What would've happened if an Takaki sent his unwritten feelings to Akari during his days in Tanegashima? What if, instead of trying to maintain the perfect image in his mind, which he so claimed would be tainted if put in writing, was written down and sent regardless, thus maintaining their connection? A massive change in the plot of '5 centimeters per second', maybe a bit too idealized even. An alternate ending to Shinkai's movie/novel/manga and Shinkai and Kanoh's after-novel. And a happier one.

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This fanfic is pieced as an epistolary, and is, for the most part, an exchange of letters between Akari and Takaki.

Perfection, or Misery?

Dear Akari,

How are you?

It has taken me a long time to write this letter. This is one of the many that I wrote and rewrote, never sure if the words I chose were right. Or if such words even existed to begin with. But if I keep waiting for them, I may never be able to write to you again.

For a long time, I have been writing to you without sending anything. Not letters, like this, but emails. I would peer into my mobile phone for long hours, typing words which were never seen by you. Sometimes it would only be a few lines, while sometimes they would stretch longer than I expected them to. I would tell you about the island, about the sky here, and about the launches I watch from afar. Small things that feel larger when there’s no one to share them with.

And then I would stop. I would reread what I had written and feel that it was not right. Perhaps it was too plain, or too direct, or somehow missing the point entirely. And before I could decide what to do, I would delete all of it.

I’ve done that more times than I can remember.

I think I told myself that silence was better than saying something imperfect. Yet, recently, someone said something that changed it, which is why this letter is one that I'm going to post after many months.

A classmate of mine, Kanae was talking about catching a perfect wave on her surfboard. She supposedly did it once. And yet, she returns to the ocean every day. She says that it's just a stepping stone, because if she stopped there, she'd never move forward again. There is no such thing as a perfect ending. Only moments when we decide to stop.

I didn't understand her for a long time. However, slowly, I realized that I have been treating one moment of my life as if it had to remain untouched in order to remain true and perfect. As if putting it into words would ruin it.

I mean the night in Iwafune. Until now, I’ve avoided writing about it.

It's not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I felt that putting it into words would somehow tarnish it. That night felt complete in a way I couldn’t explain. The snow, the long journey, the stillness of the station. And you. It was everything for me.

And the kiss.

Even writing that feels strange. The word is too small for what it held in my heart. I think I believed that if I left it indescribable, it would remain exactly as it was. Unchanged and untouched by distance or time. Human language is such an ineffective tool to even begin to describe what I felt that night.

But my silence didn’t preserve it. It only kept me from reaching you. Kept my dearest feeling locked up in a safe I was not able to access anymore.

Language, no matter how inadequate it feels, is all I have to reach out to you.

There was a letter I wrote for you back then, while I was on my way to see you. I had meant to give it to you when we were to meet at the train station. It had everything I couldn't have brought myself to tell you in person. But in the snow storm along the way, I lost it. For a long time during the journey, I had thought that losing that letter meant losing the chance to say what I felt.

Yet, what I felt didn’t disappear with it. It stayed with me, even when I tried not to think about it too closely. Even when I told myself it belonged only to that one night. Even when I told myself that our time had reached its end, and what we had experienced by that cherry tree was so incredible that the letter wasn't needed anymore.

I think I was afraid to let it exist beyond that moment. That would mean admitting it hadn’t ended there. So I’ll try to say it now, even if it’s clumsy.

I love you, Akari.

Not just as someone I once knew in elementary school, or someone I met in the snow, but as someone I’ve never really stopped thinking about. The distance didn’t make you feel like a memory to me. If anything, it’s made everything feel unfinished. And I think that I never really stopped loving you, even after being so far out of reach from you. Even now, when I look up at the sky here, I find myself searching for something distant, something I can’t quite reach. I used to think that that was just how I was. But I realize now, it was always you I was looking for.

I don’t know what your life is like now, or what this letter means to you. I don’t know if this letter will arrive at the right time, or if it will only disturb something you’ve already settled. I don’t know what place I have in your present life anymore, if at all.

But I know that I can’t keep choosing silence just because I’m afraid of saying something that falls short.

If these words aren’t enough, then at least they’ve reached you. Please write back if you can.

Takaki

---

Dear Takaki,

How have you been? It has truly been a long time since we last wrote to each other. Thank you for the letter.

When it arrived, I stared at your name on the envelope for a long time. It felt oddly surreal, so much that I had to sit down before opening it. I probably sat there at my desk for a good few minutes, wondering if I should read it. It felt strange, in a way I can’t quite explain. Not unfamiliar, but not something I had allowed myself to expect either. I felt that things I had kept still in my heart, in my memories, would being moving again.

But I did open it. After I finished reading, I realized that they already had.

When your letter arrived, I've been telling myself that I should be able to read your letter calmly, since enough time has passed for me to take this as something gentle, something laid to rest that I can look fondly at and then quietly set aside again.

I think I understand what you meant about words. About them being a poor utility for expressing what we had at Iwafune station, by the withered cherry tree. I’ve never been able to describe it either. Even now, when I try, it feels like I’m remembering something fragile, like snow resting on a quiet field. If I speak too loudly, it might melt away. So I never spoke about it, even to myself.

That day, while waiting for you at the station, I wrote you a letter. I had always carried stationery with me, so that I could write to you whenever I wanted to. I wrote it while watching the snow fall outside, thinking about every moment we spent together before separation. I felt so lonely before the day I met you, and meeting you made even the most ordinary days become something I could look forward to. You made the quiet and distant world feel close and warm.

I wrote down everything I wanted to tell you, but couldn't. I wanted to tell you that I loved you.

I was planning to give it to you when you arrived. But seeing you, in person, standing in front of me, it somehow felt that words were no longer necessary, or as we've both come to know by now, they simply weren't enough. I thought that everything I wrote in that letter were things you already knew. And because, perhaps, I was afraid. Giving that letter to you would turn that night into something concrete and tangible.

I still have the letter. For a long time, I thought that things were better left unsaid, if they had been understood in the moment.

Reading your letter made me realize how wrong I was. I wasn't protecting anything, only avoiding it. That night is still so clear to me. The snow, the cold, the warmth inside near the stove. And you, finally standing there. I remember how relieved I felt, and how everything that had been uncertain suddenly wasn’t anymore.

And the kiss. It still feels hard getting myself to write that word. Like I’m reducing something that couldn’t be reduced, couldn't be captured in such simple words. We both thought that the moment was perfect, and that our silence was protecting it. In truth, we were only leaving it behind.

Takaki. Even now, your name feels like a gentle prayer on my tongue.

I love you Takaki. I always did, and I still do. I filled my days with other things, and stopped writing. Yet, there was a quiet place in me that remained unchanged, like that night.

I don’t think I’ve moved on. I tried to believe that I had. I told myself that what I felt belonged to the past, that it was something I should be grateful for and then let go of properly. It could stay as a beautiful memory without affecting the present. But it never really stayed that way. It's not something I can place neatly in the past and leave there, no matter how much I try. It hasn't faded in the way I expected it to. Your letter made that impossible to ignore. I'm glad you wrote to me.

A moment doesn’t lose its meaning just because we continue living after it. It becomes part of what comes next. So this time, I don’t want to leave things unsaid. I don’t want to keep preserving something by standing still.

I want to speak, even if the words are imperfect. I still love you Takaki.

Akari

The way forward

Dear Akari,

Your last letter arrived on a day when the sky here was unusually clear. I had come back later than usual. The wind was strong, and there was sand everywhere again. I remember thinking, before opening your letter, that I should probably wash my hands first. And yet I didn’t. I opened it just like that, with the dust still on my fingers.

In its own way, that felt more honest. I read it slowly. I’ve noticed that I do that now. Before, I used to rush through your letters, as if I were afraid of missing something, or trying to find your emotions hidden beneath and between the lines. Now I read them in parts. I stop, look up, and then come back to them again.

It feels closer to the way we used to talk. You wrote that your days have been busy lately. I could tell, even without you saying it directly. Your sentences have changed a little. They’re still yours, but they don’t rush in the way they used to. It doesn't feel like you're inking every single thought that comes to your mind, as if you not writing them would let them fade in all eternity. The lines move forward more slowly, as if they want to linger. As if you're thinking each word with care when you get the time to.

I hope that doesn’t sound strange. It isn’t a bad thing. If anything, it feels more real. But sometimes, when I read your letters now, I notice a kind of quiet tiredness in them. And I wonder if mine feel the same to you.

I think they probably do. It’s strange.

We used to write as if we had endless space. As if every thought needed to be written down before it disappeared. Now, it feels different. Not smaller, but heavier. Each word has to carry more than it used to.

Even so, I still prefer writing to you like this.

I know we could just send emails. It would be easier and faster. There are days when I almost do that. I even open the screen sometimes, out of habit. But it never feels right. It feels too immediate, too unfinished, and too rushed. Almost as if it breaches the sanctity of the written word.

A letter takes time, both to write and to arrive. And in that time, something settles. I think that’s why I keep choosing this. It feels important. Deliberate. Like I’m not just sending you words, but something that has already passed through me once. It gives my words more meaning, even if it renders me exhausted on occasions. I think I prefer this exhaustion to anything else.

I’ve been thinking about Tokyo more often lately, but not in the same way as before. It doesn’t feel distant in the same way anymore. Sometimes I catch myself imagining small things. Walking somewhere without thinking about it. Passing by places that don’t mean anything in particular. And then, suddenly, imagining you there too.

As something possible, not just as a memory.

I don’t know if that will really happen the way I picture it. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel impossible either.

There are still days when the distance feels very real. The sky here feels too wide and everything slows down in a way I cannot explain. On those days, I think about how long it takes for a letter to reach you, and it feels like too much.

But then I remember that you are reading these same words, just at a different time. Somehow, that’s enough.

I don’t think I’ve become any better at expressing things than before. If anything, I’m more aware of how much I leave unsaid. However, I don’t feel the same fear about that anymore, because I know you understand the parts I can’t quite put into words. And I understand yours too.

I still remember Iwafune. Not as a moment I have to protect anymore. Just as a memory that happened to us. Something real and something to be cherished.

I think that’s why I can write to you like this now. Because it no longer feels like I’m trying to preserve something, just continuing it.

Take care of yourself, Akari. Write when you can.

Takaki

---

Dear Takaki,

I read your letter on the train. It was crowded, and I had to stand for most of the ride. I thought I would just skim it and read it properly later, but I couldn’t stop once I started. I kept losing my place because of the movement, so I had to go back and read some parts again.

By the time I reached my stop, I felt like I had already been somewhere else.

I think I understand what you meant about how our letters have changed. When I write now, it feels different too. I notice myself stopping more often. It is because I'm more aware of how it is going to sound when it reaches you. I often erase words, not because they are wrong, or because I don't know what to say. I do it because they feel too heavy for the page. It's weird how being honest with your emotions changes you.

I never used to think like that before. Back then, I would just write whatever came to me, as if the words not put on paper would suddenly seize to exist. I didn’t worry about how it would be read. I think I believed that if I kept writing long enough, everything important would eventually make its way in.

Now it feels like the opposite. Like I have to choose carefully, even though I know I’ll never be able to include everything. Maybe that’s why the letters feel a little tired. But I don’t want to stop writing them.

I know we could send emails instead. It would be a lot easier. There are days when I feel like I don’t have the energy to sit down and write properly. On those days, I almost reach for something quicker. A short message maybe, or something else. I stop myself every single time because this feels different. Truer. It takes time to write to you. And time for the letter to reach you. And I think I’ve come to value that time. It makes the words feel more settled. Like they’ve had a chance to become what they are before they arrive. It feels important to me too.

I’ve been thinking about what you wrote about Tokyo. I’ve been thinking about it in a similar way. Not as something far away, or something I’m waiting for. Just as something that might just happen, naturally, if we keep going the way we are now.

Sometimes I imagine seeing you there. Not in a dramatic way. Perhaps turning a corner, or stepping onto a platform, and noticing you before I’ve fully realized it. I wonder if I would recognize you immediately. I think I would, despite how long it has been for us to have seen each other in person.

There are still moments when everything feels a little distant. When I remember how far apart we are right now, and how much of our lives we’re still living separately, it hurts a bit. On such days, I feel sad. It's the kind of sadness you feel about something being there, and yet, just out of grasp.

I think that’s because of these letters. They don’t make the distance disappear. But they make it feel shared. We’re both aware of it, instead of facing it alone. I still think about Iwafune too. Not in the same way as before. It doesn’t feel like something I have to let go of anymore. It feels like something that belongs to us, even now, and perhaps forever. I’m glad you wrote to me. I’m glad we’re still writing, even if it feels a little tiring sometimes. Even if the words don’t come out the way we want them to. That is enough.

Please take care of yourself. Write to me again.

Akari

Anticipation

Dear Akari,

It’s getting warmer here. The wind hasn’t changed much, but the air feels different. The sky looks the same as always, but I’ve started noticing small things I never used to before. Maybe it’s just because I’ve been thinking about leaving.

Graduation is getting closer, and I'm nervous, even if I'm looking forward to it.

I still find it a little hard to believe. For a long time, this place felt like something that would go on indefinitely. Now, it feels like everything is slowly gathering itself towards an end, and towards something else.

I got the results from Tokyo. I think you already know what I’m going to say. I’ll be moving there.

Even writing that feels strange. Not strange in the way of the distant like before, but close strange. It's something I’ve thought about for so long that it doesn’t quite feel real now that it’s actually happening. I keep thinking about what it will be like. Not the big things. Just small ones.

Being able to walk through a station without checking the time too often. Sitting somewhere without feeling like I’m just passing through. Looking up and knowing that you’re somewhere in the same city, under the same clouds, feeling the gentle caress of the same winds.

It doesn’t feel dramatic in my head. Just, quiet. And that’s what makes me nervous.

We’ve been writing like this for so long now. Even when it felt tiring. Even when the words didn’t come easily. Somehow, the distance became something we understood how to live with. But being in the same place is something that I cannot fathom, no matter how much I think of it. I don’t know what that will be like.

Not in a bad way. Just unknown.

I wonder if I’ll recognize you immediately. I think I will. But I also wonder how much we’ve changed in ways we can’t see through letters.

There are moments when I feel certain that nothing important has changed. Then, there are moments when I realize that everything has. Maybe that’s normal. I’ve been re-reading some of your older letters. The earlier ones feel different. Lighter, maybe. There’s a kind of rhythm to them that I don’t see as much now. Not in a bad way.

The ones you write now feel more grounded. More careful. I can feel the pauses, the deliberation in them. I think mine feel the same to you.

Maybe that’s what happens when you keep writing even when it’s difficult. I’m glad we didn’t stop. There were so many times when it would have been easier to. Even now. There are days when I feel tired just thinking about writing. But when I actually sit down and do it, it feels like something I shouldn’t give up on. It matters in a way I can’t replace with anything else.

Maybe that’s why I never switched to emails with you. It always felt like it would make things shallower. I didn’t want that with you.

Akari, we’ll be in the same city soon. I don’t know how to write about that properly.

I think I’m looking forward to it. Even if it feels a little daunting at first.

Take care until then.

Takaki

---

Dear Takaki,

I read your letter at my desk, late at night. I had meant to read it earlier, but I kept putting it off. It was not because I didn’t want to; rather, I felt like I needed to be completely still when I did. When I finished reading it, I didn’t move for a while.

I think I understand what you mean. Things are feeling close, but not quite real yet. I got my results too. I’ll be coming to Tokyo as well. Even now, writing that feels a little unreal.

For a long time, I wasn’t sure if it would happen. It wasn't as if I didn’t want it. It was because I wasn’t sure if I would be allowed to choose it so clearly.

I need to tell you something important for both of us. I spoke to my parents about you. Properly, this time, unlike when I made an appeal for the same middle school in Tokyo all those years back. I told them everything I could. How we’ve been writing. How we didn’t stop, even when it became difficult. How I still think about you.

How I still love you.

It was the first time I said it out loud like that. They were quiet for a long time. I think it was because they were surprised. Perhaps not by what I said, rather, by how certain I sounded.

I told them that I wanted to go to Tokyo and that I wasn’t saying it lightly. I told them that I’d tried moving forward, keeping you as nothing but a fond memory of my past. And yet, what I felt for you wasn’t something that had faded, no matter how much I tried to treat it like something that does.

I told them that I didn’t want to pretend anymore. It’s with you, or nothing. Even as I said it, I felt a little afraid, and despite that, I didn’t take it back. After that, things changed slowly. Not all at once. Enough, however. They've agreed. I don’t think they fully understand. Yet, they accepted it. So I’ll be going to Tokyo too. It still feels strange to write that to you.

Like something we’ve been circling around for a long time is finally becoming real. That makes me really nervous. It isn't because I’m unsure, but because I’ve spent so long holding these feelings in a place where they couldn’t be tested by reality, and now they will be. I’ve been thinking about what it will be like to see you again. Not in the way I used to dream about it. About that fateful night at Iwafune station. Rather, something simple. Maybe we won’t even know what to say at first. It will likely be quiet. I don’t think that would be a bad thing. We’ve already said so much even when we were tired, and when our hearts and minds felt heavier than before.

I think about how we kept writing anyway. There were days when I didn’t want to. I'm sure you must have felt the same, being so mentally and emotionally drained that you didn't have the energy for the right words. We still sat down and wrote.

It wasn't a compulsion, but an effort. It was to sustain our bond, one we didn't want to lose despite distance separating us for a long time.

Takaki, we’ll be in the same city soon. I don’t know what will happen after that. But one thing is certain. I’m not afraid of it. Not in the way I used to be. I’m looking forward to it.

Please take care until then.

Akari

The letters before the meeting

Dear Akari,

I arrived earlier than I needed to. The station feels different from the ones I’m used to. So many people, and yet it doesn’t feel crowded in the same way. Everyone seems to be moving with a purpose I can’t quite follow yet. Perhaps that's just life.

I found an empty bench to sit for a while. I would have waited, but then I decided to do what you did, and would have done, in this situation. I pulled out a sheet of paper, and that's where I'm writing this. It feels familiar, since I did it often when we corresponded in elementary school in Tokyo and Iwafune. I did this before seeing you at Iwafune, but that was done in my own room, much before I even boarded the train. I was emotionally broken when it was lost somewhere in the storm along the way. This time, however, I don’t think I’ll lose this one. Even so, I feel hesitant to actually give it to you. But I will. I have learned enough from my mistakes to not repeat them. Somehow, it feels enough just to write it out on paper though.

It’s spring now. There are cherry blossoms outside the station. All of them haven't fully bloomed yet, but some have. The petals are lighter than I remember. Or maybe I’m just noticing them differently. Which reminded me of a promise we made, back in elementary school. We were to watch the cherry blossoms together the following year. But fate didn't let us.

At the time, I thought it was just something small that slipped away. Later, I realized it stayed with me far longer than I expected. That could be because it was the first time I understood, time doesn't always move in the way we want. We can only steer life so much according to our whims. There were a lot of things we weren't able to do together. Still, we kept moving forward, eventually reaching something like this.

Being here now feels quiet in a way I didn't imagine before. I used to think that when we finally met again like this, everything would become clear at once. That there would be something definite, something I could point to and say, “This is it.”

It feels like anything but that. Ordinary, would be the best way to describe it. I think that’s why it matters.

We’ve spent so much time writing to each other. Even when it was difficult. Even when it felt like the words weren’t enough. Those letters carried something forward, even when we couldn’t see what it would become. And now that we’re here, I don’t feel like I need to say anything special.

Just seeing you might be enough. Still, there is something I want to do. If you’re okay with it, I’d like to go see the cherry blossoms with you. Not as a promise for the future. Just as something we can do now.

I think that would be enough. I’ll be waiting.

Takaki

---

Dear Takaki,

I’m writing this before I leave my house. I thought I wouldn’t need to, that I'd just get dressed up and ready, and leave the place, that it would be enough for me. Something made me sit for a moment and write this down, so I did. It’s spring here. The cherry blossoms have started blooming. Not all at once, but slowly. Some branches are still bare, and others are approaching fullness. When the wind blows, a few petals fall early. I stood near the large cherry tree for a while yesterday, just watching them. It was the same one where we shared our first kiss. I still find it hard to write that sentence.

Then I remembered something. When we were younger, we made a promise. We would see the cherry blossoms together the coming year. We never did.

At the time, I was disappointed, but I didn’t think it would matter for very long. However, that small promise stayed with me. Maybe because it was the first one we couldn’t keep.

After that, there were so many things we couldn’t share. But we kept writing. Even when it became tiring, when the letters didn’t feel the way they used to.

There were days when I didn’t want to write at all. I felt like I didn’t have the energy to put anything into words. But I still did it, simply because I didn’t want to lose what we had. I believe you felt the same way.

Now we’re both going to be at the same place after so long. It still feels unreal, almost like a dream.

I’ve imagined this moment in so many different ways, but now that it’s actually here, actually happening, it feels much quieter than I expected.

It's not the silence of emptiness, but rather, the calmness of the heart and the soul. Despite the fact that my heart races a little every time I think of Tokyo.

I don’t know what I’ll say when I see you, if anything at all. Atleast I'm not afraid. That's because we've already said so much in the past few years, and with such great care and deliberation, even when it sapped us of our strengths. We were honest and shared our feelings to the extent to which we could. I don't think we could have done any better than that.

Takaki, If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go see the cherry blossoms together. Not as something we promised a long time ago, but as something we can finally do together now.

I’ll be on my way soon.

Akari

Tokyo

NOTES: This chapter is not a letter exchange, and is narrated in 3rd person POV

They don't notice each other immediately. The station is busy with the constant bustle of people trying to get to wherever their day was taking them. It has always been this way, and always will be. People move past each other without as much as a glance, footsteps overlapping, announcements dissolving into the hubbub before they can fully settle

Takaki sits on a bench not too far from where the train stops on the platform. A little apart from the main flow of people moving around, he scans the incoming people with his eyes, trying to find a face he thinks will look familiar. He isn't frantic, but he isn't hesitant either.

Akari realizes she's reached Tokyo when the intercom in the train goes off. She steps off the train with others, carried forward and moving away from the train for a few moments before she slows.

And then, their eyes meet. It's not dramatic, like a sudden realization. It's just a pause, a moment in which neither of them moves. There's a small, imperceptible shift in both of them. Emotions weighing their souls were lifted. Their anticipations and expectations were now face to face with them, their imaginations finally aligning with what they had in front of them.

Almost together, they both step forward. One step, and then another, closing the distance without urgency but without hesitation either. They finally stop when neither of them has to reach farther than a step to the other.

For a moment, they simply look at each other. They recognized the subtle differences in each other, the ones you see when you know each other for long, not through the flesh, but through the soul. Then almost, at the same time, they move, embracing each other, it being so natural that it surprises both of them. It is neither hesitant nor overwhelming. It simply is. Firm, certain, something like the feeling that they conveyed in countless letters and are now doing so with the embrace.

And then, without thinking too much, they pull back just enough to look at each other again. There's a brief pause, before they start leaning in, perhaps a bit faster than 5 centimeters per second. And then, they feel their soft lips on each other.

It isn't the same as Iwafune for them. In fact, it's nowhere close for them. That moment is unmatched in its beauty and perfection. This time, they're not under a withered cherry blossom tree. Snow isn't falling around them, and the soft winds aren't blowing. Instead, they're surrounded by people rushing to schools, offices, and wherever else their lives are taking them. The gentle rustle of winds is replaced by the constant noise of pedestrians and announcements. But they don't care that it's not perfect. It doesn't become any less special for them, since this is what they have right now.

When they separate, they don't say anything. For once, they feel that they don't need to. After what may seem like an eternity of silence, Takaki says, "Should we go?"

They walk side by side. The city feels different from their childhood, yet all the same. They don't talk much on their way. A small comment about the weather. How the air feels warmer than expected. Beneath it all, however, there's something steady. They fall into step perfectly, neither of them noticing how they are holding the other person's hand, as if it were the most natural thing to do.

When they reach the train crossing, both of them stop. It's familiar, yet all the more different. This time, they aren't saying goodbye on opposite sides. They're standing side by side, while the barriers lower and the trains pass, one after the other. The winds that rush forth to fill the vacancy of the trains bring with them a scattering of cherry petals from somewhere nearby. The barriers lift, and both of them cross the road together. On the other side, the path opens toward the park. The trees are lined with blossoms, some already beginning to fall, soft against the ground.

Later, in the quiet of their new room, the city sounding muted behind thin walls, they sit close together. It feels unfamiliar in many ways. The new space, the nearness, and the absence of distance. And yet, it feels so similar to that snowy night.

Akari leans lightly against Takaki, the same way she had that night in Iwafune. He adjusts slightly, just enough to make it easier for her to rest there.

Their quiet moment together was interrupted by Takaki pulling out the letter he wrote at the station, while waiting for her. She does the same. As they read the letters the other one wrote for them, their voices are quiet. Sometimes they stop midway through a sentence, smiling wistfully.

This is what together feels like.

To you

Dear you,

You're not here yet, although we've already started thinking of you as someone who is. The doctors say that there's a week left, but of course they cannot be very precise on such things. For us, time has never moved the way we expected it to anyways. Still, the day we can hold you feels close.

Your mother is resting beside me as I write this. She'll add to it later, as she's asleep for now. Or at least she pretends to be. She has been tired lately, but her smile is still the same. The mere thought of you alone brings joy to both of us.

Some things don't really change, and that's why we're writing this letter. We're not entirely sure how to say these things out loud. This has always been the case with the two of us. Maybe, by the time you read this, you'll find this to be an absurd statement, as you'd know us as two people who talk normally and say simple things without thinking too much about them.

However, for the longest time, these letters, these words written with ink were our only refuge. We lived far apart. Much father than what you'll understand at first. Not just in distance, but in time as well. We missed each other often. Sometimes we didn't know how to say what we felt. Sometimes we said too much, and sometimes we said nothing at all.

There was a night, a long time ago, in a city far away, when we met after being apart for a long time. It was snowing, and trains were delayed. I lost a letter I had written for your mother in the journey. We thought we might not see each other at all. Yet, against all odds, we did. We waited, and waited, and found each other. That night felt complete. So complete that we were afraid to speak about it afterwards. We thought that if we tried to put it into words, we'd lose the meaning of the night, taint it in a way where it was irrecoverable.

It took us a few years to understand that we were wrong. We spent years writing letters after that, even when it felt tiring. Even when we thought that the words weren't enough, we kept writing. That was the only way we knew how to stay connected. With that, we learned something very important.

Imperfect words are still worth saying. Reaching out matters more that getting it exactly right. Love doesn't disappear just because it becomes quiet. You’ll probably hear this story many times, in many different ways. Maybe when you’re older, or maybe when you’re not really listening. That’s alright. We're still figuring out how to tell it properly ourselves.

There's something we want you to know. You are not the result of a perfect story. Far from it. We weren't always brave or honest. There were times when we almost lost each other, not because something ended, but because we didn't know how to keep going. However, we kept trying, and somehow that was enough.

You're about to arrive now. Everything feels different again. Not in an overwhelming way like we expected. Rather, it's a sort of quiet. We wonder what you'll like, what you'll notice first, whether you'll like the sound of rain, or the feeling of wind, or the way the light changes in the evening. Or perhaps you will notice the falling cherry blossom petals, slowly descending at 5 centimeters per second.

Most importantly, we wonder if you'll find it easy to say what you feel, and if you don't, that's alright too. For long, we weren't able to, either. But we sure hope you'll try anyways.

(I woke up just now. He's still writing too carefully)

Hello, this is your mother. I'm not really sure how to continue from here. He's already written most of what I wanted to say. That has been happening quite often now. The two of us, completing each others' thoughts.

There is something I still need to tell you, and that's because I'm the only one who can talk about this. There were many times when I thought that I had let go of what I felt. Not because it disappeared, but because that's what people were supposed to do. Some things belong in the past, and you have to move forward by leaving them behind. That was what I thought anyway.

But I wasn't able to, and I'm glad for it to be the case. If I had, I wouldn't be here today. And you wouldn't be here either.

So if there's something you feel strongly about some day, something that stays with you even when you try to ignore it, I hope you won't be afraid of it. You don't have to understand it right away. You don't have to explain it perfectly.

Just don't turn away from it too quickly.

Also, your father still prefers writing letters to this day. We could have written this on a phone, or a computer, and that would have been much faster. But we still chose this instead.

Maybe when you read this, it will feel a little old-fashioned, but to the two of us, it matters. Because this is how everything between us continued. Even when things were turning out to be difficult, and even when we were really tired. That's why we're reaching out to you like this.

We’re looking forward to meeting you. We don’t know what kind of parents we’ll be yet. We’ll probably make mistakes. But we’ll try. Just like we did before.

And when you arrive, we’ll finally be able to say this without writing it down first.

Welcome.

With love, Takaki and Akari