The Day We Found Each Other Again

CHAPTER-22 (FINALE)

The park hadn’t changed much.

That was the first thing I noticed as I stepped onto the familiar path, the gravel crunching softly beneath my shoes. The trees were taller, maybe. Or maybe I was just older now, more aware of how time settled into places without asking permission. The benches were still painted the same muted green, the lampposts casting their gentle halos as dusk eased into night.

I hadn’t been back here in years.

Not because I forgot.

Because some places hold memories too carefully. Touch them too soon, and they cut.

The city behind me hummed louder than it used to, or maybe I was just better at hearing it now. Billboards flashed my name without saying it out loud. Tour buses rolled past streets I once walked alone. My life had expanded in ways younger me could only dream of. 

Albums, stages, interviews, a voice that now reached farther than I ever imagined.

And yet, standing at the edge of this park, all of that felt strangely irrelevant.

This place had never cared who I became.

I followed the path slowly, hands tucked into my coat pockets, breath visible in the cool evening air. The sky was painted in soft indigo and gold, the last of the sunset bleeding through bare branches.

I stopped when I saw the bench.

The bench.

The same one. Slightly weathered now, paint chipped at the edges, but unmistakably familiar. The place where words had once changed the shape of my life. Where silence had spoken louder than confessions. Where a promise had been left unfinished.

I sat down.

For a moment, I just listened.

Footsteps in the distance. Wind moving through leaves. The faint sound of laughter somewhere beyond the trees. Life continuing, indifferent and kind all at once.

I hadn’t known why I came tonight.

Only that something in me had been restless all day. A quiet pull, gentle but persistent, like a melody you can’t forget even after the song ends.

I glanced at my phone.

No notifications. No reminders. No reason.

I exhaled, smiling faintly at myself. “Still sentimental,” I murmured under my breath.

The years had changed me. I knew that. I was steadier now. More confident. I had learned how to stand alone under bright lights without shrinking. Learned how to let people come and go without losing myself in the process.

I had learned how to keep singing.

But some things never quite left.

I stood again, walking a few steps toward the railing where he had once leaned, calm and careful, as if he already understood the weight of moments like this. I rested my hands against the cool metal, closing my eyes briefly.

I wondered briefly, foolishly if he had ever come back here.

And then

“Kana?”

The sound of my name landed softly, like it was afraid of breaking something.

I turned.

He stood a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, hair slightly longer than I remembered, face more defined by time but unmistakably his. There was the same quiet steadiness in his posture, the same gentleness in the way he looked at me as if he was seeing me, not the person the world thought it knew.

For a second, neither of us moved.

The years collapsed into something small and fragile between us.

“Issei,” I breathed.

He smiled. Not wide. Not dramatic. Just real. “You came.”

“So did you,” I said, my voice softer than I expected.

He nodded once. “I said I would. Someday.”

I laughed quietly, the sound trembling just a little. “You were never very specific.”

“I didn’t want to be,” he admitted. “I figured… if it was meant to happen, it would.”

We stood there, the park holding its breath around us.

“You look…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Happy.”

“I am,” I said honestly. Then, after a beat, “You?”

A pause. Then a gentle exhale. “Yeah. I think I am.”

That answer felt like relief.

We sat on the bench together, not too close, not too far. The distance felt intentional, respectful, a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had been, everything that had changed.

“I heard your last album,” he said. “It was… beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I wrote some of it thinking I’d never see you again.”

He looked at me then, eyes warm, unguarded. “I figured.”

Silence settled, but it wasn’t heavy. It was full.

“I left the city like I said I would,” he continued. “Worked. Learned a lot. Played music when I could.”

I blinked. “You never stopped?”

He smiled, almost shy. “Never.”

Something in my chest loosened.

We talked for a while about ordinary things. Lives lived apart. Small joys. Quiet losses. There were no apologies. No explanations demanded. Just understanding, shared gently between words.

Eventually, the lights flickered on one by one, illuminating the path ahead.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said finally. “Us. Right now.”

He nodded. “Me neither.”

“But,” I added, meeting his gaze, “I’m glad we found our way back here.”

“So am I,” he said.

We stood together as night fully settled in, side by side beneath the same sky we once shared in silence.

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like something to chase or fear.

It felt like something we could walk toward.

Slowly.

Together.

THE END.