The cherry blossoms were falling like soft snow the day I graduated from college. They floated gently on the breeze, each petal like a tiny dream finding its way down to earth. Some landed on shoulders, others in open hands. I caught one without meaning to, felt the fragile weight of it against my skin, and then let it go.
The air was warm, thick with the scent of spring and new beginnings. Around me, voices rose and fell in laughter and tears. Some cried openly, others tried to hide it behind tight smiles. Friends embraced, teachers bowed, parents took photos that would one day gather dust in forgotten albums. Time stood still in a strange, aching kind of way.
I stood there, lost in it all, holding my diploma with both hands, knuckles white from how tightly I was gripping it. The parchment felt heavier than it looked. My name—Haruki Aizawa—was printed in crisp, black ink, surrounded by gold trim, and yet all I could think about was how surreal it felt. It stared back at me like a vow. Like a challenge. Like a truth I had fought for with every ounce of my soul.
This was the day I would never forget. The day everything changed.
I remembered every sleepless night I spent poring over books until my eyes blurred. The tears I shed in silence after a low-scoring exam, when self-doubt gripped my chest so tightly I couldn't breathe. The bitter sting of failure. The quiet victories no one saw. The sacrifices. The moments I almost gave up—but didn't. And now, finally... finally, it was done.
A chapter in my life had closed.
And I had closed it with flying colors.
Mom. Dad.
I did it.
We did it.
I turned to the hills just beyond the campus gates. The same hills that bordered the village I grew up in. The rice fields glistened under the afternoon sun, neat and perfect like always. The wind carried with it the scent of damp soil and blooming sakura. Familiar. Comforting. Painfully so.
This place—my hometown—was all I had ever known. Quiet. Simple. Tucked away from the world like an old diary no one ever reads. It had raised me. Held me. Molded me.
But it wasn't the life I wanted.
Yes, it was the life given to me—the life my parents built from sweat and sleepless nights. The life that pushed me when I faltered, that whispered I could do more even when I doubted it. This life, the one where my father gave up everything just to provide what he never had. His hands were rough from work, his back bent from labor, but his pride was always straight and tall.
And now, he was ready to pass it on to me.
The farm. The house. The weight of everything he had built with his bare hands.
To hold. To preserve. To continue.
But... I couldn't.
No. It wasn't the life I dreamed of. It wasn't the future I saw when I closed my eyes as a kid and imagined a world beyond the mountains.
I had a dream. One I carried for years. A dream I whispered to the stars when no one else was listening.
Now that I had the chance—now that the world had cracked open just enough for me to slip through—I wasn't going to let go.
I would grab it. Tighter than I've ever held anything in my life.
I had a dream.
A beautiful, impossible dream.
Since I was thirteen, I wanted to work in advertising. To create, to imagine, to reach people through something as invisible and powerful as an idea. I didn't want to live an invisible life, one that blurred into the background like so many others. I wanted to make something. Leave something behind.
Miyazaki & Co.
The name felt like magic on my tongue. The most prestigious creative firm in Tokyo. Getting in was like trying to catch lightning in a jar. But I had done it. Somehow, I had done it.
I remember the moment I got the call. I dropped my phone. My legs gave out. I cried so hard I thought I'd never stop. It was like a door I had been knocking on for so long—so long—had finally opened. Not just opened. It welcomed me in with open arms and said, "You belong here."
I told my mom that night. She cried at the dinner table, silent tears falling into her bowl of miso soup. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled too much. She reached across the table, held my hand with both of hers, and whispered something I'll never forget.
"Go. This is your time."
But Dad…
Dad didn't even flinch. He didn't move. Didn't speak.
It was like he wasn't even there. Like I had become invisible to him.
I think… I think I really hurt him that night.
He had always seen the farm as a blessing. Something sacred. A legacy to pass on. And I—his only son—was rejecting it. Rejecting him.
I remember how loud the silence felt after I told them. Like the world had stopped breathing.
He didn't say a word. Not even when I bowed. Not even when I stood there, waiting. Hoping. Begging silently for him to understand.
That night, we didn't speak. He didn't come into my room. His shadow never crossed my doorway. Even his footsteps stayed silent.
And at the train station, the morning I left… he never looked at me.
Not once.
I stood there on the platform, bag at my side, ticket in hand. Mom was crying again, trying so hard to smile through the tears. She waved as the train prepared to leave.
But Dad… arms crossed, back turned.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
No goodbye. No "good luck." Not even a "be safe."
Nothing.
Just that same crushing silence.
As the train pulled away, I looked back one last time. Mom's silhouette growing smaller, her hand still raised in the air. And beside her… him.
Unmoving. Unforgiving.
He didn't even glance at me.
My heart cracked in that moment. Clean down the middle.
I wanted to scream. To run back. To throw my dreams away and beg for his forgiveness. But I couldn't. I knew I couldn't.
So I pressed my forehead to the window, and whispered the only thing I could.
"Sorry, Dad…"
My voice shook.
"…But I promise I'll do my best. I'll make you proud someday."
Someday. Somehow.
But for now… I'm sorry.
So sorry.
_____
The train hummed gently beneath my feet, a low murmur that seemed to vibrate through my chest. I leaned my forehead against the window, my breath fogging the glass. My reflection stared back at me—tired eyes, messy hair, a face that still hadn't fully accepted what was happening.
I had left.
I actually left.
For a moment, my throat tightened. My chest ached with something I didn't have a name for. Regret? Fear? Guilt? All of it, maybe. Was this the right choice? Was chasing my dream worth leaving everything behind? What if I failed? What if Dad was right? What if…
My thoughts spun faster than the countryside rushing past the window. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, but the pressure built anyway. My fingers trembled slightly in my lap. I clenched them, hard.
No.
I wasn't going back.
I had made my choice.
Even if it meant pain. Even if it meant silence. Even if it meant walking alone for a while.
The rice fields began to blur. The green hills disappeared. Trees gave way to fences, then to streets, then to concrete. Wide roads crisscrossed the horizon, layered with cars and people. Tall buildings climbed higher than the mountains I left behind. Neon signs blinked in every color I didn't know existed. I saw giant LCD screens, glass skyscrapers, trains weaving overhead on suspended rails.
This was Tokyo.
This was the place I had only ever seen in textbooks, dramas, and the dreams I didn't dare speak out loud when I was younger. It was chaos, light, speed, sound. It was everything my village wasn't. And it was beautiful in a terrifying way.
My station arrived. I stepped off the train and was swallowed instantly.
People rushed past me like a river I couldn't swim in. Everyone seemed to know exactly where to go—like they were born with maps tattooed on their hands. I turned in circles, my suitcase bumping into legs, my apology drowned out in the noise.
No one looked at me. No one smiled. No one even slowed down.
I felt invisible.
Back home, I couldn't walk five steps without someone saying, "Hey, Haruki!" or "Your mom's miso was amazing last night!" Here, I was just another body in a crowd. I could scream and no one would turn.
The sun slid slowly down the buildings, painting everything in orange and gold. Afternoon turned into early dusk. I stood near the station entrance, trying to look up directions on my phone, but the signal wavered, and my battery was already in the red.
I hadn't booked a place. I hadn't even thought that far. I was supposed to be prepared. I wasn't.
My stomach growled loud enough to startle me. I hadn't eaten since morning. My legs were starting to ache from standing too long. A strange sort of panic bubbled up inside me. I tried asking a man for directions, but he waved me off like I was trying to sell him something.
I tried asking a woman next, but she didn't even stop walking.
I was starting to feel like I didn't exist.
My heart pounded as the streetlights flickered on. My hands shook as I stood at the edge of the crowd. I felt so small. So lost. Like the dream I had chased so far had dropped me into a world that had no space for me.
In desperation, I turned and reached out.
I grabbed someone's hand.
A girl's hand.
"Please, I really need your—"
I didn't get to finish.
A loud THWACK exploded in my ears.
Pain shot through my body like a meteor. My feet left the ground. I swear, I actually left the ground.
Then the air was gone from my lungs, and I was flying backward before I hit the pavement with a gasp.
It wasn't a slap.
It wasn't even a punch.
It was a full, real, honest-to-goodness roundhouse kick.
I was curled on the ground, wheezing, trying to remember how breathing worked, when a voice—soft and feminine—cut through the haze.
"Oh no—s-so sorry about that!"
What?
I looked up.
She stood there, brushing a lock of hair from her face, smiling like she hadn't just turned my ribs into scrambled tofu.
She was… cute.
No. She was gorgeous.
She had long chestnut-brown hair tied into a messy side ponytail. A soft cream-colored cardigan over a navy skirt. Big round eyes, like a puppy that just broke your favorite cup but still made you want to forgive it. She looked like someone you'd see in a café commercial, offering you a cookie with a smile that healed childhood trauma.
I froze.
Not just from pain. But from shock.
Because the girl in front of me was the exact embodiment of "Don't judge a book by its cover."
She looked like she hugged cats for a living. But I was fairly certain she could break concrete blocks with her knees.
"Hello? Earth to Mr…?"
"H-Haruki. Aizawa," I choked out.
She clapped her hands softly. "Ah! Mr. Aizawa! About earlier—I'm so sorry for kicking you like that. Reflex, you know? Stranger grabs my hand, my legs just kinda… act on their own."
She laughed, brushing the back of her head with a sheepish grin.
"N-no big deal," I wheezed. "Honestly, I should be the one apologizing for grabbing someone without permission…"
She crouched beside me. "Are you okay? No broken bones?"
I blinked.
Was she joking? Or was that her polite way of calling me a weakling?
I laughed nervously. "Y-yeah, no broken bones. Just a slightly shattered soul."
"Oof. Sorry again!" she said, giggling. "Anyway, you look kinda… lost."
"You noticed?" I chuckled weakly.
I pulled myself up, still wincing.
"I'm new here. I came to Tokyo for a job at Miyazaki & Co. But… I have no clue where I'm going. Or staying. I was supposed to find an apartment, but I guess I didn't plan very well…"
The moment I said Miyazaki & Co., her eyes lit up.
She gasped. Actually gasped.
"You're the new hire?!"
I blinked. "Wait—you work there too?"
She grinned, bouncing slightly on her heels. "Yup! I'm a project assistant in the creative division! Oh my gosh, this is so weird. What are the odds?!"
Before I could process that, she tilted her head and smiled.
"Well, since you don't have a place to stay yet… why don't you crash at my place? Just for tonight! Don't worry, my mom's cooking will blow your mind."
My brain stalled.
Did she just—
I mean—
Was she serious?
If I were a villain in a manga, this would be the part where my inner monologue went full pervert mode and fireworks exploded behind me.
But then, I looked at her again.
No.
She wasn't someone who needed protection.
If anything, I needed protection from her.
Even if I turned out to be a creep, she could probably defeat me in a boss fight with one hand tied and still make it to dinner in time.
Still.
A stranger. A new city. A chance.
And a girl with a roundhouse kick of doom offering me her home?
My stomach growled again, traitor that it was.
"…Okay," I said, grinning through the pain. "Lead the way."
And just like that, my first night in Tokyo began—with bruised ribs, a burning dream, and a girl whose name I still didn't even know.
But somehow, I had a feeling…
This was only the beginning.
----------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note:
Hello, dear reader!
Thank you so much for reading. I'm new here, and this is my very first novel—so it truly means a lot that you've made it this far. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Stay tuned—the next chapter will be released tomorrow!
With gratitude,
—Minazuki, Yuuma