The soft hum of cicadas was fading into the background as summer began to stretch its limbs across the city. Hana could feel the shift in the air—no longer the crisp, blossom-scented breezes of spring, but something warmer, heavier, carrying with it a promise of both abundance and uncertainty. The cherry blossoms had already fallen weeks ago, their fleeting beauty a memory etched in her heart. Yet, Hana found herself clinging to the petals she had pressed into her journal, as though holding them close might preserve the fragile connection she and Ren were building.
That morning, Hana awoke with a restless feeling in her chest. She hadn't heard from Ren since yesterday afternoon. Normally, even if he was busy, he would at least send her a small message: a photo of the sky, a random thought, or simply her name written in his elegant, minimal way. But yesterday evening had passed in silence, and now, with the sunlight already filtering into her room, the silence felt heavier.
Her fingers hovered over her phone, tempted to send him a message, but she hesitated. Was she being too clingy? Too expectant? She wanted to believe in his words from before—that she mattered, that what they shared was special—but her insecurities whispered otherwise. What if his silence meant he was drifting away?
Finally, unable to sit still any longer, Hana dressed and left her apartment. She walked aimlessly at first, letting the city's rhythm carry her along. Vendors were setting up their stalls, children ran across the park in their uniforms, and couples strolled hand-in-hand. Every pair she passed tugged at her heart, reminding her of Ren, of how natural it felt to walk beside him.
Her steps slowed when she reached the entrance to a small riverside path lined with willows. It had been one of the first places Ren had taken her for photos—back when their connection had just started to bloom. She paused, staring at the path, and almost without realizing it, walked in.
The river shimmered faintly beneath the sun, reflecting light in waves of gold. Hana inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her lungs. But then she noticed something that made her heart stumble: Ren's figure, just ahead, sitting on the wooden railing with his camera in hand.
For a heartbeat, relief washed through her. She wanted to run to him, to call his name. But then she saw who stood beside him.
The same young woman from before—the one Hana had seen in the garden, the fellow photographer. She was leaning close, laughing softly at something Ren had said, and Ren was smiling—not the polite, distant smile Hana remembered, but a genuine one.
Hana froze, her hands trembling. The world seemed to blur, the river's reflection turning sharp and fragmented. She couldn't hear their words from where she stood, but she didn't need to. The sight alone was enough to awaken every fear she had buried since their last conversation.
"Ren…" she whispered, her voice lost to the wind.
Her mind screamed at her to turn back, to leave before either of them noticed her. But her heart refused to move. She wanted to believe there was an explanation, that his smile didn't mean what it seemed. Yet doubt crept in like shadows, wrapping tightly around her chest.
Finally, Ren glanced up. His eyes widened as they met hers, surprise flashing across his face. He stood quickly, almost too quickly, as though caught off guard.
"Hana!" he called, striding toward her.
The other woman turned too, her expression curious but unreadable. Hana forced her lips into a thin smile, though her insides churned.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," Hana said quietly when Ren reached her.
Ren shook his head. "You're not interrupting. I should've told you I was coming here today. I just…" He hesitated, glancing back at the woman, who had begun adjusting her camera as though giving them space. "…I met her here by coincidence."
The words sounded reasonable, but Hana's heart clung to the image of their shared laughter. Coincidence or not, she couldn't shake the sting.
"I see," she murmured, lowering her gaze.
Ren reached for her hand, his touch warm and grounding. "Hana, look at me."
She did, though her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
"You're the one I want beside me," he said firmly. "Yes, I know other people exist in this world, and sometimes paths cross. But you—" his grip tightened slightly, "—you're the one I want to walk these paths with."
Hana swallowed hard, torn between believing him and the weight of her own fears. "Then why does it feel like I'm always discovering things about you secondhand?" she whispered. "Like there are parts of your world I'll never be welcome in."
Ren's face softened, guilt flickering in his eyes. "I've lived so much of my life in solitude that I forget how to share it fully. It's not you I'm shutting out—it's just old habits I haven't unlearned yet. But I want to unlearn them. For you."
Her heart trembled at his sincerity. She wanted to lean into him, to believe his words completely. But the doubt lingered, faint but persistent, like a shadow at the edge of light.
The woman finally approached, offering Hana a polite bow before excusing herself. "I'll let you two have your time," she said lightly, before walking down the riverside path. Hana watched her leave, feeling both relief and the hollow ache of insecurity.
Silence settled between her and Ren until he spoke again, softer this time. "Hana… will you trust me enough to stay? Even when doubts whisper otherwise?"
Her throat tightened, but she nodded slowly. "I'll try."
Ren's smile was small but genuine. "That's all I can ask."
They spent the rest of the day together by the river, Ren taking photos while Hana sat nearby, sketching the willows and the rippling water. Their conversations were gentle, filled with small laughter and quiet reassurances. Yet beneath the surface, Hana could feel the delicate balance of their bond—beautiful, fragile, and in need of careful tending.
That night, back in her room, Hana opened her journal and placed a fresh pressed petal inside. She traced its delicate lines with her fingertips, remembering Ren's words. Trust was not something given once and kept forever. It had to be renewed, nurtured, and tested against the weight of fears.
As she closed the journal, Hana whispered to herself: "I will try. For us."
And though her heart still ached with uncertainty, she also felt a flicker of strength—a belief that even if petals drifted away, new blossoms could bloom in their place, as long as she and Ren kept walking forward together.