Chapter 52: The Suitcase of Things I Couldn’t Let Go Of

Rain followed them like a second shadow.

By the time Kosuke unlocked the door to his small apartment, both were dripping from head to toe. Hanami’s bangs clung to her cheeks, her dress soaked through. Kosuke felt horrible for letting her walk in that weather, but the rain had come suddenly, too heavy to outrun.

“Come inside,” he said softly. “You’ll get sick like this.”

Hanami stepped in, shivering a little. The apartment was neat, quiet, and filled with a faint scent of coffee and old books. She glanced around, taking in the warm yellow lights, the well-stacked bookshelves, the framed certifications, and the few houseplants valiantly trying to survive.

Kosuke grabbed a clean towel from the bathroom and hurried back.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her without meeting her eyes too long.

“Thanks,” she whispered, drying her hair.

He took a moment, gathering himself before speaking again. “You can wear something of mine. Your clothes won’t dry anytime soon.”

Hanami hesitated, cheeks slightly pink. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’d never let you stay in wet clothes.”

He walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a soft gray hoodie and black joggers. Simple, clean, and comfortable. He handed them to her and looked away, trying to be respectful.

“You can change in the bathroom,” he said.

She nodded and slipped inside, closing the door gently behind her.

Kosuke exhaled, leaning against the wall for a moment. His heart hadn’t calmed down since they’d left the café. Seeing her laugh with his students, watching her pretend to be his wife, walking beside her in the rain, hearing her small exhale whenever their hands brushed—it all spun inside him.

When she stepped out, wearing his clothes, something inside him tightened.

The hoodie was a bit big on her. The sleeves covered her hands. Her hair fell over her shoulders, damp but soft-looking. She looked comfortable. She looked like she belonged there.

“Do they look weird?” she asked, a little shy.

Kosuke shook his head. “No. They look good on you.”

Hanami smiled, and it softened everything in the room.

They sat on the floor near his small table while Kosuke made hot tea. Hanami cupped the warm mug, letting the heat reach her fingers.

“You always liked making tea,” she said quietly.

“How do you remember that?” he asked.

“I remember everything,” she answered.

Silence passed between them. Warm, but a little heavy.

Hanami’s eyes wandered around the room again, taking in the little details. Then something caught her attention. A corner of something brown peeking from under his bed frame. A suitcase. Old, worn, and familiar.

She pointed at it. “What’s that?”

Kosuke followed her gaze and stiffened slightly. “Ah… that.”

He walked over, pulled it out carefully, and placed it between them. The suitcase was thick, its leather faded. The edges were frayed from long years of use.

“Can I open it?” she asked gently, sensing the hesitation in his movements.

He looked at her, then nodded. “Yeah. You can.”

Hanami slowly unlatched the suitcase. The hinges creaked as it opened.

Inside was a collection of moments he had never let go of.

Childhood photos—two kids under the summer sun, chasing each other near the river, Hanami holding a watermelon slice, Kosuke wearing a cap backward.

Medals from his high school competitions. Certificates from university.

A folded letter with her handwriting on the front.

A dried flower pressed between notebook pages.

A paper charm they bought together during a festival.

Hanami’s breath caught. “Kosuke…”

He smiled faintly but didn’t hide the vulnerability in his eyes. “Everything that mattered… I kept here.”

She touched the photos gently. Her fingers traced their younger selves. “You kept all of this?”

“I couldn’t throw them away,” he said softly. “No matter what happened. No matter how many years passed.”

Hanami looked at the letter with trembling hands. “This… this was the one I wrote when you transfer .”

“You told me to work hard,” he said with a small laugh. “You also said if I ever felt lonely, I should look at the sky because we’d be under the same one.”

Hanami blinked quickly as her eyes blurred. “I remember writing that. I didn’t think you would… keep it.”

“I kept everything,” he whispered.

Her gaze fell on a particular photo. The two of them sitting on the school steps. She had braided his hair just for fun. He was laughing. She was smiling in a way she hadn’t smiled in years.

“Why?” she asked quietly. Not demanding. Just searching.

Kosuke looked away for a moment, gathering courage. When he spoke, his voice carried a gentle ache.

“Because I never wanted to forget any version of us.”

Hanami’s hands trembled.

He continued, slowly, honestly. “Even when we drifted… even when life changed… even when I thought I had no right to think about you anymore. These were the pieces of the life I wanted but couldn’t reach.”

Hanami pressed her hand to her lips, eyes glistening.

Kosuke pulled out the last item from the suitcase. A small music box. The one she gave him on his sixteenth birthday. The one she’d saved money for. The one he’d promised to protect.

He opened it. The soft tune filled the room.

Hanami wiped her eyes. “You still have it…”

“I always will.”

The rain outside softened to a quiet patter.

Hanami finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “Kosuke… I didn’t know you carried so much of us with you.”

“I didn’t know how to let go,” he answered simply.

She met his eyes, her voice trembling. “Maybe… maybe neither of us really did.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached out—slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted.

But she didn’t.

Her fingers slid into his.

The warmth was small, but real. Steady.

The music box played on.

And for the first time in years, neither of them looked away.