They say that when women live together, their cycles sync up. But what happens when two American girls travel 5,650 miles, land in Kyoto, and start bleeding in tandem? Is it biology… or just sisterhood in its purest, messiest form?

Evie and I woke up in Kyoto. We had scored this wildly chic Airbnb—think light-up bar, a jade-dining table that looked like it belonged in an Emperor’s temple, and a steam bath that made you feel like a very sexy dumpling. But then, a cockroach. And not just any cockroach—a Japanese cockroach. Elegant in its own terrifying way. Naturally, we screamed, then did what any brave, modern women would do: barricaded the door with a futon and shoved a blanket in every possible crevice like our lives depended on it.

Still, we kept it moving. The city was too magical, too cinematic, too us. But as with any fairy tale, there was a ticking clock. Ours was an 11 a.m. checkout time.

Now let’s pause there for a second. Eleven a.m.? Who invented that? Some sadistic man in a suit who’s never taken a steam bath or tried to pack three Rimowa suitcases of Sanrio trinkets and vintage Issey Miyake while mildly hungover?

Check-in is at 4 p.m. Check-out is at 11 a.m. That’s not a day—that’s a tease. If I were mayor of the world—or even just of Airbnb—I’d pass legislation requiring check-outs no earlier than 12 p.m. and check ins at 2 p.m. Give the cleaning crews two hours and give the girls what they deserve: time.

Anyway, back to the bleeding.

Evie got hers the night before. Early. Unexpected. And I remember thinking, “God, please don’t let mine come too.” I didn’t have the energy for a hormonal war in Kyoto. But my body had other plans.

Cut to: me, tossing tampons in my purse, trying to zip up my overpacked suitcase, shoving my foam roller in my duffel bag, and suddenly—there it was. A drop. A signal. My uterus had filed a formal complaint.

Now, my period is as punctual as a Japanese train. Every 28 days, like clockwork. (28, by the way, is my lucky number. I was born on March 28th. Coincidence? I think not.) But this time, it came three days early. And Evie’s? A full week.

So maybe it was the travel. Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe it was the deep, hormonal connection forged over matcha lattes, heated toilet seats, and three-hour conversations about exes and existential dread. Or maybe this was womanhood in its truest form: unpredictable, alive, and unapologetically on its own schedule.

And as we dragged our bloated bodies and baggage through the narrow Kyoto alleyways, I had to wonder: in a city so steeped in tradition, could there be anything more sacred… than two girls syncing their souls—and their uteruses—on foreign soil?