"Walking Along the Railway."

From Jo's playlist: City Dove by Tori Kelly

The day began again.

A gray sky and chilling winds welcomed Jo as she warmed up with her father for their jog. Kuroo greeted them with a nod and grin as they took off in opposite directions once again.

Jo did not throw up this time, but she did feel quite ill.

Kuroo was not at his gate cooling when they finished like yesterday. Jo's heart began to sink but she brushed it off, opting to turn up her music in her earbuds instead.

Bri had texted again, asking to talk. Jo gave a halfhearted excuse, promising to talk tomorrow. The thought of talking to anyone made her bones sag.

Jo did, however, watch Kuroo and Kenma collaborate on Kenma's game out of the corner of her eye. She kept her earbuds in, feigning sleepy indifference. She slowly nursed her travel mug of coffee and watched the buildings blur by, the pink dawn sparkling off some.

It wasn't the Italian sky. That sky tugged at her heart and begged for her feet to march into the vastness of it. Into the mystery. But this was pretty in its own right.

Jo's brain felt like it was in a fog during the classes. She wrote the notes and tried to focus, but couldn't force her brain to pay attention.

She blamed it on jet lag. Despite her being well adjusted.

An uneasiness settled over Jo when she met her mother outside of the school after classes let out. She liked the freedom she had been granted with Kuroo and Kenma. Leaving school with locals made the city feel more like a home than a temporary stop on the railway of her life. Was Italy ever her home? Could she think of Japan as one and not betray that year of her life? That magical, wonderful, cotton candy pink year.

Jo's mother gave her a curious glance on the train. "Everything alright?"

Jo nodded, snapping out of her tumbling thoughts. "Yeah. Yeah totally fine," she said. Everything was definitely not alright. Her heart, that treacherous muscle, felt like it was going to be cleaved in two. Italy versus Japan. Which one would she choose?

Her mother's dark eyes narrowed. She leaned back in the hard seat. "You pinch your brows together when you're thinking,"

Jo deflated, rubbing her creased brows. Her mother was just as observant as her father. Nothing escaped the watchful eyes of a professor and therapist. "Matteo and Bri started going out," she said softly. Everyone stayed hushed on public transport here. Soft and silent compared to the bustle of Rome.

Her mom bit her bottom lip. A fire ignited behind her chocolate eyes. But not one that sets forests aflame with the branches crumbling. It was a calm, crackling campfire that invites you to sit and spill your guts in the still of the night.

And spill her guts she did. Swiftly, softly, so that the few Japanese people on the train would not take notice of the tremble of her voice. Or the wetness of her words as they lodged themselves in her throat.

"I know Matteo and I didn't get together seriously. I get that. But seeing him get with Bri so quickly just hurts. It feels as though he didn't actually care about what we had."

Jo's mother listened quietly, waiting for Jo to finish.

When Jo had stopped talking, she felt breathless. As though she had run another four miles in the span of a few minutes. Her lungs burned. Her heart throbbed against her ribs. But the weight that had settled on her brain was gone.

Jo didn't meet the tender gaze of her mother. So she opted to watch the blurred scenery, readying her tender heart. Willing thorns to wrap around the tired muscle.

"Matteo was a wonderful friend to you," her mother said carefully, "And I will also miss him dearly. It was hurtful of him to move on so quickly. But he is still himself. He's his own individual. He's allowed to move on as he sees fit. It's okay to feel hurt. But you can't blame him for his own wandering heart." Jo slumped down in her seat. "Like me, you care,"' her mother continued, ignoring Jo's poor posture for once. "Our hearts are steadfast. We hold on for too long when we should let go. But the pain we endure for our loved ones is worth it during hard times."

Jo knew the words were true. They struck the gong of her heart painfully, the hurt reverberating throughout her bones, felt even in her toes. Matteo was allowed to move along with the railway of life faster than she.

She was allowed to take a different train to move on. From him. From the mountains her heart sang for and the sky she adored.

Jo's mother shifted ever so slightly closer so that their shoulders were pressed together. It was a closeness Jo latched onto like a lifeline.

Her heart held on far too steadily. Held on to the point of her fingers cramping and wrists aching. Perhaps this switch in the train ride, this country, of her young life would be where she learned to let go of the luggage that had made its home inside her and uncurl her fingers from the handle.

"Have you been keeping up with your other friends?" her mother asked.

Jo shook her head. "I've been trying to, but each time I do it feels like there's a wedge between us and I can't fix it." It was awful. Slowly feeling the friendships flicker between the thousands of miles.

Her mother hummed. Sympathy pulled at her normally straight mouth. "You'll make friends soon enough. Kuroo seems kind,"

Jo shrugged her shoulders. "Part of me wants to just put a pause on friend making until college,"

"You can do that," her mother nodded. "But I think you'll miss out on some fun experiences."

Her mother was right, of course. But the thought of putting herself out there tired her. Typically she was excited to meet new people. She was always surrounded by a group of people she could easily call friends, always out on a Friday night living the teenage dream.

Jo's life had been bathed in neon lights and polaroid pictures of girls in black with boys with drinks. It was an adrenaline rush. Even the quiet Sunday afternoons were pumped full of juvenile energy by baking bread and making noodles from scratch.

But now her life was reduced to quiet train rides and canned coffee from vending machines.

Jo picked at her nails. "Maybe."

Maybe she will get used to the new silence in her life.