Chapter 32: The Return Home

Kosuke POV

The plane touched down with a soft bump, and the familiar scent of the city hit me almost immediately. I had been away for years, but the air still smelled the same—subtle, warm, carrying a hint of the ocean and the forests that surrounded the town. It was comforting, and yet heavy.

I stepped out of the airport, dragging my suitcase behind me, and for a moment, everything felt smaller. Smaller than I remembered. Shops had changed, or maybe I had grown taller while they stayed the same. The park where I had once thrown stones into the pond seemed emptier, almost lonely. But the warmth of the sun and the scent of the streets made the town feel alive in a way it had always been for me—alive, yet quiet, as if holding its breath.

I didn’t rush to the reunion. I wanted to walk. To feel the town beneath my feet before seeing the faces I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Each street corner brought memories I didn’t know I was carrying. Laughter from long ago echoed faintly behind closed doors. The swing set in the small park creaked under the wind, and for a second, I imagined us sitting there together, joking about nothing at all.

Eventually, I found myself at the school. My old school. The building was slightly different—some walls had been repainted, new signs hung near the entrance—but the shape, the feel, the smell of old wood and faint chalk dust remained the same. I took a deep breath, pushing the door open.

Inside, the hallways smelled faintly of cleaning products and old books. The echo of my footsteps bounced against the walls, a rhythm that made me feel both grounded and anxious at the same time. I moved slowly, letting my fingers brush the handrails, the edges of the lockers, anything I had once leaned on, touched, or rested against. Each object carried a memory I had tried to leave behind, but that refused to be forgotten.

I reached the old staircase—the one near the art wing where we had whispered secrets, where we had tried to carve our small world into the building itself. I leaned against the railing, hands gripping the cold metal, and closed my eyes.

“…Hanami,” I whispered, voice almost swallowed by the echoing hallway. “…Are you happy now?”

No answer came. I hadn’t expected one. I had been practicing this moment for years, imagining it in my head, imagining her voice, imagining the words she might say if we had the courage back then. But standing here, in the quiet of the empty school, the only reply was the soft hum of the building itself, breathing around me.

My heart beat faster than it had in months, as if it knew the reunion wasn’t just about old classmates. It was about her. Always about her. Even now, even after so many years, even after the life she had chosen for herself, she still held this space inside me that no one else could touch.

I leaned back slightly, letting the cold metal of the railing press against my palms, grounding me. I remembered the way she had drawn quietly in the corner of the library, how she had tilted her head, absorbed in every line, every sketch. How I had spoken endlessly about the stars, never realizing then that it was the same stars she would remember later, the same ones that had once connected us in a way neither of us had understood.

A shiver ran down my spine as I straightened up. The quietness pressed against me, but it was also oddly comforting. This was the space I had been avoiding, the town I had been avoiding, the school I had been avoiding—not because I feared the people, but because I feared the feelings, the weight of what had been, what had slipped through my fingers.

I was practicing. Always practicing. Practicing how to face the past without crumbling, without breaking, without letting the years of silence show too much on my face. I had rehearsed this walk through every memory, every street, every corner. And yet, my heart raced as though none of it had prepared me for the reality.

A faint sound made me stiffen—a creak of the door opening at the far end of the hallway. I froze, unsure whether to turn, unsure whether I wanted to see who it was. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Part of me hoped it was someone else, someone I could greet without complication. Part of me… well, part of me secretly prayed it was her.

The door swung open fully, and a figure stepped inside. For a moment, the world seemed suspended—air heavy, light muted, and my breath caught somewhere between memory and anticipation.

I didn’t move immediately. My hands were still resting on the railing, cold and steady, but my chest felt as though it were lifting, dropping, spinning in place all at once.

And in that single moment, I realized that no amount of preparation could have truly readied me for this. No rehearsed words, no careful breathing, no decades of avoidance could have stopped my heart from responding the way it did—rapid, chaotic, alive.

The reunion wasn’t here yet, and still, it had begun.

Because just by walking through this hallway, touching the old railings, whispering a name I hadn’t spoken in years, I had opened a door I wasn’t sure I could close again.

“…Hanami,” I whispered again, almost to myself, almost as if saying it twice would make the courage grow inside me.

The footsteps drew closer. The door settled with a soft click behind her. And I realized the past wasn’t waiting—it was moving toward me.

And I was ready, finally, to meet it.