The sky over Tokyo wore a soft, pale gray that morning, neither threatening rain nor offering sunshine—just a quiet stillness, like the breath before something is spoken and cannot be unsaid.
Haruto stood at the campus gate, a folded letter crinkling slightly in his jacket pocket. He hadn't read it—couldn't bring himself to. The envelope bore Aiko's handwriting, her delicate script spelling his name like a whisper meant only for him. She had left it with the dorm receptionist, asking that it be handed to him the next morning.
Aiko hadn't shown up for their usual coffee stop before class. Nor was she in the lecture hall. Her seat beside him remained empty, her absence louder than the professor's voice. He kept glancing sideways out of habit, expecting her quiet presence—her sketchbook tucked in her lap, her soft hum as she shaded some moment she'd seen that morning. But there was nothing.
When the bell rang, Haruto walked out with the crowd but felt entirely alone. As if the city's rhythm had faltered around him.
Back in his room, the letter weighed heavier than it should have. He stared at it for a long time before opening it.
Haruto,
I don't know how to begin this, so I'll start with the truth—I didn't tell you earlier because I was afraid. I've been offered a rare opportunity: a mentorship in Paris, at one of the art institutions I've only ever dreamed of. It's for six months, maybe longer.
When the email arrived, I felt like the world opened. And then I thought of you. Of us. Of the promises we made in spring beneath falling cherry blossoms. I want to chase this dream, Haruto, but I don't want to hurt you in doing so.
I'm leaving tonight. I couldn't face saying goodbye—I knew my resolve would crumble.
This isn't goodbye forever. It's just… goodbye for now.
Please don't be angry. Believe in me like you always have.
Love,
Aiko
Haruto read the letter three times. At first, he was numb. Then came the ache, deep and twisting, blooming through his chest like a stormcloud unfurling. She was gone—gone without even a final glance.
Night had fallen before he left the dorm. He walked without direction, through alleys and glowing intersections, past ramen stalls and street musicians. Everything blurred, sounds muffled as if the world knew not to interrupt his sorrow.
He ended up at their place—the small park bench near the art museum, where they used to meet during their first semester. Where Aiko once sketched him under the golden ginkgo leaves, teasing him for not sitting still. The bench looked lonelier now.
"Six months," he whispered into the quiet. "That's not forever."
He closed his eyes and imagined her—on a plane, fingers pressed to the window, eyes wide and uncertain. Alone in a city she barely knew, holding a brush in one hand and their memories in the other.
And though it hurt, Haruto felt something beneath the sorrow. Pride. Aiko had always belonged to colors, canvases, and light. She was following her path.
A breeze moved through the trees, gentle like her laughter. He reached into his coat and found the old charm she once gave him—the tiny hand-painted star she made during their first winter break. He gripped it like a promise.
The next day, he sat alone in the campus café. The barista gave him a knowing smile, but didn't ask about Aiko. Her absence was a quiet truth between them all.
Weeks passed. He poured himself into his studies, the astronomy club, late-night observatory visits. And yet, in every clear sky he searched for her. In every comet he tracked, he whispered a message. I'm still here. I'm still yours.
Letters began to arrive. Not emails. Real letters, with watercolor flowers blooming in the margins and little notes in the corners. "Saw a boy with your eyes near the Seine today," she wrote in one. "He was staring at the moon. I smiled, thinking of you."
Haruto wrote back, even though he wasn't good with words. "I miss you like gravity misses the stars," he scribbled on one card. "But I want your skies to be big."
He never told her how much the silence hurt in those early days. Or how often he stood at the train station just to feel the rush of departure, wondering what it must have been like for her to leave.
When the cherry blossoms returned, Haruto sat beneath their old tree and opened a fresh letter. It smelled faintly of lavender.
I'm coming home soon.
There's a new piece I want to paint. It's called 'Return.' And it begins with you.
He looked up at the blossoms, pink snow drifting down. In that moment, he wasn't sad anymore.
Because the unexpected farewell… was not the end.