The first visit ended, leaving behind the lingering scent of her presence and the quiet ache of physical separation. Going back to my own university city felt different after seeing hers, after experiencing the intensity of Todai firsthand. The physical distance was now a lived reality, not just a looming threat.
Our long-distance relationship settled into a rhythm dictated by train schedules, conflicting university classes, and the relentless demands of our new academic lives. Spontaneous calls were rare. Communication became more intentional, scheduled snippets of time carved out amidst lectures, study groups, and new social commitments.
"Got ten minutes between my calculus and history lectures!" I'd text.
Sakura: Perfect! Just finished a library session! Quick call? 😊
These brief calls were lifelines, moments to connect, share updates, and remind ourselves of the bond stretching across the miles. We'd talk about our classes, our professors, the weird quirks of dorm life. It was a conscious effort to weave our separate new realities together into a shared narrative.
But the rhythm wasn't always smooth. Missed calls, delayed texts, and conflicting schedules were constant, tiny points of friction in the vast expanse of distance.
"Sorry I missed your call," I'd say, genuinely disappointed. "Had an unexpected study group run over."
Sakura: It's okay! Mine just ended! Just wanted to see how your presentation went! Heard you rocked it! 😉 (She'd heard from Aiko, who'd heard from Kenji, demonstrating our friend group's continued, albeit long-distance, support network).
Her hearing about my life through our friends was both comforting and a quiet reminder that our primary connection was now mediated, reliant on conscious effort and shared contacts.
We developed new routines for staying connected. Scheduled video calls became important, a chance to see each other's faces, to share a meal "together" across screens, or just to sit in comfortable silence while working on our separate studies. We sent each other pictures of our campuses, our dorm rooms, the mundane details of our daily lives, trying to make the other person's new reality feel more tangible.
Reading the same book became a shared activity, giving us a common point of discussion beyond just recounting our days. It was a way of creating a shared space, a shared experience, even when we were miles apart.
These conscious efforts were crucial, the scaffolding holding up the structure of our long-distance relationship. It required patience, understanding, and a willingness to forgive the inevitable moments of miscommunication or unintended neglect that arose from the demands of our new lives.
The rhythm of the miles wasn't the easy, fluid rhythm of daily proximity. It was a deliberate, sometimes challenging, but ultimately necessary dance of schedules, calls, texts, and conscious connection. It was the new heartbeat of our unexpected love story, beating steadily across the distance, determined to prove that even miles couldn't break the bond we had forged.