A full year had passed.

It was the third week of March, and Tokyo had finally surrendered to spring again.

The city had changed its clothes: cold stone grays were now painted in soft pinks, gentle whites, and tender greens. Bicycles rolled slowly under blooming trees, lovers walked hand in hand under fluttering petals, and children threw laughter into the air like it was something tangible.

Yuuma stood once again in Asakusa, under the very cherry tree where everything had begun. He wore a light gray jacket and held two cups of coffee, one in each hand. A breeze brushed through the street, catching petals mid-fall and scattering them like confetti from an invisible celebration.

He checked his watch.

One minute to eleven.

He smiled.

Right on time, Sakurako appeared from the crowd, her hair tied back in a loose ribbon, a white blouse tucked into a soft blue skirt that danced with the wind. Her steps were slow, deliberate — not because she was late, but because she wanted to remember the moment.

Yuuma raised a cup. “Matcha latte. Two shots of sweetness. Just how you like it.”

She took it and held it between her hands, as if warming her fingers more with memory than heat.

“I missed this,” she said.

Yuuma looked up at the cherry blossoms. “Me too.”

They sat beneath the tree, the ground already dusted in a soft pink carpet. It was the same place. But everything was different.

They were different.

Yuuma now ran a small but growing digital branding firm called Koibana Studio, a name Sakurako had suggested. It combined “koi” (love) and “hana” (flower). He had one employee, three clients, and far too much coffee in his apartment — but for the first time, his work felt like an extension of himself.

Some days were thrilling, some exhausting, but all were meaningful.

He’d learned that building something was not about having every answer, but showing up every day and learning to ask better questions.

Sakurako, meanwhile, had been writing regularly for Mono no Aware. Her essays — poetic, vulnerable, insightful — had caught the attention of readers across the city. Just last month, she had been invited to speak at a panel on contemporary Japanese literature.

More importantly, she was learning to call herself what she had once only dreamed of becoming:

A writer.

As they sipped their drinks beneath the blooming tree, Sakurako leaned her head on Yuuma’s shoulder.

“Do you remember how quiet we were, the first time we sat here?”

Yuuma chuckled. “I think I was too nervous to speak.”

“And now?”

He looked at her. “Now I know the words. Because I learned your language.”

She looked up. “My language?”

He nodded. “Not just your spoken words. The quiet between your sentences. The way your eyes soften when you’re sad. The way you hold your pen when you’re deep in thought. The pauses, the sighs, the smiles — it’s all your language.”

Sakurako smiled, touched.

“You’ve changed, Yuuma.”

“Good changed?”

“The best kind.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sound of the city all around them — street musicians, temple bells, distant laughter — blending into the soft flutter of falling petals.

Then Sakurako pulled something from her bag.

A small, wrapped notebook.

“For you,” she said. “It’s handmade.”

Yuuma opened it. Inside were pages filled with soft cream paper and faint sakura prints in the corners.

On the first page, in neat handwriting, was a line:

“To all the seasons that shaped us — and the one that brought us together.”

Yuuma looked up, his chest full of warmth.

“I love it,” he said.

“I thought you could write in it,” she said. “Thoughts. Ideas. Or just what you see around you.”

He grinned. “Like… ‘The girl I love, sitting beside me under the same cherry tree for the second spring in a row.’”

She blushed, laughing. “Exactly.”

They decided to walk toward the Sumida River, past familiar souvenir shops, lantern-lined streets, and food stalls already filling the air with the scent of sweet dango and grilled mochi.

At the riverbank, they found the same bench they’d once shared.

Children were playing nearby, and a group of tourists were pointing cameras at the blossoms above.

Yuuma turned to Sakurako, suddenly serious.

“Have you ever thought about the future?” he asked. “I mean, our future?”

Sakurako took a moment.

“I think about it every morning,” she admitted. “When I wake up alone, make my coffee, check my messages… I wonder when we’ll start writing the next chapter together.”

Yuuma’s heart pounded. He reached into his pocket and took out a small, folded paper.

Not a ring box this time.

Not a speech.

Just a letter.

“I wrote this last night,” he said. “But I’d rather read it out loud.”

She nodded, curious.

He unfolded it and began:

“Dear Sakurako,

I used to believe that life was a race. That if I didn’t move fast enough, I’d fall behind. That if I didn’t get the best job, the best salary, I would disappoint everyone — even myself.

Then I met you.

And you slowed me down.

Not in a way that made me stop — but in a way that made me see.

See the petals falling one by one.

See the beauty of imperfection.

See that building something together — quietly, patiently — is more courageous than running alone.

I’ve spent a long time searching for meaning, for purpose. But you’ve taught me that sometimes, we don’t need to search.

Sometimes, we just need to share.

So here I am, sharing this with you:

I want to build a life with you.

I want to read your drafts, burn my midnight oil beside your lamplight, cook curry that’s too spicy, and laugh about it. I want to watch storms from the balcony and hang laundry on Sunday mornings. I want all of it — the simple, the quiet, the ordinary.

With you.

Will you move in with me?

Let’s start our story in the same apartment, under the same roof, with the same morning light on our faces.

Love,

Yuuma.”

Sakurako sat still, her hand over her mouth.

When he finished, she reached out and held him tightly.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

And as the sun dipped low behind the Tokyo Skytree, casting the city in a golden haze, petals spun through the air like gentle promises made visible.

They kissed — not the first kiss, not the last — but a kiss that sealed something deeper.

Not a season.

Not even a chapter.

But a life beginning.

Together.

End of Chapter 07