Summer crept quietly into Tokyo, bringing with it warm winds and golden light. The cherry blossoms had long vanished, replaced by lush green trees and sunlit paths. The season of beginnings had passed, and now came the season of endurance.

For Yuuma and Sakurako, life had taken on a new rhythm — not one of gentle strolls or quiet library talks, but of deadlines, obligations, and long hours spent apart.

Yuuma had started working full-time at the securities firm that had offered him a position. The hours were brutal. He woke early, boarded packed trains, worked under fluorescent lights, and often returned home after midnight. Some nights, his only company was the hum of the vending machine outside his apartment building.

He had imagined work would be difficult, but he hadn’t expected how quickly it would begin to steal his time, his energy — and his connection with Sakurako.

Meanwhile, Sakurako was facing her own mountain.

Her thesis had entered the final stage, but the revisions demanded by her advisor were more intense than she anticipated. She lived at her desk, surviving on coffee, instant noodles, and hope.

Text messages between them grew shorter.

Calls went unanswered.

Meet-ups were postponed again and again.

The warmth of spring now seemed like a distant memory.

One Sunday afternoon, after nearly three weeks of no proper contact, Sakurako sat alone at the riverside bench where they once watched the cherry blossoms fall.

She clutched her phone, staring at Yuuma’s last message: “So sorry, got called in again. Rain check?”

A bitter wind tugged at her hair, though it was midsummer.

She scrolled back through their chat history, back to the longer messages, the heart emojis, the promises.

Now, there was just silence.

A lump formed in her throat. Not anger. Not sadness. Just a quiet, aching loneliness.

She typed a message but didn’t send it.

Do you still think about me the way you used to?

On the other side of the city, Yuuma stared blankly at his computer screen. His tie was loosened, his shoulders tight with stress. His supervisor had just assigned him a last-minute report due the next morning.

His phone buzzed.

Sakurako’s name lit up the screen.

His heart jumped — then fell.

He couldn’t answer now. Not with so much work to do. Not when his brain felt like it was unraveling.

“I’ll call her later,” he muttered, setting the phone aside.

But later never came.

One night, Yuuma finally left work early — by which he meant 9 p.m. — and boarded a train toward Sakurako’s apartment. He hadn’t told her he was coming. He just needed to see her, to remember what peace felt like.

When he reached her building, the lights were on.

He knocked softly.

After a few moments, the door creaked open.

She stood there in a faded sweatshirt, her eyes tired but still beautiful.

“Yuuma…”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t call. I just… I missed you.”

There was silence between them, thick and fragile.

“I wasn’t sure if you did anymore,” Sakurako finally said, her voice small.

Yuuma stepped closer. “I did. I do. Every day.”

She hesitated, then let him inside.

They sat on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, the silence between them now tender rather than tense.

“I know you’re working hard,” she said. “And I know I’ve been hard to reach too. But sometimes, I feel like we’re becoming strangers.”

Yuuma lowered his gaze.

“I’ve been afraid,” he said. “Afraid that I can’t give you the time you deserve. That I’ll lose you.”

Sakurako looked at him. “The only way you’ll lose me is if you stop trying.”

He met her eyes, saw the shimmer of tears there.

“I’m still trying,” he whispered.

“Then so am I.”

They leaned into each other, foreheads touching, as if trying to rebuild what the weeks had strained.

Later that night, before Yuuma left, Sakurako walked him to the station.

The streets were quiet, the streetlights glowing like little stars.

Before he boarded the train, she took his hand and said softly:

“When this storm passes… let’s go see the cherry blossoms again. Just you and me. Like before.”

Yuuma smiled for the first time in days.

“It’s a promise.”

End of Chapter 04