Four Years Later
The world looked different at twenty.
Not necessarily easier—but wider. Wilder. Edges sanded down by experience, corners dulled by heartbreak, joy, and everything in between.
For Takara Minami, it had been four years since high school graduation. Four years since he'd walked out of the dorm, diploma in hand, tears hidden behind a too-bright grin. Four years since he had last seen Kayo Tsukishiro—in person, anyway.
Sure, there'd been messages. Occasional holiday check-ins, a birthday wish here and there. A brief call during their first semester apart. But time was cruel and college relentless, and distance had this way of making things blurry even when the memories stayed sharp.
Now, standing in front of Apartment 403, bags slung over both shoulders, Takara exhaled.
His first place.
No roommates. No curfews. No dorm supervisors with tight smiles and judgmental eyes.
Just him, a stack of secondhand furniture, and a city that pulsed with possibility.
"I'm really doing this," he muttered, twisting the key in the lock. "Welcome home, me."
The door creaked open.
The apartment was small, but it had charm.
A studio with a wide window that overlooked the street, wood floors that creaked when you stepped in the wrong places, and beige walls begging for posters. Takara dumped his bags, stretched, and cracked open the window to let the late spring air in.
The building was quiet. Older tenants, maybe. Or just tired students like him who didn't have energy to scream into the void anymore.
He took a deep breath, let it out, and leaned on the windowsill.
That's when the door across the hall opened.
And out walked someone he hadn't seen in four years.
Headphones around his neck. A messenger bag slung across one shoulder. That same disinterested, perpetually unfazed look.
Takara froze.
"Kayo?"
Kayo turned, blinked, and stared.
A long beat passed. The kind where time seemed to fold over on itself, where years condensed into seconds.
"…Takara?"
Takara broke into a wide, disbelieving smile. "You have got to be kidding me."
Kayo didn't move.
Takara laughed, half-shocked, half-delighted. "You live across from me?"
Kayo's expression didn't change, but there was something in his eyes—disoriented wonder, maybe.
"…I guess I do."
They stood there for a moment—Takara in his doorway, Kayo in his—and it felt like the world had set up the universe's most awkward stage play.
"So," Takara said, scratching the back of his neck. "Do we… hug? Or, like, pretend the last four years didn't happen?"
Kayo stared at him. "I'm still deciding."
Takara stepped forward. "I'm voting hug."
He moved too fast, too familiar, but Kayo didn't pull away. He froze, arms awkward at his sides, before eventually—reluctantly—he returned it.
It was brief.
But real.
And it made something in Takara's chest ache.
Later that evening, after half-unpacking and two cups of instant ramen, Takara wandered back into the hallway to check his mailbox.
He ran into Kayo again, this time on the stairs.
"Let me guess," Takara said, "you've been here longer?"
"Three months," Kayo replied.
"You never told me you were moving here."
"You never told me either."
"…Touché."
They descended the stairs together. An unspoken truce, or maybe just habit. Four years couldn't erase the rhythm of shared silence.
"You're still quiet," Takara said, glancing sideways.
"You're still loud," Kayo replied without looking at him.
Takara grinned. "Balance."
Kayo almost smiled.
As they reached the building lobby, Kayo asked, "What program are you in?"
"Literature and media," Takara said proudly. "Creative writing major. You?"
Kayo paused. "Film."
Takara stopped walking. "Wait… seriously?"
Kayo nodded once.
"No way," Takara said, slowly breaking into laughter. "We're at the same university?"
"Looks like it."
"This is so unfair. I didn't prepare for emotional whiplash today."
"You never prepare for anything," Kayo said, but it lacked bite.
They stood there in the lobby under flickering lights, both twenty years old, both different and the same.
And then, softly, Kayo asked, "You still write?"
Takara blinked. "Every day."
Kayo's voice lowered. "Good."
Later that night, Takara sat on the floor of his new apartment, pen hovering over his journal.
He wasn't even sure what to write. So much had happened—and yet it felt like nothing had.
So he wrote the truth.
Kayo's here.
Four years later, and somehow the universe gave me a sequel.
I don't know what this is yet.
But it feels like a second chance.
And this time, I won't waste it.