Chapter 30: Hanami and the Life I Chose

Hanami POV

I spend most Sunday afternoons the same way—folding laundry on the living-room floor with sunlight falling in from the balcony window. It’s a simple routine, but lately it feels heavier than it should, like the minutes stretch longer in this house than anywhere else.

My husband is upstairs, finishing some documents for work. He’s always been diligent. The type who reviews files three times before finalizing anything. Sometimes he hums without noticing, a short tune that repeats itself. I’ve never told him, but it calms me. It makes the silence feel less empty.

He’s a good man. Everyone says it—my parents, his colleagues, even neighbors who barely know us. They praise him for being responsible, kind, patient. They say I’m lucky.

I nod and smile because that’s what a good daughter does. And because none of them are wrong.

But goodness and happiness aren’t always the same thing.

I smooth a shirt across my knees, pressing out the creases with my palms. My movements are steady, but my mind wanders the way it often does when the house is quiet. I think about work tomorrow, the errands I forgot to run, the groceries we need.

And somewhere in that drifting space, I think about him.

Kosuke.

Only for a moment. Just a brief flicker. But the moment still hurts.

I shake it off and reach for another shirt. I fold it neatly, stack it on top of the others. I tell myself it’s just nostalgia. Everyone has a past. Everyone has someone they once cared about too much.

It’s normal.

At least, that’s what I repeat to myself.

My phone buzzes and I glance at it without much interest. Probably some coupon notification or a reminder about bills. But it’s not. The screen shows a message from a group chat I don’t recognize.

“Takumi created a group: 3-A Reunion – After 13 Years!”

For a second, I forget to breathe.

I stare at the name list appearing one by one. Old classmates. Familiar icons. People who once filled my world with easy noise and laughter.

I know exactly who will be added next.

I grip the phone a little too tight. My chest feels heavy, like someone is pushing down gently but firmly.

I don’t want to see his name. I don’t want to check if he joined. I don’t want to know if he’s still the same or if he’s changed in all the ways I imagined.

Before the list finishes updating, I tap the screen and swipe the notification away. My thumb trembles slightly, and I hate that it does.

I delete the group invitation without opening it.

My hand stays frozen for a while after that. It’s strange how something so small can unravel years I spent trying to keep myself steady. I look at the folded shirts in front of me. They’re perfect. Clean lines, sharp corners, stacked like I’ve been taught.

But my chest feels messy.

I take a slow breath and remind myself that I chose this life. No one forced me. My parents guided me, yes. They encouraged me, pushed a little when I hesitated. But in the end, I said yes on my own.

I married a man who treats me with respect. I moved into a house that feels safe. I follow routines that make sense.

I should be content.

Yet there are days—quiet days like this—when it feels like I’m living someone else’s life, wearing someone else’s shoes, walking a road built for a version of me that never actually existed.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s just a calendar reminder. A dinner next week with my in-laws. I dismiss it.

I try to finish folding the laundry, but my hands have lost their rhythm. My fingers brush over the fabric again and again, smoothing where there’s nothing left to smooth. I stop trying and just sit there, listening to the faint hum from upstairs.

I think back to the girl I used to be.

I remember the small library where I met him. The letters we wrote. The sketches I sent. The winter train station. The snow drifting between our hands.

And then I remember the distance. The silence that lasted months… then years. And the choices made in those spaces.

My parents worrying. Me pretending. Him fading from my daily life until he became a quiet ache instead of a person.

Seven years.

Seven whole years.

I wonder if he still keeps the stars he used to talk about so softly. I wonder if he still walks too fast on cold days. I wonder if he still looks at the first snow of winter before anyone else notices it’s falling.

I catch myself thinking too much and force my eyes shut.

This is why I deleted the message.

Some doors should stay closed. Some memories should stay folded away like old letters in a box you’re afraid to open.

I hear footsteps from upstairs. My husband is coming down. I straighten my back and focus on the laundry again.

When he steps into the room, he gives me a small smile, tired but warm. I return it. It feels natural, practiced, almost automatic.

“Do you need help?” he asks gently.

“I’m almost done,” I say. My voice sounds normal. Normal is safe.

He sits beside me anyway and starts folding the last few shirts. His movements are steadier than mine. I watch him for a moment—not because I’m comparing him to anyone else, but because life is complicated in ways people never teach you.

He looks over and gives me another soft smile.

And all I can do is smile back.

Because this is the life I chose.

Even if, somewhere deep inside, a small part of me is still holding onto winter.