children's faces: Confused. Overwhelmed. Lost.

He swallowed. "I... I can translate the concepts. But the species names... They're too technical. I don't know how to make them child‑friendly in Japanese."

Chandresh leaned forward. "Maybe you don't need to translate the names. Maybe you can just describe the patterns."

Johan nodded. "Exactly. All these species have one thing in common: they enter some form of dormancy when the environment doesn't support growth."

Grünwald smiled. "Yes. That is the pedagogical core."

Kenta exhaled slowly. "So instead of listing species, I explain the shared behavior?"

"Right," Johan said. "Kids don't need to memorize Arthrospira or Phormidium ambiguum. They need to understand that even strong organisms slow down when conditions are wrong."

Chandresh added, "And explain that it's not a failure. It's an adaptation."

Kenta nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders. "I can translate that. I can say something like: 'Even algae need rest when the world gets too cold.'"

Johan grinned. "Perfect."

"And," Chandresh said, "you can use an analogy. Something like  how you can't force a square block through a circle‑shaped keyhole."

Kenta blinked, then laughed. "I'll have to find a Japanese equivalent. Maybe something about trying to plant a summer vegetable in winter soil."

"That's even better," Johan said.

Grünwald clapped her hands softly. "Wonderful. This is exactly the kind of bilingual conceptual reframing I want to study."

Kenta typed notes rapidly, his confidence returning. "So the take‑home message is: When you face obstacles, it's not always because you're not trying hard enough. Sometimes the environment just isn't right yet."

Chandresh nodded. "Yes. And that's a lesson kids need."

Johan added, "Honestly, it's a lesson adults need too."

Grünwald continued outlining the lesson structure, but the hardest part was already solved.

Kenta no longer feared the translation. He understood the heart of the message. He knew exactly how to carry it across languages.

***

7:55 P.M.

The sun had already dipped below the rooftops when Chandresh's phone buzzed. He recognized the ringtone instantly, the one he assigned only to family.

His stomach tightened.

He went upstairs and stepped into his room, closing the door behind him. Johan and Kenta stayed in the hallway, giving him space but listening for any sign that things were about to get serious.

Chandresh answered. "Papa‑ji? How is Maa-ji?"

Kiran's voice was quieter than usual. "Beta... your Maa-ji has been moved into quarantine."

Chandresh's breath caught. "Tell me everything."

"She became unresponsive this afternoon," Kiran said.

"Can I talk to her? Can you put the phone near her?"

"No," Kiran answered gently. "No visitors are allowed. Not even family. I can't be with her."

The words hit like a punch.

Kiran continued, his voice shaky despite his attempt to stay composed. "The doctors say that with this virus there have been cases where patients show improvement, then decline suddenly."

Chandresh swallowed hard. "Papa‑ji... I'm frightened."

"I know," Kiran whispered. "I am too. The best we can do is to keep praying."

The call ended abruptly. Chandresh didn't cry. He didn't scream. He opened the door and looked at Johan and Kenta with hollow, vacant eyes.

Johan and Kenta stepped forward instinctively, but Chandresh raised a hand. It was a small gesture, but his friends understood it was also a plea to be left alone.

Johan nodded immediately. Kenta stepped back. Both of them watched Chandresh walk past them into the dim lounge downstairs, where he sat alone on the couch, staring at nothing.

He looked like someone bracing for an earthquake he couldn't outrun.

***

Sitting on his bed opposite Kenta, Johan's hand shook.

"I'm concerned," he whispered. "Even the strongest person breaks when their loved ones are in danger. Chandresh is tough but not infallible."

Kenta nodded, eyes wet. "Yeah. I want to hug him. But he asked for space. We have to respect that."

Johan paced once, twice, then stopped. "He won't be able to focus on Project Chloris. Or Dr. Grünwald's observation. Or anything to do with studying. He shouldn't have to."

Kenta swallowed. "We need to ask Professor Molenaar what Wittenborg's policy is for situations like this."

Johan grabbed his laptop. "I'll call her."

"We'll explain everything. We'll ask about academic leniency."

Johan nodded. "He needs time. I don't want him to worry about deadlines."

Kenta whispered, "He needs us now more than ever."

The weight of that truth settled between them.

Johan clicked the call button.

As the screen rang, both boys sat straighter because they knew they had to be strong for someone who couldn't be strong right now.

They would carry the load until Chandresh could breathe again. They would protect him the way he had protected them.

***

10:12 P.M.

The Zoom window flickered to life again, this time with only one professor. Molenaar's usually inscrutable face softened the moment she saw Johan and Kenta's expression of agony.

"What's going on, gentlemen?" she asked, alarmed. "It's unlike you guys to call me first and certainly not this late at night."

Johan's voice cracked. "It's Chandresh's mom. She's deathly ill."

Kenta added quietly, "The doctors aren't sure what to expect."

Molenaar inhaled slowly, her eyes full of understanding. "I'm very sorry to hear that. Please tell him he has my deepest sympathy."

Johan nodded. "We will. But we don't think he'll be able to focus on academic responsibilities."

Kenta swallowed. "We wanted to ask what Wittenborg's policy is for unprecedented circumstances."

Molenaar leaned back, folding her hands. "Wittenborg has clear procedures for emergencies. If Chandresh needs to take a break for a semester, that is absolutely allowed."

Johan exhaled in relief.

"But," she continued, "he must notify the financial aid office and the international student coordinator. A temporary withdrawal from academic responsibilities means his visa expiration date will need to be extended and financial aid adjusted."

Kenta nodded, already mentally organizing the steps. "We'll help him contact the coordinator."

Molenaar's voice softened. "He doesn't need to make decisions tonight. Or tomorrow. But he should know that the university will not penalize him for taking care of himself."

Johan rubbed his face. "Thank you. Really."

"And," Molenaar added, "if you two need extra support as well, don't hesitate to name it."

Kenta blinked. "Us?"

"You're his closest support system," the professor said. "Don't underestimate the emotional toll of supporting someone through something heavy."

The two boys exchanged a glance—surprised, grateful, and acutely aware of how tightly they had been holding themselves together.

The room fell quiet again. But this time, the silence felt less like fear and more like resolve.

Johan nodded. "We'll let you know if we need a break too."

He and Kenta both looked toward the dark hallway, where Chandresh sat all by himself, grieving.

Kenta whispered, "Processing grief must take a lot of energy."

Johan sighed. "We'll make sure he'll be alright. But first, we have to be alright ourselves."

***

June 4th, 2020

International Students Housing, Communal Kitchen, 9:30 A.M.

By morning, the news about Chandresh's mother had already spread through the building like a cold draft slipping under every door. The atmosphere was subdued, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Chandresh sat rigidly at the kitchen table, staring at a mug of untouched mint tea. His eyes were swollen, but dry, the kind of dryness that came after a night of crying until his body finally ran out of tears.

Yaolin was the first to approach, her voice soft. "Chandresh... we heard. We're so sorry."

Yukiko stepped beside her. "We want to help. We can buy warm meals for you. There's an Indian restaurant a few blocks away. They deliver quickly."

Anjali nodded. "We want you to have something comforting. Something familiar."

Mitha added, "We'll cover the cost. Don't worry about that."

Alissa placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Just let us take care of you a little."

For a moment, Chandresh didn't respond. He just stared at the steam rising from his tea, as if trying to remember how to breathe. Then he shook his head.

"No," he whispered. "No Indian food."

The girls exchanged confused glances.

"Are you sure?" Yaolin asked softly. "It might help."

Chandresh swallowed hard. "Anything that reminds me of my family will just... make it worse."

Yukiko's expression softened. "Okay. We understand. We'll order something else."

Before anyone could say more, Lars and Bayu entered the kitchen, both looking uncharacteristically sluggish.

Lars crossed his arms. "I get that you're sad, man. But you still need to eat."

Bayu nodded. "Sadness doesn't cancel biology."

Chandresh let out an unsteady breath. "Just get me whatever. I don't care. As long as it's not South Asian."

The girls nodded immediately. They slipped out of the kitchen, already discussing options.

Chandresh stayed where he was, shoulders slumped, staring at the table as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.

Johan and Kenta stood in the doorway, watching him quietly. They didn't speak. They didn't offer cliché platitudes. They stayed close enough to be there but far enough to respect the fragile boundary he had drawn the night before.

Kenta whispered, "He's trying so hard not to fall apart."

***

Chandresh's Room, 12:15 P.M.

Yaolin knocked several times, not sure if Chandresh was awake.

"Hey, dude? We brought Mexican food."

Behind her, Yukiko, Anjali, Mitha, and Alissa followed carefully, carrying paper bags that smelled faintly of warm tortillas and melted cheese.

"We got you bean burritos and nachos." Alissa put the bag down. "Something healthy but still yummy. There's guacamole and salsa too."

Chandresh nodded, though his eyes barely lifted from the blanket draped over his lap. "Thank you. I'll eat these later."

The girls exchanged a few worried glances, then slipped out quietly.

But Chandresh wasn't alone for long. Johan was lingering in the hallway; not intruding, not hovering, just there, being a loyal presence waiting to be invited in.

Chandresh called softly. "Come here, Jo."

Johan stepped inside immediately. "What's up?"

"Can you..." Chandresh swallowed. "Can you play your ukulele for me? Something with no lyrics. Just an easy melody to listen to."

Johan nodded without hesitation. "Of course."

He disappeared into the social lounge for a few seconds to grab his ukulele, the one with the worn fretboard and the sockeye salmon sticker Nardhia had put on years ago, and then sat on the floor beside Chandresh's bed.

He strummed a slow, repetitive chord progression. Nothing fancy. Nothing dramatic.

Chandresh closed his eyes. After a few long minutes, he spoke haltingly.

"Maa-ji used to play sitar," he whispered. "She'd sit behind the counter at our spice shop and play while waiting for customers."

Johan kept playing, softer now.

"She didn't always play full songs," Chandresh continued. "Sometimes just lines of classical poetry. Sometimes just a melody she liked. Sometimes she made songs up on the spot."

His voice trembled.

"I never filmed her," he said. "Not once. I always thought I'd have more time. I always thought I'd get another chance."

Johan's fingers slowed, the chords turning into something almost like a lullaby.

Chandresh opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling.

"What if I never hear her play again?" he whispered. "What if that sound is gone forever?"

Johan set the ukulele down carefully.

"You loved her music," he said quietly. "And she knew that. She didn't need a camera to know that you enjoyed hearing her."

Chandresh's breath hitched. "But I wish I had recorded her."

Johan picked up the ukulele again. This time, he played even more softly. He knew he could not cheer Chandresh up, not when the sorrow was too deep, but he could sit with the heartache.

***

Front Entrance of the International Student Housing, 6:40 P.M.

The rain had stopped just long enough for Kenta to step outside and check the small metal mailbox attached to the brick wall of the building. He wasn't expecting anything other than some bills and brochures.

 Instead, he found a thin envelope. He saw his own name written in Akira's handwriting.

He stood there for a moment, the cool evening air brushing against his cheeks, before he hesitantly opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.

He read it once. Then again. Then a third time, as if he could not believe that Akira was capable of penning a real apology.

By the time he finished reading, his hands were trembling.

He pulled out his phone, unmuted Akira's chat, unblocked her, and hit the video call button.

The screen rang once. Twice. Three times.

Akira appeared, her face tired but bright, framed by the ceiling light of her Milan apartment.

"Kenta?" she whispered.

He nodded, swallowing hard. "I got your letter."

Akira exhaled shakily. "I wasn't sure if you'd read it. Or if you'd want to talk to me."

"I do," Kenta said softly. "Especially now."

He took a breath.

"Chandresh's mother is very ill. And watching my best friend go through this... it made me rethink everything. It made me rethink this... this cold war you and I have."

Akira's eyes softened with concern. "Oh no. I'm so sorry. Is Chandresh okay?"

"No," Kenta said honestly. "But Johan and I are doing what we can."

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"Akira... we can't fix everything in one night. We can't undo the past. But we're cousins. Nothing will change that. And I don't want us to keep hurting each other."

Akira nodded slowly, tears gathering in her eyes. "I don't want that either."

There was a long, heavy quiet. Then Akira spoke again, voice trembling. "Can I tell you something? Something I haven't told anyone?"

"Of course."

"I wish I could get closer to my therapist and neighbor, you get me?" she asked shyly. "I like Amalia. I know she has to stay professional, but... I can't deny that I'm attracted to her."

Kenta blinked. "Attracted? Like, romantically?"

Akira covered her face with one hand. "I know it's forbidden. I know she has clinical rules to follow and can't date her clients. But she's so kind. So patient. So... gentle. And I haven't been around kind people in a long time. Not until her."

Kenta's voice softened. "I don't have advice. I really don't. But... are you sure it's a crush? Or is it that you haven't been treated gently in a long time, and it's easy to mistake gratitude for romantic attraction?"

Akira lowered her hand, thinking.

"I don't know." She shrugged. "Maybe it's both. Maybe it's neither. This is the first time I feel something for a woman. Maybe queerness runs in the Kinoya genetics."

Kenta nodded. "Whatever the feeling is, please don't rush to define it. And just as importantly, don't punish yourself for wanting kindness. But you have to let Amalia know because this could affect how therapy is going."

Akira let out a nervous laugh. "You always are the one full of wisdom, Ken, and I'm the foolish one."

Kenta smiled faintly. "I'm not always wise. But I'm trying. And for the record, I don't think you're a fool."

Akira wiped her eyes. "Thank you for calling."

"Thank you for writing."

For the first time in months, their conversation didn't feel like a battlefield. They were now simply two cousins, two entangled hearts, two people trying to grow in the middle of uncertainties.