Chapter 10: The Letters That Slow Down

Hanami’s POV

The weeks after moving feel like being tossed into a river that never stops flowing. I keep telling myself I’ll get used to it, that the rush of new schedules and new faces will settle eventually. But every morning when I wake up, the ceiling above me still feels strange, like I’m staying in a room borrowed from someone else’s life.

I try to stay busy. That’s what people say you should do when you’re adjusting to something new.

So I join the art club.

I help with class decorations.

I study harder than I need to.

I laugh when others laugh, even if I don’t feel fully present.

My days fill up quickly. Faster than I expect. And somewhere in all of that movement, I realize I haven’t written to Kosuke in a while.

I notice it one night when I open my drawer and see all the envelopes stacked inside—his letters, neatly tied with a thin ribbon. I haven’t opened the drawer in days. That thought alone makes my chest tighten.

I take out the envelope on top. It’s the one with his handwriting from early winter. He wrote about the constellations he saw that night, how the sky was clear and cold and perfect for stargazing. I trace the lines of his words with my fingertip.

For a moment, guilt pricks at me.

Not because I forgot him.

But because my days are so noisy now that the quiet space I carried for him is harder to find.

I set the letter down and pull out a blank sheet of paper. I want to write something warm, something real. But my pen hesitates above the page.

What do I even say?

My new town is fine.

My new school is fine.

Everyone is kind.

But none of it feels like a place I belong yet.

And none of it feels like something I can explain without sounding like I’m complaining.

I don’t want him to worry.

I don’t want to sound lonely.

So I write about small things.

“Today our art teacher brought in flowers for us to sketch.”

“I’ve been trying watercolor lately.”

“There’s a hill behind the school that looks pretty in the afternoon.”

The words feel thin.

Like I’m writing around the truth, afraid of touching it.

I want to write:

“I miss the library windows we used to sit beside.”

“I miss the way your voice sounds when you talk about stars.”

“I miss you.”

But the pen refuses to move that way.

When I finish, the letter is shorter than all the ones I sent before. I fold it carefully and place it on my desk. I’ll send it tomorrow, I tell myself. But the next morning, I forget to take it with me. And the day after. And the day after that.

Life keeps pulling me along.

During lunch, my new classmates invite me to sit with them under the courtyard tree. They ask about my hobbies, my old school, the town I came from. I smile and answer politely. But every time someone asks if I made close friends back home, my heart flinches.

I want to say his name.

Kosuke.

But I don’t.

His name feels too precious to place into conversations that drift away too easily.

After school, the art club feels a little calmer. I sit by the window with my sketchbook, watching the light spread across the floor. My pencil moves almost on its own, drawing familiar shapes—snowflakes, a shadowed library window, the curve of a boy’s profile when he’s lost in thought.

When I realize I’m drawing him again, I close the sketchbook quickly.

I’m not supposed to be stuck in yesterday.

I’m supposed to be adjusting.

Moving forward.

That’s what everyone expects of me.

A few days pass before I finally send the letter. When I drop it into the mailbox, I feel a strange mix of relief and fear. I tell myself he’ll reply soon. He always does.

But a week goes by.

Then another.

Still nothing.

At first, I think maybe the mail is slow. Then I think maybe he’s busy with his new school. Then I think he simply doesn’t know what to say anymore.

I sit on my bed with the window open, letting the spring air drift in. My room feels too quiet tonight, quieter than I can bear. I pick up my pillow and hug it to my chest.

Maybe he’s the one drifting.

Maybe distance changed him faster than it changed me.

Maybe I’m the only one still holding onto what we were.

The thought stings sharply, and I shake my head, trying to push it away.

But the silence grows heavier.

On the night his reply finally arrives, I sit for a long time staring at the envelope before opening it. His handwriting is the same—gentle, neat, a little careful.

He writes about the stars.

The changing seasons.

School being busy.

And then at the end:

“I hope you’re doing well.”

Simple words.

Kind words.

But something in them feels… softer. More distant.

Like he’s trying not to lean on me too much.

Like he doesn’t want to make the space between us hurt.

I fold the letter and press it against my chest. For a moment, it feels like I’m holding a voice that’s slipping away.

I lie down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts are quiet but heavy. We’re both writing less now. We’re both hesitating. We’re both trying not to disturb the other.

And somehow, in our attempt not to hurt each other, we’re walking the same slow path apart.

Maybe he thinks I’m drifting.

Maybe I think he is.

But the truth is simpler and sadder:

We’re mirroring the same loneliness.

And neither of us knows how to reach across it.