Chapter 27: The Project in Okinawa

When the department chair handed me the project proposal, I thought it would be like any other assignment—busy, straightforward, something to fill my weeks with structure. But then he mentioned the location.

“Okinawa,” he said. “You’ll lead the field team.”

For a moment, the word didn’t register. I stared at the papers in my hands, the printed itinerary, the list of students. It felt distant, like I was reading someone else’s schedule.

Okinawa.

A place I had once talked about only in light dreams. A place I’d imagined visiting with someone who wasn’t in my life anymore.

Before I could think too deeply about it, he added, “Your junior will join you. She insisted, actually.”

Of course she did.

Sakurai Mio had been my junior in college, and later, when we both joined the faculty, she naturally became part of my projects. She was bright, quick to smile, and too earnest for her own good. Students loved her. I respected her. She looked up to me far more than I deserved.

The day we departed, she stood beside me at the airport, carrying more excitement than luggage.

“Sensei, can you believe we’re actually going?” she said. “I’ve wanted to see Okinawa my whole life.”

I managed a smile. “You’ll like it. The pace is slower.”

“Then it’s perfect for you,” she teased lightly.

I didn’t correct her. When we boarded the plane, I watched the clouds outside the window and tried not to think about what this place used to mean in my imagination.

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The moment we stepped off the plane, the warm air wrapped around me like a soft blanket. Okinawa’s heat wasn’t harsh—it was gentle, almost comforting, the kind that settled into your skin. The sky stretched openly, bluer than anything I’d seen in years.

Mio inhaled deeply. “It smells like the ocean. Isn’t it amazing?”

“It is,” I admitted.

We reached the lodging the university arranged. A small inn near the beach, quiet and simple. Students rushed to claim rooms, chattering about what they wanted to see first. Mio took notes about the schedule, her brow slightly furrowed as she matched times with tasks.

“I’ll handle the attendance lists,” she said. “You should rest, Sensei.”

“I’m fine. Let’s check the equipment instead.”

She laughed softly. “You never take breaks, do you?”

Her voice was light, but something in the air tugged at me in a way I couldn’t describe. Maybe it was the warmth. Maybe it was the sound of waves just beyond the inn. Maybe it was the fact that for the first time in years, I wasn’t surrounded by concrete walls or lecture halls.

After the equipment check, I stepped outside, letting the others settle in. The beach was only a few minutes away. The sand was pale, almost white, and the water was so clear I could see the shadows of rocks beneath the surface.

The ocean moved lazily, waves small and steady.

I walked closer until the water brushed my shoes.

And then, without warning, the ache came.

Soft at first. Then deeper.

I remembered a conversation from what felt like another lifetime.

“If we ever get the chance,” she had said, “let’s go to Okinawa together someday. I want to sketch the sea there.”

I had laughed.

“Only if you let me sit beside you while you draw.”

She smiled—one of those small, warm smiles that made the world slip into place.

Now I was here.

Alone.

No sketchbook in sight.

A gull cried in the distance. The sound snapped me back. I exhaled, pressing my fingers against my temple.

“Sensei?”

I turned. Mio stood a few steps behind me, pushing her hair back as the breeze brushed it across her face.

“You walked off without telling anyone,” she said gently. “I thought something happened.”

“Nothing happened.” My voice came out softer than I intended. “I just needed some air.”

She joined me at the water’s edge, her expression curious but respectful. Mio never pushed. She never pried. She only stood beside me, waiting for whatever I was willing to say.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

“No.”

“But… you look like someone who’s remembering something.”

She was observant—too observant, sometimes.

I looked out at the sea again. “Not this place. Just… an old thought.”

She nodded as if she understood. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. But she didn’t ask for more.

“Everyone’s heading to the market after dinner,” she said. “You should come too.”

“I’ll try.”

“You always say that,” she said with a small, playful sigh. “It usually means you won’t.”

“A habit,” I admitted.

“Well… you’re allowed to change habits,” she said quietly.

Something about her tone made me glance at her. For a moment, the fading light hit her face just right—warm, soft, honest. She wasn’t Hanami. She would never be Hanami. But there was a sincerity in her presence that eased the tightness in my chest.

Before I could respond, she smiled again. “I’ll save you a spot if you decide to come.”

Then she walked back to the inn, leaving me with the sea.

I stayed there until the horizon blurred into evening. The ocean kept moving. The air stayed warm. Everything around me felt strangely peaceful, like the world was inviting me to let something go.

But letting go isn’t as simple as stepping into a new place.

Some memories cling to you like sand in your shoes—easy to brush off, but somehow they remain, hidden in the seams.

I looked down at my hand.

A small wave washed over my shoe again.

The breeze shifted.

And all I could think was:

We were supposed to see this together.

The ache came back—but quieter this time.

Okinawa was beautiful.

Just not in the way I once imagined.

I turned toward the inn as night settled over the sea. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for what this trip would bring. But for now, at least, the quiet felt different.

A different kind of quiet.