Chapter 21: Kosuke’s Midnight Message

The dorm was quiet. Outside, the city hummed faintly, a distant chorus of cars, neon lights, and the occasional late-night laughter of students walking home. I lay on the floor of my small room, back pressed to the cold tiles, phone clutched in my hand.

Seven years. Seven years without a word. Seven years where every small hope I nurtured quietly died before it could grow. I had tried to move on, to laugh, to let life seep back into me, but nothing reached my heart the way she did. Nothing filled the hollow space that had belonged to Hanami for longer than I cared to admit.

Tonight, I thought about sending her a message. Not a confession—not that I was brave enough—but something. Something small. Something that might remind her that I was still here, still breathing, still thinking of her.

I stared at the screen. Her name blinked back at me from my contacts, familiar and achingly distant. I had her number memorized, but I had never called. I had never texted. Not really. Every draft I wrote stayed in the unsent folder, words rewritten a hundred times, erased, rewritten again.

“Are you doing okay?”

Simple. Safe. But even that seemed like too much. What if she didn’t want to hear from me? What if the life she had built over the years was already full, already moving forward without me?

I typed the words anyway, my fingers shaking, eyes burning with the weight of years I could not undo.

“Are you… okay? I hope you are. I’m… still here.”

I stared at the message for what felt like hours, debating whether to press send. My chest tightened with each passing second. I wanted to say more, to fill the gaps of seven years of silence with words, but I didn’t have them. Words could not capture the ache, the longing, the regrets that lived in every corner of my heart.

I pressed send.

And then… nothing.

The screen lit up for a moment, showing the tiny confirmation that it had been delivered. But I knew she wouldn’t reply. I knew it because I had learned, over the years, that some things could not be mended. Some people could not reach each other again, no matter how much they tried.

I lay back on the floor, phone still in my hand, staring at the ceiling. The cold pressed into my spine, grounding me in a reality I could not escape. Seven years of waiting had become a habit, a rhythm of my life. And now, even with the message sent, the rhythm remained unbroken.

I imagined her reading it, pausing, heart fluttering, hand trembling. And then, somewhere in her world, deciding not to reply. Maybe she was busy. Maybe she was scared. Maybe she had forgotten—or had to forget. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I only knew the hollow ache that followed the act of sending it, the weight of reaching out and being met with silence.

I closed my eyes, letting memories wash over me. The first snowfall we shared. The quiet library where we met. The letters, carefully folded, exchanged with trembling hands. The laughter, the shared dreams, the unspoken promises. All of it, gone into the distance, carried by wind and time.

And yet… I couldn’t stop thinking of her. Seven years of silence had not diminished her in my heart. They had not softened the edges, not erased the warmth. Every star I saw at night, every sketch I glimpsed in memory, reminded me that she had been, and would always be, the one I could not forget.

I pressed the phone against my chest, feeling the weight of it, feeling the impossibility of reaching across years and distance. I whispered her name, a fragile prayer in the dark.

Hanami…

No reply came. Would it ever? I didn’t know. Maybe the world had moved on without us. Maybe she had no choice but to live a life that didn’t include me. And yet, despite the ache, I could not regret sending it. For the first time in years, I had tried. I had crossed a boundary I had been too afraid to approach. I had sent a thread of myself into the void, hoping it might touch her heart, even if it never returned.

I lay there long into the night, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cold, feeling the emptiness, feeling the faint echo of the girl I loved. Seven years of silence, seven years of waiting, and a single message that would remain unanswered.

And still… I remained here, alive in the quiet ache, tethered to a memory, to a ghost, to the girl who had captured my heart and never let it go.

Some things cannot be repaired. Some messages cannot be answered. Some hearts cannot move on.

I didn’t know if I would ever hear from her again. I didn’t know if she would ever write back. But I knew one thing: I was still hers. Seven years, one message, and a lifetime of memories couldn’t change that.

And in the silent night, that truth was both my curse and my solace.