The university application deadlines were approaching, a beast lurking just around the corner, ready to demand essays, forms, and decisions that felt monumental. The pressure in the school intensified, students huddled in corners discussing their applications, teachers giving last-minute advice.
For Sakura, this was the climax of years of expectation. Every test score, every extracurricular activity, every leadership role – it had all been building towards this moment. She was aiming for Todai, and the weight of her family's history and her brother's legacy made the stakes incredibly high.
For me, the pressure was different. Less about living up to a grand legacy, more about finding my own path, and doing it while navigating a relationship with someone whose path was so clearly, and so highly, set.
We spent more and more time studying together. Not just side-by-side work, but actively helping each other. I'd quiz her on history facts, she'd help me understand complex math problems. We'd read each other's application essays, offering feedback and encouragement.
Reading Sakura's essay was both inspiring and intimidating. Her writing was polished, articulate, reflecting a maturity and focus that was impressive. Her essay about her motivations and aspirations for Todai was deeply personal, touching on her family's history and the subtle weight of her brother's illness, framed within her own drive for academic excellence. Seeing the raw honesty and immense pressure in her carefully constructed words gave me another glimpse into the burden she carried.
"It's... it's really good, Sakura," I said, handing her essay back, feeling a mix of admiration and inadequacy about my own simpler essay.
Sakura smiled, a tired but genuine smile. "Thanks, Hiroshi. It felt important to be... honest. About why Todai matters."
"It shows," I replied. "It's... powerful."
She read my essay about my interest in literature programs. She offered thoughtful feedback, asking probing questions about my motivations and goals that helped me clarify my thoughts. She didn't judge my less ambitious targets compared to hers; she simply focused on helping me articulate my own genuine interests.
"Your passion for stories really comes through, Hiroshi," she said, smiling. "You have a unique way of seeing things. That will be valuable, no matter where you go."
Her belief in my own path, valuing my interests even when they were different from the high-stakes world she inhabited, meant a lot.
We worked through the application forms together, the tedious process of filling in details, requesting transcripts, meeting deadlines. It was stressful, but doing it side-by-side, sharing snacks and words of encouragement, made it feel less overwhelming.
There were moments of shared stress, where frustration would bubble up. Sakura would groan over a difficult essay prompt, or I would sigh in exasperation at a confusing form. In those moments, we weren't the school idol and the average guy, just two students facing the same daunting task, finding comfort in each other's shared experience.
One evening, close to a major deadline, Sakura was visibly stressed, her shoulders tense, her expression strained. She was trying to finalize an essay, but the words weren't coming.
"Hey," I said softly, sitting beside her, gently taking her hand. "It's okay. Take a break."
She looked at me, her eyes tired and worried. "I just... I have to get this right, Hiroshi. It's important."
"I know," I said. "But pushing yourself too hard won't help. You've worked incredibly hard, Sakura. You've done everything you can. Just... breathe for a second."
I squeezed her hand. "Remember the club? How stressed we were before the presentation? But we got through it, together. You'll get through this too."
She leaned her head against my shoulder for a moment, a rare sign of vulnerability. "Thanks, Hiroshi-kun," she murmured. "Just... feels like so much pressure."
"I'm here," I said, holding her hand. "We'll face it together."
She finished her essay that night, pushing through the stress. I stayed with her, offering quiet support, just being there.
Submitting the applications felt like crossing a finish line. A tired, nervous finish line, but a finish line nonetheless. We had done it. We had faced the application monster, together.
The uncertainty of the outcomes, the very real possibility of our paths diverging, still remained. But we had navigated this stressful phase of our lives side-by-side, supporting each other through the pressure and doubt. Our unexpected love story, born from a fake plan, was proving its strength not just in romantic moments, but in the shared effort of building our individual futures, hand in hand. Whatever the future held, we had faced this crucial step as a team, and that felt like a victory in itself.