If I'd known Chiang Mai's night air would taste like the first page of a story I couldn't put down, I might've stopped Mia from napping on my shoulder mid-flight.
The plane's engine droned on, lulling Mia to my shoulder and Mom to Dad's—half the cabin asleep, like we were all waiting for the world to shift.
Mia's head was heavy against me, her breath soft on my neck, and her crumpled food notebook had slipped to the floor.
I picked it up, flipping open the pages. Neon pink ink scrawled "Mango sticky rice (EXTRA coconut!)" next to a lopsided doodle of a mango. I smiled, tucking it back into her backpack.
My own eyes felt gritty, like sandpaper. The Thai history book in my lap was open to Wat Phra That Doi Suthep, but the words blurred no matter how hard I squinted.
"Attention passengers," the captain's voice crackled over the intercom, jolting Mia awake.
She sat up fast, her head thudding against the overhead bin. "Ow!" she yelped, and Dad stifled a laugh.
"Descending into Chiang Mai," the captain went on. "Local time is 21:30. Temperature: 28 degrees Celsius."
Mia's eyes went wide, all sleepiness gone. "28? Tokyo's barely 15 this time of year!"
She peeled off her hoodie, tying it around her waist, and pressed her face to the window. I leaned over, too.
Below us, Chiang Mai spread like a handful of starlight—no skyscrapers, just warm lights dotting the dark, mountains looming faint in the distance.
The stars were brighter here, sharp and clear, nothing like the faint smudges we saw in Tokyo. For a second, I forgot how to miss home.
"My ears hurt," Mia whined, clamping her hands over her head.
"Swallow slow," Mom mumbled, still half-asleep. Mia made a sour face but obeyed, grimacing like she was eating lemons.
The plane dipped lower, and the ground came into focus—rooftops, mango trees, a street where kids chased a stray dog with a rubber ball.
Then the wheels hit the tarmac with a soft bump, and the cabin erupted in quiet applause.
Mia bounced in her seat, already unbuckling her seatbelt. "C'mon c'mon c'mon!"
"Slow down," Dad said, laughing. "Luggage first. No running in the airport."
But even he was grinning, shoving his guidebook into his bag.
We filed off the plane, and the first thing that hit me was the air—warm, thick, sweet with jasmine and grilled smoke.
It wrapped around me, sticky but nice, nothing like Tokyo's crisp autumn breeze. Mia took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
"That's Thailand. I can already smell the mango sticky rice."
I rolled my eyes, but I had to agree. It smelled better than the plane's recycled air, that's for sure.
We followed the signs to baggage claim, Mia practically jogging ahead. The airport was smaller than Haneda—cozier, with wooden beams and potted palm trees in the corners.
A woman at a snack stand yelled something in Thai, and Mia giggled, tugging my arm. "Think she's selling sticky rice?"
"Later," I said. "We need to find our bags first. Mom'll kill us if we get lost."
She pouted but slowed down. The baggage carousel spun slowly, and Dad pointed suddenly. "There's ours!"
Our blue box—Mia's pink elephant stickers bright even in the dim light—was trundling by. We hauled it off, then waited for the rest: my manga box, Mom's bubble-wrapped herb pots, Dad's golf clubs.
By the time we had all our luggage, my arms felt like noodles. Mom flagged down a staff member, asking slow, careful English about the hotel shuttle.
The woman nodded, pointing to a beat-up white van outside. "Green Leaf Hotel," she said, and Mom sighed in relief.
The shuttle driver was a short man with a wide smile. He helped us pile our boxes into the back, then asked, "Green Leaf?" in broken English.
Dad nodded, and Mia tried to say "thank you" in Thai—"khòp-khun kráp"—but messed up the tone. The driver laughed, patting her head. "Close enough."
The van rumbled onto the road, and Mia pressed her face to the window again. Chiang Mai at night was nothing like Tokyo—quiet, no neon, just street stalls glowing orange under the trees.
A vendor grilled satay over a fire, smoke curling up, and Mia's stomach growled loud enough for everyone to hear. "Sorry," she mumbled, blushing.
Dad laughed. "Don't be. The hotel's got a stall right outside—sells sticky rice till midnight."
Mia's face lit up. "Really? Unpacking can wait. Food first."
Mom shook her head, but she was smiling. "Deal. But no sugar crash before bed—you two have had enough excitement."
Ten minutes later, the van pulled up to Green Leaf Hotel. It was tiny, painted pale green, with fairy lights strung through the mango trees out front.
A stray cat curled on a plastic chair by the door, and the air smelled like jasmine. "Looks like a postcard," Mom said, grabbing her backpack.
The front desk clerk was a young woman with a ponytail. She handed Mom two key cards. "Rooms 201 and 202, right next to each other. Breakfast 7-9 AM: congee, fried eggs, mango porridge."
Mia's ears perked up. "Mango porridge? I'm setting my alarm."
We hauled our boxes up the creaky stairs. Mom and Dad took 201, Mia and I 202. The room was tiny—two single beds, a rickety desk, a bathroom so small I could barely turn around.
But the sheets smelled like lavender, and the window overlooked the garden, where the fairy lights twinkled. Mia dropped her backpack on the bed, already heading for the door.
"Sticky rice time!" she said, grabbing my wrist.
I groaned, but I followed. My legs felt like Jell-O, but the thought of food was too good to pass up.
The street stall was right outside—red awning, an old woman with a wrinkled smile behind the cart. She handed us two plates: ripe orange mango slices, fluffy white rice, drizzled with creamy coconut sauce.
Mia took a bite, her eyes closing in bliss. "This is better than the videos. Way better."
I took a bite, too. The sweetness hit slow, like a memory I didn't know I'd been missing—juicy, creamy, nothing like the packaged snacks back home.
I'd been skeptical, but she was right. It was amazing.
We sat on the hotel porch, the stray cat curling at our feet. Mia fed it a piece of mango, and it purred so loud I could hear it over the crickets.
"Think we'll find a cat like this at our new house?" she asked, petting its head.
"Maybe," I said. "Dad said the yard's big. We could get a pet."
Mia's face lit up. "A dog! Or a cat! Or—"
"Not an elephant," I cut her off. "Mom would lose it."
She giggled, shoving my shoulder. "Fine. But I'm still asking for a mango tree."
We finished our sticky rice, then headed back to the room. Mia was yawning now, her eyes drooping. She collapsed on her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.
"I'm so tired," she mumbled. "But what if this is a dream? What if I wake up back in Tokyo?"
I sat on my bed, kicking off my shoes. "It's real. Look—" I held up my Thai history book, the one from home. "This is here. We're here."
She peeked out from under the covers, smiling. "Yeah. We are."
Mom knocked on the door a few minutes later, poking her head in. "You two still up? Tomorrow's busy—Dad's house-hunting, we can hit the market. Sleep now."
"We will," I said. She nodded, closing the door softly.
Mia was already half-asleep, her breathing slow. I turned off the lamp, and the room went dark, save for the fairy lights seeping through the window.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling. The crickets chirped outside, and the air smelled like jasmine. Tokyo felt a million miles away.
I pulled out my phone—22:45, Chiang Mai time. I snapped a photo of the fairy lights, then sent it to Mrs. Tanaka: Made it safe. Sticky rice is amazing. Will send more soon.
I put my phone down, then grabbed my history book from my backpack. I flipped to the page with Wat Phra That Doi Suthep, the golden spire glowing in the photo.
Someday soon, I'd climb those 309 steps. Someday soon, this place would feel like mine.
I closed the book, setting it on my nightstand, and closed my eyes. For the first time since we left Tokyo, I didn't feel homesick.
I felt ready—ready for mango porridge in the morning, ready for the new house, ready for whatever Chiang Mai had in store.
I just didn't know it'd be something no history book could prepare me for.
The stray cat meowed outside, and the fairy lights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a vendor called out in Thai.
And as I drifted off to sleep, I smiled. This wasn't the end of "before." It was the start of something sticky-sweet and sharp, like mango juice on my tongue—something that felt half-dream, half-destiny.
And it smelled like mangoes—sweet, golden, and just a little unreal, like the start of a dream that hadn't decided where to go yet.