Chapter 34: The Reunion Begins

Kosuke POV 

The school gym smelled the same as it did when I was a student—faintly of polished wood, old paint, and a hint of chalk dust that had clung to the walls for decades. The room was decorated with banners announcing the reunion, but the air felt less like celebration and more like a corridor of memories, stretching backward through time.

I stepped inside, adjusting my jacket and keeping my eyes forward. Laughter bubbled around me, casual and warm, the kind of laughter that only comes when people remember simpler days and have the freedom to enjoy them again. Faces I had not seen in years turned toward me, smiles breaking out instantly. Some I remembered clearly, others only vaguely, yet every gesture carried that familiar ease of shared history.

I offered polite smiles in return, nodding, shaking hands, muttering names I tried to recall accurately. People looked older, softer, more tired, but also more genuine. There was a warmth in their presence, a kind of comfort I hadn’t realized I’d missed. I felt myself relax slightly, as if the years of distance, of responsibility, of solitude, were easing for the first time in decades.

And yet, despite the warmth, there was a hollow spot that nothing could fill.

I tried not to think about who might walk through the door. I tried not to imagine her face, the way it might have changed, the way it might remain exactly as I remembered. But the thought lingered, stubborn and persistent, like a quiet voice whispering my name in the background.

Takumi caught my eye from across the room. He had always been perceptive, the kind of friend who noticed things you didn’t say aloud. His brow lifted slightly, an unspoken question in his gaze. I smiled faintly, but my chest felt tight. He didn’t push. He didn’t need to. He knew.

People came up to me, asking about work, my life in Okinawa, my travels. I answered politely, giving measured responses. Students, teachers, friends from the past—I gave them enough warmth to be civil, enough distance to remain untouched by emotion. But inside, I felt like I was standing on a thin ice sheet, waiting for a crack.

There were small moments that caught me off guard. A photo someone handed me—a picture from a festival years ago. A joke I remembered telling. A nickname I hadn’t heard in a decade. Each one pulled a memory from the shelf, dusting it off, making it tangible again.

And yet, still, she was not there.

I moved toward the refreshment table, picking up a glass of tea I didn’t really want. I scanned the room, trying not to hope, trying not to look for the one person I had spent years imagining in this exact moment. But I couldn’t stop. The corners of the gym, the path leading from the door—everywhere I looked, I half-expected her to step into the light, to walk past the crowd as if nothing had changed.

Takumi sidled up to me quietly. “You’re tense,” he said, voice low. “I can see it. You’ve been holding this in for years, haven’t you?”

I nodded, though I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. The tension wasn’t something words could untangle. It wasn’t about the reunion, the people, or even the memories. It was about her. Always about her.

A group of former classmates pulled me into a circle, asking for stories, updates. I smiled, laughed politely, and shared small anecdotes. Every chuckle felt hollow compared to the expectation building quietly in the back of my mind.

I realized, as I sipped my tea, that everyone was here, everyone had grown and moved forward in ways I could see, touch, even interact with. And yet, something vital was missing—the thread of the past I had carried alone for years.

My pulse quickened, subtle but insistent, as the thought crept in again: she could walk through that door at any moment. And if she did, all the careful control I had built over the past decade would shatter.

I imagined her hesitation, the way she would scan the room before deciding whether to approach. I imagined the weight she carried, the same careful restraint that I had practiced for years. And I realized that no preparation, no rehearsed greeting, no careful mask, could protect me from what that moment would feel like.

A laugh nearby snapped me back. Someone bumped into me, apologizing with a warm smile. I nodded, forcing myself to stay present. Yet I couldn’t stop my eyes from sweeping the gym again, scanning the crowd, waiting.

The reunion had begun. Laughter and warmth surrounded me. Old friends shared stories, photos, and memories. And yet, as much as I tried to immerse myself in the present, my mind kept returning to that hollow space inside me, the one only she could fill.

Because for all the years, all the distance, all the routines we built, there was one truth I could not deny: nothing else mattered quite the same. Not the laughter, not the friends, not even the work I had done or the life I had constructed.

The reunion was alive, vibrant, and full of connection. And yet, to me, it felt incomplete.

I raised my glass in a small, silent toast to the room, to the past, and to what I had carried alone all these years.

And I waited.

Because somewhere in the crowd, behind the chatter, the warmth, and the laughter, I knew she was out there.

I just had to see her.