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You arrive back in France for a new season, a dream role, but it comes with the weighty heart of leaving Maya behind. You wonder if this is how it always is - to gain one thing is to lose another. Back when you were in Japan, you couldn’t see your parents, you couldn’t speak your mother tongue, even though you got to lay down at night with the love of your life. You wonder which is better, which is worse.
You suppose it doesn’t much matter - you’re in Paris for the foreseeable future, and you can make a decision about going back to Japan at the end of the season. Still, it hurts. Every day that you can’t see Maya, can’t speak with Maya, can’t touch Maya, it hurts.
You’re surprised when you come home to your apartment after rehearsal one evening that first week to find a parcel on the stoop. Your apartment is absolutely ancient, crumbling stone and drafty walls, the stoop itself nowhere close to level, and the box upon it is small and wrapped with care. You open it on your small dining table - sparse would be a generous way to describe your furnishings - and reveal an elaborate corsage of yellow flowers.
You do not recognize the type of flower or the reason for receiving a corsage, but you are nearly certain of the sender. Who else would send this sort of gift, after all, but Maya? You place the flowers in the refrigerator, still in the inner clear plastic box, stifle a yawn, and look up directions to a bookshop. You are no longer jet lagged after a week, but you are tired from rehearsals as a lead in the production. You push these thoughts away as you put your coat back on, getting on with your mission.
At the bookstore, you request a book on flower symbolism. The shopkeeper looks you over, then asks for clarification. “Japanese flowers,” you say, “Please.” You wonder if he could tell you were there with a special purpose, not just for curiosity.
There is only one in stock that suits your needs, you find out, an old edition of a book titled “Flowers of the World”. It is in English, and you can already feel yourself struggling through the text. But you purchase it, along with an English-French dictionary, wondering what exactly you’re getting yourself into, and what exactly Maya has up her sleeve.
You take it all home, stopping to get something for dinner on the way, annoyed when it begins to rain before you make it back.
After you eat you change into pajamas, poring over the book slowly, dictionary beside you at the ready. You retrieve the corsage from the refrigerator and it is as fresh and new and beautiful as you imagine the flowers were when still growing, and you picture Maya picking them out: online, or over the phone with a photo reference, her French good but not great, and you wonder why, why these yellow flowers?
You search and search A then B, then C until you find them, camellia. Your eyes widen as you see the flower in front of you on the page, albeit in pink. But you have no doubt this is the same flower. There is a section under camellia labeled ‘Japan’, and then subdivisions for each color. You confirm the word yellow in English with the dictionary and then scroll to it.
Primary meanings: Strong desire, missing someone. You look up each of these words in the dictionary, just to be certain of Maya’s message. You pencil them in French over the English words (you did purchase the book, after all), and add a bookmark. You slip the corsage on your wrist, admiring the way the yellow flowers match your blonde hair. You remember the party to celebrate the beginning of the new season at the Theater, and decide to wear the corsage there, and you wonder if you’ll be able to focus on your current activities with your love, the other half of your life in Japan, hanging off your wrist. You’ll have to try, at least.
The white camellias come next, about midway through the season. Stemless, arranged tightly in a silver box, they arrive again on your stoop, this time on a weekend morning. You take them inside when you hear the bell ring, heart beating as your eyes find the flower symbolism book on the shelf. You speak with Maya from time to time, you are in a relationship, after all, but you’re busy, she’s busy, and you’re distant, in completely different time zones. Receiving something selected by her, with a coded message, in a way, you know this is how you really speak.
You unbox the white camellias, this time identifying them at once, though unsure of the meaning. You have since learned the Japanese word for camellia, what Maya would refer to them as - tsubaki - and you mouth the word quietly now. You pour another cup of coffee and pull out “Flowers of the World”, flipping to the previously bookmarked page, this time finding the section on the white camellias. You fetch the dictionary as well, translating to ensure you understand the English correctly, even though there’s only a short phrase: long anticipation.
You taste that phrase on your lips all day, even though you’re not fluent in English. You do feel the long anticipation, the waiting for when you can hold Maya again, for when it is again normal to eat breakfast with her, to be in the same country with her, if not the same theater, to share the same bed. You want your friends to be her friends to be all in one place, and you anticipate when that could happen - just six more weeks. You make up your mind, then, gazing at those camellias: even if you do return to France - and you very well may - you will need to return to Japan for next season at least. You finish the coffee and wonder what flower to send Maya, what message to send her in the symbol of petals and color and tradition. The mystery, the fun of it, is a good distraction from the distance.
You get on with the rest of the season as you have for years, bolstered by the hard work, thinking of the end but not allowing yourself to slack off. You enjoy your time with your parents, knowing it is not permanent. You enjoy France - the stores and restaurants you can only visit here, the ease with which you can travel into the rest of Europe, the architecture and history so different from Japan, but it is hollow without Maya. It’s comforting, in a way: a hollowness that echoes the private emptiness inside of you, the secret part of you that wonders if anything is worth doing on your own. You take selfies with a fake smile and send them along to Maya, but you know that only she can bring out the real smile.
But you shine on the stage, as you always have. That alone makes you keep coming back to France, despite the distance from your beloved. Your lines, the French lines that you have repeated since you first visited the theater in your childhood, are delivered perfectly night after night. This stage is one where Maya could never follow you, this stage is yours alone. It certainly is lonely, but it is also brilliant.
On the final night of shows, the applause is deafening. You wonder if you’ve reached your pinnacle, if you’ll ever give a performance like the one you’ve just given. You realize at once that every sacrifice of the last three months - your long distance relationship, your shabby apartment, your endless hours of rehearsals - are all worth it for the heights you’ve achieved in your craft. You know Maya will agree. And just as you’re thinking her name, just as you’re turning the last corner back to your dressing room, you see them - a bouquet of perfect red camellias, as striking as blood, perched right before your mirror.
You stop in the doorway, your breath catching in your throat. You don’t expect to be taken by surprise like this. Roses, certainly you would expect. A cake, a card, even a bottle of champagne seem appropriate. But the camellia, the tsubaki, the flower you share with Maya, seems intimate at this point, something you only looked at in private, and now it is on display for anyone in the company who might pass by. Steadying your breath you enter, feeling desperately out of your element without “Flowers of the World” and your dictionary. Already you are done with the festivities. Already you cannot wait to be home in your apartment where you can decode this message, to learn Maya’s thoughts when she chose these vibrant buds. You want to guess, to see if you know flower lore or Maya’s message, but the idea of getting it wrong, of mis-judging Maya’s intentions despite being by her side for so many years is too devastating, so you don’t dare.
You walk closer, touching a delicate bloom with the side of your finger. It’s tender, full of life. It’s delicate but springy, holding up its weight well. You search for a card and find one barely bigger than a business card tied onto the ribbon. It’s written in kanji. “See you soon. -Maya”
You nearly laugh at Maya’s straightforwardness. At how she takes the time to send flowers at specific times to specific places with specific meanings, of how she can make your heart beat wildly with the thrill of discovering the mystery, and then turn around and send such a bland message. But you suppose that those juxtapositions are part of the enigma that is Tendo Maya. You keep the card in your pocket as you go out drinking with the cast, your mind wandering throughout the evening back to flowers: the red of strawberries, the red in both the French and Japanese flags, the red of the curtains that enclose the stage.
Once you say goodbye to your castmates, promising to come back to France in the future, perhaps even in another three months, and perhaps even meaning it, you walk back to the theater to pick up your flowers. You wonder if you meant your promise: if you really can sustain a life back and forth every three months. Almost certainly not, at least in the long term. You wonder how long the high of the stage in France can sustain you, how long you can live in Japan away from it. Because you’re learning that you cannot live very long away from Maya. It’s as if she physically holds your heart. You wonder why that thought doesn’t frighten you.
Finally you retrieve the flowers and rush home, your key shaky in your hand as you try to unlock your ancient door. Once inside, you sit at your table, still empty after months in Paris. You look around the apartment in that moment, realizing then that besides your brilliance on stage, you have nothing to show for this time - you have not made a home here. The flowers were so precious not only because they were gifts from Maya, but because they were the only signs of personality in an otherwise lifeless apartment.
You pull “Flowers of the World” from the shelf, along with the English-French dictionary, opening to the now-familiar camellia page. Red: Deep appreciation, Romance. As usual, you translate each word, to ensure complete understanding. Romance feels good, you are glad Maya sent you a romantic flower so close to your reunion.
But it is ‘deep appreciation’ that has you sitting still, an implacable deep feeling in your gut. You wonder if Maya has ever expressed anything close to ‘appreciation’ for you. Or you to her. You love each other. You push each other higher. You miss each other when you are apart. But appreciation? It is so subtle, so easy to miss, that you didn’t know you wanted it until you had it. You stare and stare and stare at the red camellias until they are red blurs in your vision. You wonder if you’re going to smile, all alone, or cry. In the end, you bite your lip, and the feeling passes.
You return from France one week after the final performance of the season. You had a little more time to spend with your closest French friends and time to say goodbye to your family, and then you’re back on a plane, bundled up with your few possessions back towards Maya.
You still haven’t made a decision about how to live your life. You don’t know where to keep your heart, where to make your career. For now, you think, it’s enough to watch the clouds pass out the window and then sleep tonight beside Maya in the bed you both share.
You get an email for an audition while you’re in the air: a performance in Tokyo next season at Futaba’s home theater. You open the casting guide to learn more. Soon enough you get tired of thinking of work and lay back in your seat, the phrases strong desire, long anticipation, deep appreciation echoing through your mind.
You sleep. You wake. You stand to stretch. You eat a little. You sleep some more. You arrive.
You slip into a bathroom to freshen up after the long trip, and then make your way through the familiar paths of the airport in Tokyo towards the baggage claim, hoping the trains are still running at the rapid daytime schedule. At the baggage claim, however, you see her, as beautiful as ever, and it’s true, it’s all true.
White camellia
Yellow camellia
Red camellia
You approach her, wrapping your arms around her and tucking your face into her neck. “I’m home,” you say against her skin. It feels as if your heart has returned to your body.
“Welcome home,” she says, her mouth beside your ear.
Later, on the train, your hands entwined, you feel the slightest bit amiss, as though a small bit of yourself was left in that ancient apartment in France. As though you can shine brightly on the stage in Japan, but not as brightly as you had shone there. But you don’t think you mind.
Maya sent you a message in flowers that you decoded in three languages. A message that she understands your situation, that sometimes you have to leave and return, that your brightest stage may not be here and to remain here for your relationship may be at the detriment of reaching the highest stage. You know this, and she knows this.
You take a deep breath and realize all at once that the hollowness that you endured every day in France is gone. You are complete once again, bolstered once again by Maya right beside you, her thigh touching yours.
Maya does not have light emotions, you think. There is nothing surface-level. You think of the red flowers, her final gift to you in France, the deep appreciation, and squeeze Maya’s hand, and then ask what she wants to eat for dinner.