1 year and 8 months later
🌿🌿🌿
March breathed softly over Hongo Campus, the cold finally loosening its grip. The old brick buildings stood tall and indifferent, as if they had seen this moment too many times to care.
Graduation day.
I stood among the final-year medical students, my black coat pressed flat, the graduation certificate folder tucked under my arm. Six years of anatomy labs, night shifts, whispered prayers before exams—compressed into a thin sheet of paper.
Tokyo University didn't believe in loud endings.
No music. No cheers. Just discipline, tradition, and silence.
A few students wore hakama, their steps careful on the stone paths. Others adjusted ties with nervous hands. Everyone looked composed. Everyone was pretending this didn't terrify them.
I am twenty-five now.
Akari was twenty-four.
That was all the difference between us—numbers that meant nothing compared to the years we'd survived side by side.
My gaze shifted instinctively, finding her among the rows of students. She stood calm, composed, the way she always did when something mattered. Graduation hadn't changed her. If anything, it made her look farther away.
Six years ago, this university had been a goal.
Now it felt like a checkpoint.
After graduation, things would change. They had to. The world was already moving—residency, expectations, families waiting to reclaim us. I was done letting life decide for me.
We would stay together after this.
Not as almost. Not as unfinished sentences.
I would propose to her.
Not today. Not in front of these walls that had witnessed too much of our silence—but soon. When the noise faded. When the future finally stood still long enough for me to reach for it.
She wasn't a phase.
She wasn't uncertainty.
She was the choice I'd already made.
The bell rang, sharp and final, cutting through my thoughts.
Faculty members stepped forward. Names would be called. Papers would be handed over. Applause would be polite, restrained—Tokyo University's version of closure.
I didn't look at Akari.
If I did, I knew I wouldn't be able to pretend this was just a ceremony.
A faculty member stepped up to the podium.
The hall settled into silence—formal, obedient.
Names began to echo one by one, measured and precise.
Each student stepped forward when called, received the certificate, bowed, and returned to their place. No cheers. No whistles. Just polite applause that faded as quickly as it rose. Tokyo University did not linger on individuals.
I listened without really listening.
Then—
"Akari—"
Her name cut through the monotony like it always did.
I looked up.
She moved with quiet certainty, steps steady, posture straight. No hesitation. No glance toward the audience. She accepted the certificate with a slight bow, composed as ever, as if this moment belonged to her naturally.
For a second, absurdly, I thought of all the nights she'd fallen asleep over textbooks. All the arguments. All the silence. All the things we hadn't said.
And still—there she was.
She turned back toward her seat, and her eyes lifted just enough to meet mine.
Brief. Accidental. Dangerous.
Then she looked away.
The applause faded.
Another name followed.
I barely registered it.
Moments later, my own name was called.
I stood, walked forward, bowed, and accepted the certificate. The paper felt lighter than it should have. Six years reduced to a single motion.
When I returned to my place, the ceremony continued—name after name, future after future—until the final call was made and the last polite applause settled into silence.
Graduation, complete.
But my attention had already drifted back to her.
s soon as the final bow was made and the faculty began to leave, the atmosphere fractured—quietly, but unmistakably. Conversations bloomed in low voices. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Relief slipped through the cracks of discipline.
Graduation was officially over.
Outside, the courtyard filled slowly, sunlight catching on black coats and polished shoes. Cameras appeared in hands that had spent years holding textbooks instead. Parents called out names. Laughter surfaced—careful, almost surprised to exist here.
Groups formed naturally.
Classmates stood shoulder to shoulder, certificates held up like proof of survival. Someone asked for a photo. Then another. Phones were passed around. Awkward smiles were practiced and discarded.
I stood slightly apart, watching it unfold.
This was the part people remembered—the evidence that it had all been real.
Cheryl appeared at Akari's side like she always did, effortless and familiar, already holding her phone up.
"Come on," she said, nudging Akari lightly. "We didn't survive six years of this hell just to skip photos."
Akari let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh and nodded. She stood beside Cheryl, certificate in hand, posture neat as ever. Cheryl leaned in close, grinning, arm slung easily around her shoulder.
The camera clicked once.
Then again.
Akari smiled—soft, genuine. The kind she never practiced.
More people gathered. Voices overlapped. Someone suggested a group photo—everyone together, last one—and movement followed without much thought.
I found myself standing beside Akari before I realized I'd moved.
Too close to pretend it was accidental.
Too far to reach for her.
Cheryl backed up a few steps, lifting her phone higher. "Alright—don't move."
Akari turned slightly, just as I did.
For a second, we weren't looking at the camera.
We were looking at each other.
Not smiling.
Not posing.
Just there—caught in the middle of something neither of us knew how to name.
The shutter snapped.
"Got it," Cheryl said, satisfied.
The group broke apart almost immediately, conversations resuming, people drifting away in different directions. Cheryl glanced down at her screen, scrolling through the photos, then paused.
Her eyes flicked up.
Then, without saying anything, she raised the phone again.
This time, we weren't ready.
Akari was saying something—quiet, unreadable. I was still watching her, like the world hadn't quite come back into focus yet.
Click.
The sound was sharp.
Akari looked up. "Cheryl—"
Cheryl only smiled, slipping her phone back into her pocket like she'd just stolen something precious. "I'll send it later," she said lightly, already turning away.
Neither of us asked which photo she meant.
We didn't have to.