Chapter 20: The Storm in Hanami’s House

Hanami POV

The wind rattled the windows of our house, carrying a hint of rain and the scent of the city streets below. I sat on the edge of my bed, sketchbook in my lap, pencil hovering over a blank page. The lines I wanted to draw didn’t come. My mind was elsewhere, replaying a memory I had tucked away, one I hadn’t allowed myself to visit in years.

Kosuke.

I hadn’t heard his voice in seven years. Not a single message from him, not a single reply. And yet, every day, some small part of me remembered. His quiet patience, the way he would watch the stars with me without saying much, how he made even the simplest moments feel infinite.

But tonight, I didn’t have time to think about memories. Tonight, my parents decided.

“Hanami,” my father said, his voice calm but unyielding, “it’s time we discussed your future. Your engagement. You’re old enough, and everything has been planned. There’s no reason to delay.”

I froze, pencil dropping to the page. My mother watched quietly, her hands folded over her lap, giving me that soft, apologetic look she always reserved for moments she knew she couldn’t protect me from.

“I… I’m not ready,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “I haven’t even finished school yet. I… I don’t—”

“You’re not ready?” my father interrupted, standing now, his shadow falling across the floor. “Hanami, life doesn’t wait for anyone. Plans have been made. This marriage isn’t about what you feel—it’s about what’s best for you and our family. You will not disobey.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. I wanted to protest, to scream, to say that my heart belonged somewhere else, to someone else. But I couldn’t. Not really. Not in a way that would change anything.

Kosuke. I thought of him, lying somewhere, possibly alone, possibly sending messages I could never answer. My chest tightened at the thought. If only I could reach out, if only I could tell him I was still here, still thinking of him. But I couldn’t. Seven years had built a wall too tall, too heavy. And now, my parents were building another, one I could not climb.

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I wanted to hide them, to be strong, to do the thing they expected of me. But I also wanted to be brave for myself, to make my own choices.

“I… I can’t,” I whispered again. My voice was barely audible over the soft hum of the ceiling fan.

My father’s expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of hesitation, but it didn’t last. “Hanami, this isn’t about what you want. It’s about what must happen. You will comply.”

My mother reached for my hand. “Honey, I know it’s hard. I know your heart wants freedom, wants… someone else. But we cannot let you go unprepared. Please, understand.”

I nodded silently, tears spilling onto my lap, soaking the edge of my sketchbook. I felt as if the world had collapsed around me, leaving nothing but walls of duty and expectation. The sketches I had wanted to draw—the ones that carried my soul, my love, my memories—sat blank before me, a mirror of the emptiness I felt.

I wanted to cry out to Kosuke, to tell him that despite everything, I was still here, still waiting, still unable to move on. But I knew the message would never reach him. Seven years of silence had already spoken, louder than any words could.

I folded my hands over my lap, pressing the tears back into my chest. I would comply. I had no choice. But inside, a quiet part of me—the part that had always belonged to him—stayed frozen in the snow of our shared memories.

I looked at the wall, at the faint shadow of sunlight fading across it. It felt like the last light of a day that would never return. I traced it with my eyes, imagining Kosuke there, lying on the floor of his room somewhere, holding his phone over his chest, sending messages he would never answer.

We were both trapped in our own worlds, separate but tethered by a thread that neither of us could cut, nor reach across.

And as my parents continued speaking about arrangements, dates, futures I did not want, I closed my eyes and whispered his name.

Kosuke…

The word was a prayer, a confession, a memory. It would have to last me for years, like the quiet ache I had carried since the day we parted.

I didn’t know if he would ever read it. I didn’t know if he even remembered me in the way I remembered him. All I knew was that my heart would never stop waiting, and my hands would never stop longing to sketch the life we could have had.

Seven years of silence. Seven years of waiting. And now, as the storm of my parents’ plans raged outside, I realized that the storm inside me would never settle.