Chapter 31: The Reunion Approaches

Kosuke’s POV

The days in Okinawa passed faster than I expected. The project had a rhythm—meetings in the morning, field work in the afternoon, quiet walks along the shore in the evening. And yet, my mind wasn’t really in the work. It kept drifting somewhere else, somewhere older, quieter, and far more complicated.

My phone buzzed again one evening. I resisted the urge to check it. The group chat notifications for the reunion had begun flooding in. Classmates posting old photos, screenshots of jokes we made thirteen years ago, messages filled with laughter I hadn’t heard in over a decade.

I scrolled briefly, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, then stopped. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. Every name, every image, carried the weight of memories I wasn’t sure I wanted to confront.

Why does this feel like walking toward something heavy? I wondered, staring out at the darkening horizon. The ocean stretched endlessly before me, calm and vast, yet my chest felt tight, as if each wave carried a little more of the past than I could bear.

Airi noticed. She always noticed.

“Sensei,” she said one evening as we walked back from the shore. The breeze tugged her hair lightly, but her gaze was sharp, concerned. “You seem… distant. Are you okay?”

I wanted to give her a simple answer. “I’m fine,” I said, the words falling flat in the humid air. Then I added, “Just tired.”

And that was true. In part. I was tired—tired of remembering, tired of pretending that years could erase the weight of one person’s absence. But I didn’t tell her that. I couldn’t.

Not to anyone.

Every time the conversation shifted toward the reunion, I felt my stomach tighten. The thought of returning home, of walking the streets I’d once known as a boy, of seeing faces frozen in photographs that I hadn’t smiled for in years… it was almost unbearable.

Hanami.

The name lingered uninvited in my mind. I hadn’t thought it aloud in years, but it refused to stay silent. I imagined her, poised and composed as always, tucked into her life somewhere far away from mine. Would she be there at the reunion? Would I even recognize her? Would she recognize me? Or had time made us strangers, capable only of polite nods and distant smiles?

I had spent so many years trying to forget. Not because I wanted to, but because remembering hurt too much. Now, the past wasn’t just calling—it was walking toward me, and I wasn’t sure I had the courage to meet it.

Airi walked a step closer, breaking my thoughts. “You’ve been quieter than usual,” she said softly. “You don’t have to talk about it, but…” She trailed off, giving me space. Her silence carried its own understanding.

I nodded, forcing a small smile. “I said I’m tired,” I murmured. It was true, in a way. Tired of running from myself. Tired of pretending everything was fine. Tired of the ache that refused to fade.

The project continued, but I moved through it like a ghost. Notes were taken mechanically. Equipment was checked with practiced motions. I answered questions politely. The students didn’t notice, thankfully. The sea, the wind, the endless blue—it all felt slightly unreal, like it existed outside my own world, and I was only passing through.

At night, alone in my room, I tried to prepare myself. I replayed conversations in my head. I rehearsed polite greetings, short smiles, careful words. But no rehearsal could quiet the fear in my chest—the fear of seeing her face and realizing that the person I had carried in my mind for so long might not even exist in her anymore.

Seven years.

That was how long it had been. Seven years of silence, letters never sent, messages that never replied. Seven years of imagining what she might think, what she might feel. And now, she could be just a few rooms away—or not at all.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of indecision settle into my shoulders. It was ridiculous. Everyone else was excited, laughing at old memories, reconnecting with friends they had lost touch with. And I… I felt like I was carrying a leaden backpack, filled with moments that couldn’t be unpacked without spilling grief I had buried long ago.

Airi knocked lightly on the door, startling me. “Sensei?” she asked again. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I said immediately. “Just… thinking.”

She gave me a knowing look and smiled faintly. “I get it. Big changes coming.”

I didn’t correct her. Not yet.

Because the truth was simpler than she could know: I wasn’t worried about change. I was afraid. Afraid of the past, afraid of facing what I had loved and lost, afraid of the person I had become while the world moved forward around me.

And yet, despite the fear, there was a tiny spark of something else. Curiosity, maybe. The thought that perhaps I could face it, that perhaps seeing them, seeing her, wouldn’t be the same as reliving every heartbreak.

But the fear was stronger.

So I said nothing.

I walked back down to the shore alone that night, letting the ocean and the breeze carry my restless thoughts. Waves lapped at the sand, indifferent to my worry, indifferent to the years of distance and silence.

I stared at the horizon, letting the sky darken and the stars appear one by one. Somewhere far away, I imagined she might be looking at the same sky. And I wondered, quietly, if she ever thought of me like I thought of her.

The reunion was coming. And I was walking toward it, one hesitant, heavy step at a time.

Because no matter how much I wanted to run, some things in life demand you face them. And this—whatever awaited me there—was one of them.