Chapter 16: The Last Letter of Spring

The letter arrived on a warm afternoon at the end of spring. The air smelled like wet soil after a light rain, and the sky had that hazy brightness that made everything look softer than it really was.

When I opened my mailbox, I wasn’t expecting anything. Lately, Hanami and I had slipped into a strange rhythm—letters that came spaced out like slow breaths, messages that said little but hinted at everything we weren’t saying aloud.

But there it was.

A familiar handwriting on a soft cream envelope.

Hanami Fuyama.

My chest tightened, not painfully, just enough to make me pause. I held the envelope like it might crumble if I touched it too carelessly.

Inside my room, I sat at my desk and opened it with slow fingers.

Her letter unfolded like something precious.

---

Kosuke,

I don’t know why this spring feels heavier than the others. Maybe because I’m changing faster than I expected. Maybe because the world is moving and I’m trying to keep up with it.

But I wanted to write you properly, at least once more, before everything gets too busy again.

Thank you for all the things you’ve told me. About stars, about your new club, about the little things you notice every day. It means more than you think.

I’m doing fine here. Really. My art exhibition is coming up, and I want to do my best. Aira has been helping me a lot. I’m grateful.

I hope you’re doing well too. I hope spring is gentle where you are.

Take care, Kosuke.

—Hanami

---

It wasn’t a goodbye.

But it felt like one.

Or maybe it felt like something even more delicate—like she was placing a bookmark between us, as if saying, Let’s pause here. Not end. Not forget. Just… breathe.

The wording was simple. Polite. Careful. So careful it made my heart ache.

There were no sketches in the envelope this time. No little doodles of clouds or leaves or snowy rooftops. No unfinished lines waiting for me to interpret.

Just her words.

And in those words, I felt the distance between us more clearly than ever.

I read the letter again. Then again, even slower. My eyes lingered on every curve of her handwriting, every soft phrase. It wasn’t long, but somehow it felt full—like she crammed an entire season’s worth of unspoken feelings into a few paragraphs.

She said she was fine.

I wanted to believe it.

I hoped she believed it too.

Outside my window, the last of the spring light faded. The wind pushed a field of petals across the road, carrying them like tiny paper boats drifting out to sea.

I rested my forehead against my hands.

A part of me wanted to write back everything I felt. How I missed the way she spoke about color and light. How I still thought of her whenever snow or stars or quiet corners appeared in my day. How I wanted to call her but couldn’t. How I feared losing her. How, even now, she was still the first person I thought of when something beautiful happened.

But writing all that felt impossible.

It felt like pulling a fragile string too tight and risking it snapping completely.

So instead, I reached for my pen and stared at the empty page for a long time. I kept thinking about what she didn’t say in her letter—what she might be feeling, what she might be trying to gently step away from.

Eventually, my hand began to move.

---

Hanami,

Thank you for your letter. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. I hope your exhibition goes smoothly. You’ve always worked hard, so I know it’ll turn out amazing.

Spring has been warm here too. It feels different from last year, but I’m trying to keep up with everything.

I’ll be cheering for you from here. Take care of yourself.

—Kosuke

---

The words looked too small on the page. Too safe. Too distant.

But they were all I could manage.

Anything more might have pulled us closer in a way she wasn’t ready for.

Anything less might have made it seem like I didn’t care.

So I folded the letter carefully, placed it in an envelope, and wrote her name with handwriting that felt steadier than I actually was.

Hanami Fuyama.

When I dropped it into the mailbox, the soft metallic echo sounded final.

Not an ending.

Not a beginning.

Just that in-between space where people drift, trying to hold onto something without hurting the other person or themselves.

That night, lying in bed, I replayed her words in my head.

Thank you.

I’m doing fine.

I hope spring is gentle where you are.

Even those simple sentences felt like small bridges being lifted, one plank at a time. Not destroyed. Not burned. Just… raised.

So we could both keep walking on our own paths.

Spring slipped into summer quietly after that. And her letter stayed on my desk, unopened again but never hidden.

A reminder of someone who changed my winters and my skies.

Someone I still cared for.

Someone whose absence I was slowly learning to live with.

The last letter of spring.

A pause.

A breath.

A soft ache that would stay with me long after the blossoms had fallen.