Winter arrived early that year.
The morning air had turned sharp, cold enough that every breath felt like a small sigh turned to mist.
Snow had begun to fall over the city—soft, almost hesitant at first—until everything was covered in a thin veil of white.
For most people, it was a season of warmth, of lights and laughter and the smell of roasted chestnuts on the street.
For Aoi Nakamura, it was the loneliest winter she had ever known.
---
It had been two months since Miyako Takahashi left Japan.
No one told Aoi exactly when she was going.
There was no final text, no message, no farewell meeting beneath the camphor tree.
Just silence.
And then, one morning, Aoi walked into class and saw the empty seat beside her—clean, untouched, as though Miyako had never been there at all.
That was when she knew.
---
At first, she tried to convince herself that she was fine.
She focused on exams, on work, on the dull rhythm of everyday life.
She filled her days with movement—cleaning, studying, taking extra shifts—because standing still meant remembering.
But sometimes, in quiet moments between tasks, she'd catch herself looking up from her notebook expecting to see a smile that wasn't there anymore.
And at night, when the city grew still, she'd dream of the sound of Miyako's laughter—the real one, not the polite one. The one she used to hear only when it was just the two of them.
She woke up from those dreams with tears she couldn't stop.
---
Across the ocean, in a small apartment overlooking the gray streets of Paris, Miyako sat by the window, a letter unopened on her desk.
It had arrived two weeks ago, forwarded from her old address.
The handwriting on the envelope was neat, careful, familiar.
Aoi Nakamura.
She had promised herself she wouldn't open it.
Her mother's words still echoed in her head: "You'll forget her in time. Distance will help you remember what's important."
But that promise had been a lie.
Every street she walked down, every familiar melody she heard—it all reminded her of Japan. Of Aoi. Of soft voices in the rain and trembling hands beneath the hydrangeas.
Miyako picked up the envelope again. Her hands shook slightly as she tore it open.
---
> Miyako,
I don't know if this will reach you, or if you'll even read it. Maybe you won't. But I had to write it anyway.
I hope you're eating well. I hope you're smiling the way you used to, the way you did when you didn't have to be perfect. I hope Paris is kind to you, even if the world wasn't.
The fountain still runs. The camphor tree still blooms. I walk past it sometimes and pretend you're still there. Sometimes, I almost believe it.
I'm trying to be brave, Miyako. I'm trying to be strong like you always said I was. But some nights, it's hard. Some nights, I still hear your voice.
I miss you. More than I should.
But if you've moved on, if you've found peace, then I'll learn to smile for you instead of cry for you.
Thank you for loving me, even if it was only for a short while. It was enough to make a lifetime feel full.
Yours, always,
Aoi
---
By the time Miyako finished reading, her tears had already fallen onto the paper, blurring the ink.
She pressed the letter to her chest and whispered into the quiet apartment,
"I haven't moved on. I can't."
Outside, snow fell against the windowpane, melting as it touched the glass.
It felt like the world was crying with her.
---
Months passed.
Letters continued—Aoi wrote every few weeks, even when she stopped receiving replies.
Not out of hope, but out of love.
She wrote about the little things:
how the café she worked at now played French music;
how the camphor tree had been trimmed that spring;
how the hydrangeas had bloomed again after a long rain.
Sometimes she ended the letters with a small sketch—a flower, a window, or just the curve of a hand reaching for another.
She never asked for anything in return.
---
Miyako read every one of them.
She kept them in a small box under her bed, tied with a silk ribbon.
Her life in Paris was busy, filled with expectations and noise—art exhibitions, political dinners, a polite, empty engagement to Takeru Hayashi that her parents insisted upon to maintain appearances.
But even surrounded by people, she was alone.
During long dinners, when the talk turned to investments and social status, she'd find her mind drifting back to Japan—to the quiet girl who saw her not as a trophy, but as a person.
She could almost hear Aoi's voice then:
"You don't have to smile for me, Miyako. You already make the world brighter just by being you."
And in those moments, she'd feel a sharp ache of longing—so deep it frightened her.
---
Two years passed this way.
Two years of distance.
Two years of pretending.
Until one day, a letter arrived without a return address.
The handwriting was shaky this time, smudged as if written in haste.
> Miyako,
I don't know how to say this, so I'll just write it as it is.
My father's health is failing. I'm working every day to keep the bills paid. I don't know if I'll be able to continue school next term. But I'll manage somehow.
Sometimes I think about that spring we met. About how I used to be invisible before you saw me. Even now, when everything feels gray, I still feel visible because of you.
Please, don't worry. I'll be fine. You taught me how to be brave, remember?
If I could see you again just once, I'd tell you the same thing I told you the last time we met: I love you. That hasn't changed, even if the world has.
Always,
Aoi.
---
Miyako didn't sleep that night.
The next morning, she called her father's secretary.
"I need a flight to Tokyo," she said.
"Miss Takahashi," the secretary hesitated. "Your parents—"
"I'll deal with them later."
---
When Miyako stepped off the plane, the air of home hit her like a memory.
The scent of rain, the hum of cicadas, the blur of signs she'd once seen every day—it all came rushing back like a dream she had been forced to forget.
She didn't go home.
She went straight to the hospital.
And when she reached the ward listed in Aoi's letter, her breath caught in her throat.
Through the small glass window, she saw her—Aoi, sitting by an old man's bedside, reading softly from a book, her hair shorter now, her face a little thinner, but still radiant in that quiet way that had always undone her.
Miyako stood frozen in the doorway, tears already burning her eyes.
Aoi looked up then, as if sensing something, and their eyes met.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Aoi stood slowly, disbelief and something dangerously close to hope flashing across her face.
"Miyako…?"
Miyako's voice trembled as she took a step forward. "I'm home."
And for the first time in years, Aoi smiled—a small, trembling smile that carried every letter, every memory, every unspoken prayer between them.
---
They didn't speak for a long while.
They didn't need to.
The silence said everything.
And in that small, sterile hospital room, surrounded by the hum of machines and the faint scent of antiseptic, time finally began to move again—for both of them.
---