One week after Takara returned home, the apartment felt like a museum.
Kayo's hoodie still hung from the back of a chair, draped like a memory. The scent of cinnamon from that last morning lingered faintly on Takara's pillow. But the boy who had once filled the space with quiet laughter and trembling fingertips was now in Berlin, chasing a dream.
And Takara?
He was chasing himself.
Classes resumed.
Assignments piled up.
Takara poured himself into his work with a kind of brutal devotion—sleepless nights, coffee-fueled mornings, and schedules that didn't leave room for longing. But it found him anyway.
At red lights. In stairwells. During quiet walks across campus when the wind was just cold enough to sting.
Kayo's last message still lived in his phone:
"I'll write when I can. Please don't wait. But I'll still be looking for you in every city I pass."
Takara had read it 46 times.
They didn't talk much.
A text every few days. Brief check-ins.
Kayo sent a photo once—a blurry one of him grinning beside a tall painting, hair falling into his eyes. The caption read:
Found your laugh in the paint today.
Takara had stared at it for hours.
And then closed the message without replying.
Rei noticed the change before he did.
"You've gone quiet," she said, walking beside him after class.
"Have I?"
"Yeah. You used to narrate your life like a YA protagonist. Now you just… exist."
Takara kicked at a leaf. "Maybe I'm trying not to be dramatic for once."
Rei stopped him. "That's not drama. That's heart. Don't let heartbreak harden you."
Takara didn't answer.
Because he didn't know what he was anymore.
A heartbroken lover?
A man waiting for a maybe?
Or someone finally waking up?
Three weeks after his return, Takara got a letter.
Not a text.
Not a voice message.
A real letter. Postmarked Berlin. Kayo's handwriting on the front.
He held it for a full minute before tearing it open.
Takara,
I didn't know how to explain myself over a screen. So I'm trying this.
Berlin is loud. Cold. Beautiful in a way that feels alien. I sleep in a converted loft with six other interns. The walls are thin and the coffee is terrible. But every morning, I get to paint. I get to be seen.
And I keep thinking… what if you were here to see me too?
I miss you in ways that aren't pretty. I miss the version of myself I became around you—the one who laughed more. Slept more. Wanted more.
But I also know this time apart is making me face the parts of myself I kept locked away.
Maybe I needed that.
Maybe you did too.
If you're angry, I understand. If you moved on, I'll carry it.
But I need you to know something:
The night you told me to go… you didn't break my heart.
You saved it.
Because for once, someone loved me without clipping my wings.
I don't know what happens next.
But I'm still yours.
Somewhere in the quiet between brushstrokes, I'm still holding you.
Love,
Kayo
Takara read it once.
Then again.
Then pressed it to his chest and cried into his sleeve for fifteen full minutes.
That weekend, he walked to the bookstore near his dorm.
He bought a leather-bound journal.
On the inside cover, he wrote:
To Kayo. For the days we didn't get to speak.
And then he began.
Entry One:
I saw your letter and thought—maybe this is our new language. Letters. Distance softened by ink.
So I'll write, too.
I'm trying not to hate Berlin. Or what it took from me. But it didn't take you. You chose to go. And I chose to let you.
So now we live in choices. And maybe that's okay.
I hope you're eating. Sleeping. I hope someone there laughs at your sarcasm and appreciates your ability to fall asleep mid-conversation.
I'm surviving.
Sometimes that feels like enough.
Other times, I want to scream.
But mostly… I miss your steadiness. Your quiet.
The way you looked at me like I was worth listening to.
So here's my promise:
I'll keep writing.
Even if you don't.
Even if these letters only live in this book.
Because maybe love isn't just about being seen.
Maybe it's about seeing anyway.
Weeks passed.
Fall deepened into winter.
Snow lined the rooftops, and campus turned gray and silver. Takara sat in the library wrapped in his coat, handwriting another letter.
He was on his fourth entry when his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: +49…
His breath caught.
He picked up.
"Kayo?"
"Hey." The voice on the other end was hoarse. Tired. Familiar.
"I wasn't expecting a call."
"I know," Kayo said. "But I saw your journal. You posted a photo of it on your story."
"You still check my stories?"
"I check everything."
Silence bloomed between them.
Then Kayo said, "I'm flying home in February. For an exhibition tour. One of the stops is our city."
Takara's heart thudded.
"Will you come?"
Takara closed his eyes.
"Only if I get to see you, not just your art."
Kayo exhaled. "It's always you. It's been you since you yelled at me for organizing our bookshelf by color."
Takara laughed. "That was chaotic."
"And you loved me anyway."
"I still do," Takara whispered.
Kayo's voice softened. "Then let's stop waiting. Let's figure it out. You and me. New chapters. No assumptions. No apologies."
Takara nodded, tears welling. "Yeah. Let's try."
In the quiet after the call, Takara opened his journal again.
He wrote in bold ink:
Sometimes love leaves.
Sometimes it chooses to grow in the dark.
But the ones worth keeping?
They always come back—with roots.