Chapter 9: A Spring Without Her

Spring comes early this year. The air feels warmer than usual, the sky a little clearer, the wind carrying a softness that should make everything feel new. But on my first day of high school, all it does is remind me that she isn’t here.

The school gate is crowded with students in fresh uniforms, laughing and moving in messy lines, but I walk through it alone. I try to focus on the announcements, the classroom numbers, the unfamiliar faces. Still, my eyes drift automatically to the windows, searching for sunlight hitting an empty seat. It’s almost funny how habits refuse to die even when distance grows.

I take a seat near the back. Not by the window. I can’t sit there anymore.

While the teacher introduces himself, my attention rests on the tiny stripe of sky between two buildings. Clouds drift lazily across it, slow and gentle, like the letters she used to send me. I remember how I’d open each envelope carefully, almost afraid the words inside would fade if I breathed too hard. For a long time, those letters made the world feel warmer.

Now I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.

During lunch, the classroom empties quickly. People leave in groups, talking about clubs and electives. I pull out my bento and eat quietly. The food tastes fine, but without someone to share the silence with, it feels oddly distant.

When I first met Hanami, silence never felt heavy. She would sketch softly beside me, her pencil moving like a secret rhythm. I’d talk about constellations without realizing I was talking too much. Somehow we fit into each other’s small moments without trying.

I thought that kind of closeness would last just by existing.

After classes, I wander the hallways longer than necessary. I pretend I’m looking for the club recruitment boards, but the truth is I’m looking for something familiar—anything that might ease the ache growing in my chest. Instead, I find only new posters, empty corridors, and sunlight stretching across polished floors.

Outside, the sakura trees are beginning to bloom. Their pale petals flutter across the courtyard like quiet confessions falling through the air. I stop under one, watching a single petal land on my sleeve. The color is soft, almost white.

Hanami once told me that spring feels like a promise you’re scared to believe in. She said it with a shy smile, half looking away, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to say something that honest.

I wonder what spring feels like for her now.

The walk home is longer from this new school. Students scatter down the streets in clusters, chatting easily. I keep my hands in my pockets and listen to the rustle of paper inside—the last letter she sent me, weeks ago.

I haven’t replied yet.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because every time I try to write something, the words stop halfway.

How do you write to someone you miss without sounding like you’re asking them to come back?

A gust of wind brushes past me, cool despite the warm season. I tilt my head up. The sky is a calm shade of blue, too peaceful for the thoughts running inside me. A small part of me hopes she’s seeing the same sky. Another part knows she probably isn’t thinking of me right now. And that’s okay. It has to be okay.

Still, the ache remains.

When I reach home, I sit by the window, the letter on my lap. Her handwriting is slightly slanted, soft and neat, the kind of handwriting that makes you feel understood. She wrote about her new classes, her art club, how the town is quieter than ours. She ended the letter with: “Tell me about the stars you see this season.”

I run my thumb over that line again and again.

Sometimes, I think distance isn’t measured by kilometers but by how long it takes to reply.

I pick up a pen and start writing.

“…Spring here is warm. Clearer nights. Orion’s belt is fading as the season moves. I thought you might want to know…”

The pen hesitates. There’s so much more I want to say. Things I’m too afraid to write.

I miss the way you looked at snowflakes.

I miss sitting beside you without needing to fill the silence.

I miss the version of myself that only existed when you were near.

Instead, I write something simple.

“I hope you’re doing well there.”

It feels small. Too small for everything I carry. But it’s all I can manage tonight. I fold the letter gently and set it aside. I’ll send it tomorrow. Maybe.

Leaning back, I close my eyes. The day has tired me more than I expected. Maybe it’s the weight of starting somewhere new. Maybe it’s the weight of realizing she isn’t here to see it.

I imagine her walking through her own school, maybe stopping at a window, maybe sketching the first signs of spring. I don’t know if she still thinks of me the way I think of her. But part of me hopes she’s keeping a small space for me somewhere in her heart, the same way I keep one for her.

When I open my eyes again, the sky outside has shifted to twilight. Soft purples. Fading gold. The kind of sky she used to stare at quietly, as if the colors held secrets.

For a moment, I let myself believe that distance is just another season—that it will pass, that it will change, that maybe one day we’ll meet again at the right time.

But for now, this is my spring.

A spring without her.

A spring that still carries her shadow in every quiet corner of my day.

And all I can do is learn how to walk forward while holding her gently in my memories.