The promise of spring had faded into a distant memory, replaced by the heat and relentless motion of Tokyo’s summer. The days were long, the nights restless. But in the quiet cracks between obligations and fatigue, something new began to grow.

After their late-night reunion, Yuuma and Sakurako had made a quiet decision: to try again, not with grand declarations or impossible expectations, but with small, consistent efforts.

Their messages became more frequent — not essays of longing, but gentle check-ins.

Did you eat lunch?

Don’t forget your umbrella today.

I walked past our bench. The river looked peaceful.

Sometimes just a single emoji was enough — a cherry blossom, a heart, a steaming cup of tea. Symbols of what they had shared, reminders that they were still thinking of each other.

On weekends, they started reserving time, no matter how busy their lives were. Even two hours on a Sunday afternoon, spent in a café or bookstore, felt like a gift.

They didn’t talk about the past few weeks much. There was no blame, no dramatic confrontation. They were both too exhausted for that.

Instead, they quietly agreed: what mattered was not what had frayed, but what could still be mended.

One Saturday in late July, the sky over Tokyo turned cloudy and cool — a brief respite from the oppressive heat. Sakurako had just submitted the latest draft of her thesis and finally had a full day to herself. Yuuma, after asking his manager a week in advance, had managed to get the afternoon off.

They met at Kiyosumi Garden, a lesser-known, beautifully maintained Japanese garden in eastern Tokyo — a place Sakurako had mentioned she wanted to visit during spring but never had the time.

Yuuma arrived first and waited near the stone gate. He stood there nervously, checking his phone out of habit, adjusting the collar of his white shirt, wondering if it had been too long since they’d spent an entire day together.

Then he saw her.

She came walking toward him slowly, dressed in a flowing beige skirt and a pale green blouse. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling softly across her cheeks.

“Sakurako,” he said, standing straighter.

She smiled. “You’re early.”

“I didn’t want to miss a single minute.”

She laughed — that quiet, almost musical sound that always put him at ease — and reached out her hand.

They walked into the garden hand-in-hand, letting silence speak for them.

The garden was serene. A koi pond shimmered in the soft light, and stone lanterns stood solemn beside winding gravel paths. Tall pines and manicured azaleas dotted the landscape like brushstrokes in an ink painting.

They paused at a wooden bridge stretching over the water.

“Koi always look so peaceful,” Sakurako said, watching the fish swim lazily below.

Yuuma leaned on the railing. “Maybe because they’re not worried about deadlines or sales targets.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Are you still thinking about work?”

“Only a little,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s hard not to.”

There was a pause. Then Sakurako said softly, “I think we forgot how to be with each other for a while.”

Yuuma nodded. “I forgot how to breathe. How to pause.”

They stood there quietly, the breeze rippling the surface of the water.

“But we’re here now,” she added.

Yuuma looked at her, taking in the curve of her profile, the grace in her stillness.

“Yes. And I want to stay here — with you — for a long time.”

She met his gaze, her eyes shimmering but calm.

“Then let’s take it one step at a time.”

They spent the next few hours wandering the garden paths, talking about trivial things — a novel she was reading, a bizarre coworker Yuuma had to deal with, the café down the street with terrible coffee but wonderful cheesecake.

At one point, they sat on a bench beneath a towering camphor tree, sipping cold tea from bottles.

“I’ve been thinking,” Yuuma said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Maybe… maybe I rushed into this job. I wanted security, sure. But I don’t even know if this world is what I really want.”

Sakurako tilted her head. “What do you want?”

Yuuma was silent for a moment.

“I want to create something. Not just crunch numbers and chase quotas. Maybe write, maybe start something of my own. I don’t know.”

“You don’t need all the answers yet,” she said gently. “Just the courage to ask the questions.”

Yuuma nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief.

“And you?” he asked.

Sakurako hesitated. “I thought I wanted to be a professor. But now… I’m not sure. I love literature, but the academic world is cold sometimes. I think I want to work somewhere where stories come alive. A publishing house maybe. Or even write myself.”

“Then you should.”

“I’m scared.”

“So am I,” Yuuma said, smiling. “Let’s be scared together.”

The sun dipped behind a tall cloud, casting soft shadows across the garden.

As they exited, they passed a small rest area selling soft-serve ice cream. Sakurako paused, staring at the menu.

Yuuma tilted his head. “Want one?”

She nodded shyly. “Matcha flavor.”

He ordered two — one matcha, one vanilla — and handed her the cone.

They sat on a nearby bench, licking the quickly melting ice cream and laughing as Yuuma managed to drop a bit onto his pants.

“It’s been forever since we did something like this,” Sakurako said.

“It feels like the beginning again,” Yuuma said.

“Do you remember the first time we really talked?” she asked. “In the library. I think I knew then.”

“Knew what?”

“That you’d change my life.”

Yuuma looked at her, and for a moment the world fell away.

The crowd, the traffic outside the park, the noise of the city — none of it mattered.

He reached for her hand.

“I think I fell in love with you the moment I saw you under that cherry tree.”

She blushed, her eyes wide and soft.

“I remember that day. You were with Misaki.”

“And I was staring at you like an idiot.”

“A charming idiot,” she corrected, laughing.

They finished their ice cream and strolled to the station, the sky now golden with the promise of dusk.

As the train arrived, Sakurako turned to Yuuma.

“Promise me something,” she said.

“Anything.”

“When the cherry blossoms return next year… we’ll go back. To the same place. To that tree in Asakusa.”

Yuuma smiled, his heart full.

“It’s a promise.”

Autumn began to creep into the city. The green of summer faded into gold and crimson, and the air grew crisp. The maple leaves along the streets of Ueno turned into blazing fire.

Yuuma and Sakurako both took small steps toward their dreams.

Yuuma requested a role transfer within the company — one with fewer hours and more focus on creative strategy. His supervisor raised an eyebrow, but approved it.

Sakurako applied to a local publishing house. She didn’t get the job right away, but she received a kind rejection with an invitation to reapply after graduation.

More importantly, she finally submitted her completed thesis.

On the day of her submission, Yuuma waited outside the university gates with a bouquet of white camellias — her favorite flower.

She spotted him and laughed, dropping her bag in surprise.

“You didn’t have to do this!”

“But I wanted to,” he said. “You did something amazing.”

She took the flowers, inhaling their gentle fragrance.

Then, impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him — not shyly or briefly, but with all the emotion she had carried for months.

When they finally pulled away, Yuuma’s voice was quiet.

“I’ve missed you every day, even when I saw you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Me too.”

They celebrated at a cozy restaurant near Tokyo Tower, sharing ramen and warm sake, reminiscing about their first awkward conversations, their struggles, their fears.

“I think,” Sakurako said, setting her chopsticks down, “that love isn’t just about fireworks or poetry. It’s about staying when things get boring, or hard. It’s about showing up.”

Yuuma nodded. “And trusting that even if the petals fall, spring will come again.”

That winter, they celebrated Christmas together for the first time — exchanging modest gifts and watching the city lights twinkle from the top of Roppongi Hills.

And when January came, they braved the cold to watch the first sunrise of the year at Odaiba Beach. Wrapped in scarves, fingers interlaced, they whispered their hopes into the wind.

“I want us to be together through all seasons,” Yuuma said.

“I want us to keep choosing each other,” Sakurako replied.

As the sun rose above the horizon, painting the sea in shades of gold and pink, they kissed — not a promise, but a confirmation.

End of Chapter 05