Chapter 18: New Faces, Old Shadows

The first week of fall semester felt heavier than usual. The sunlight had a sharp edge to it, cutting across the campus, lighting up students’ faces in a way that made me realize how long I’d been standing in the shadows of my own life. Seven years. Seven years of pretending that I was moving forward, of pretending that the world didn’t ache in the corners I carried inside me.

It was in the literature club that I met her—Mio. A junior, warm and energetic, who seemed to notice the parts of me I tried so hard to hide. She had a laugh that spilled out without hesitation, and eyes that were curious, kind, and fearless. She asked questions, sometimes ones that I didn’t want to answer, but I couldn’t stop myself from trying anyway.

“Kosuke-senpai,” she said one day after our meeting, “why do you always sit alone? You’re funny, you notice things others don’t. You should laugh more.”

I had shrugged, pretending I didn’t care, but inside, her words stirred something uncomfortable. Something I hadn’t felt in years. The part of me that remembered warmth, laughter, and a different kind of closeness.

It wasn’t Hanami—how could it be? Hanami’s presence was a constant echo in my heart—but it reminded me that maybe I could feel something again. Or at least, I thought I could.

Over the next few weeks, Mio made it her mission to break the silence around me. She walked with me after meetings, stayed behind to help organize club materials, and even dragged me into casual conversations with other students. Each smile, each small gesture, reminded me that people could care about you, even if your heart still belonged somewhere else.

And yet, every time I laughed at something she said, every time I found myself genuinely smiling, I felt a stab of guilt.

Because my heart… it wasn’t mine to give. Not anymore. Not fully.

I caught myself thinking about Hanami more than once during our walks. Her sketches, the quiet snow-filled winters, the way she listened when I talked about stars. Mio didn’t know. She couldn’t know. And I wasn’t ready to tell her.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments of our shared study sessions, I would stare at her face and feel a strange ache—a reminder that even though she was here, present, alive, she could never fill the void Hanami had left.

I wondered if Hanami remembered me at all. If she ever thought of me the way I did of her. Every time my phone vibrated, a small hope flickered that maybe, after seven years, she might finally reach out. But every time, it was someone else, some mundane notification, and the hope died almost immediately.

I hated myself for feeling this way. I hated that I couldn’t open myself to Mio, that I couldn’t stop thinking about a girl who had long since moved away—or so I assumed. But my heart was a stubborn thing. It refused to bend, refused to forget, refused to heal.

One afternoon, Mio caught me staring out of the library window. The sunlight bounced off the glass, highlighting petals clinging to the autumn trees.

“You’re thinking about someone else again, aren’t you?” she asked gently, half-teasing, half-serious.

I looked down at my hands, clutching my pen too tightly. “Maybe,” I admitted softly.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Every day,” I said. The words felt heavy, more honest than I’d intended.

She nodded, her eyes calm and understanding. “I can’t fix that,” she said, “but I can be here, if you want me to be.”

And I wanted to. I wanted to lean on her, to let someone care about me, to let someone hear the unspoken. But the part of me that belonged to Hanami wouldn’t allow it. Seven years of silence had anchored me in a place I couldn’t leave, no matter how much warmth reached out to me.

I left the library that day feeling both comforted and hollow. The world around me was alive, vibrant, moving forward. And yet, inside, I felt frozen in time, caught between what I could have and what I never truly let go of.

Seven years of distance, seven years of quiet, seven years of a heart that couldn’t fully choose.

And somewhere far away, I knew Hanami carried her own weight of silence, unaware that we were both still tethered by the same invisible thread.

The shadows of the past are long. The warmth of the present is fleeting. And I am trapped between them, learning once again that some people leave marks that not even time can erase.