Chapter 12: The Fading Promise

Hanami’s POV

The evening feels colder than usual.

I’m cleaning my room because my mother told me to “finally organize all those boxes” I brought from our old house. I open one without thinking, expecting notebooks or old textbooks.

But instead, I find them.

Our letters.

My breath catches for a moment. The envelopes are stacked neatly, tied with the same pale ribbon I used months ago. I stare at them like they’re something delicate, something that might crumble if I touch them too quickly.

I sit on the floor and slide the ribbon off.

The first letter is from the winter we met. His handwriting is a little shaky, like he was nervous. He wrote about the snow falling outside the window and how he hoped my day was warm.

I smile before I even realize I’m doing it.

My chest tightens.

I read another. And another.

His words change as time passes—longer thoughts, softer phrasing, small jokes he would only write after he felt closer to me. Some letters smell faintly like winter air. Others carry tiny smudges where he probably pressed too hard with his pen.

Every line feels like a memory I can’t step back into.

By the tenth letter, the warmth in my chest turns into something sharper. A pinch of pain I try to breathe through.

I didn’t forget him.

I never could.

But something between us has thinned. Softened. Stretched in ways I don’t know how to mend.

As I hold his old letters, I realize how much space I keep pretending I don’t see. The distance didn’t appear all at once—it crept in slowly, the way seasons shift without you noticing until the air feels different.

I press one letter to my heart, close my eyes, and sit in the quiet of my room.

I whisper in a voice too soft for anyone to hear,

“I miss you.”

It feels honest.

And it hurts.

But I still don’t write it down.

Not yet.

---

Kosuke’s POV

I’m on the rooftop again.

It’s late, maybe too late for a school night, but the sky is clear and full of the kind of stars I can’t ignore. The air is cool. The city lights dim around the edges. Everything feels quiet in a way that makes my thoughts sharpen.

I lie back on the cold concrete and look up. Orion is barely visible—fading with the season. The shape feels weaker than I remember.

For some reason, that makes my chest ache.

My breath fogs in the air as I let the sky fill my vision. Somewhere deep inside me, I can almost hear her voice again:

“Tell me about the stars tonight.”

She used to say it so softly. Like the sky was a story she was afraid to ask for but hoped I’d share anyway.

I close my eyes.

I can picture her perfectly—sitting beside me, her knees drawn close, her gaze gentle and curious. She would listen quietly, as if constellations were secrets meant only for us.

Now the rooftop feels empty.

I turn my head slightly. If she were here, she’d be sketching the horizon or the glow of the city under the moon. She’d hum softly without realizing it. The thought makes me smile for a moment. Then the smile fades.

I don’t know when the distance began to feel this real.

Maybe when her letters started shrinking.

Maybe when mine did too.

Maybe long before either of us admitted it.

I take a deep breath and look up again.

The stars look so far away tonight.

She does too.

I whisper—quietly, like I’m afraid someone might hear:

“I miss you.”

The words slip into the air, almost fragile. But saying them doesn’t make anything easier. It only sharpens what I already know.

I miss her.

But I don’t tell her.

Not anymore.

Not when I don’t know if it would pull us closer or make the distance heavier.

The wind brushes past me, cold and soft. I close my eyes again and let myself feel everything—every small ache, every memory, every warm moment that now feels like it belongs to another season.

Part of me wonders if she’s feeling the same thing tonight.

If she’s remembering me the way I’m remembering her.

If she’s afraid to write the truth the same way I am.

For a moment, I want to grab a pen and write everything honestly.

I want to tell her how the world feels different without her.

How even the stars look lonely sometimes.

But I don’t move.

I stay lying there, staring into the night sky.

Because wanting something isn’t the same as reaching for it.

And I don’t know how far she’s drifted.

---

Hanami’s POV

I sit with the letters in my lap until the light in my room turns soft and dim. My fingers brush the edges of the envelopes as if touching them might bring him closer.

I should write him back.

I should tell him everything I’m feeling.

But I can’t.

Not when I’m scared he might have changed more than I’m ready for.

I place the letters back in the box. But before closing it, I whisper the same words again, quietly enough that they feel safe:

“I miss you.”

---

Kosuke’s POV

I sit up on the rooftop, breathe in the cool night, and whisper one last time:

“I miss you.”

Then I let the words fade.

We both speak the same truth into the same night.

But neither of us writes it down.

And the promise between us—once bright and warm—grows softer, like a fading constellation losing its shape.