The pressure of upcoming exams and university applications was a storm gathering on the horizon, affecting every student in our year. For Sakura and me, however, it carried an extra layer of weight. It wasn't just about our individual futures; it was about the future of us.
Our paths after high school were likely very different. Sakura was aiming for Todai, the pinnacle of academic achievement, carrying the weight of family legacy. Her life seemed set on a trajectory of high expectations and significant accomplishments.
My own aspirations were less grand, less defined. I was interested in literature, maybe teaching, maybe something else entirely. My university goals were more about finding a place where I could pursue my interests and build a stable future, rather than fulfilling a specific prestigious destiny.
This difference became particularly apparent during conversations about university applications. One afternoon, sitting in our usual cafe spot, sipping our drinks, the talk naturally turned to where we were applying.
"Have you started working on your essays yet, Hiroshi?" Sakura asked, her voice calm, though I knew the topic was a source of stress for her.
"A little," I admitted. "Still trying to figure out exactly where I want to apply. There are a few literature programs that look interesting."
Sakura nodded. "That's good. Researching is important." She paused, then added, "I'm focusing on my Todai application right now. The early decision deadline is approaching, and the essay requires a lot of preparation."
Hearing her say "Todai application" out loud, so matter-of-factly, highlighted the vast difference in our targets. Todai felt like a world away from the universities I was considering.
"That's... that's a lot of work," I said, stating the obvious.
Sakura sighed softly, rubbing her temples. "It is. And the pressure... it's always there. Making sure everything is perfect."
She looked at me, her expression serious. "What if... what if we end up going to universities far apart, Hiroshi? Or... or on completely different paths?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with the uncertainty of our future. We hadn't explicitly talked about what would happen to us after high school. We were so focused on navigating the present, the transition from fake to real, the immediate pressures, that the long-term future of our relationship felt like a distant, slightly terrifying concept.
"I... I don't know, Sakura," I admitted honestly. "I haven't really thought about it."
Which wasn't entirely true. The thought had been a constant, low-level worry in the back of my mind. How could our unexpected love story survive the reality of diverging paths?
"It's just... sometimes I look at my future," she continued softly, her gaze distant, "the path that's kind of... laid out... and it feels so different from... from the path you might take."
She looked back at me, her eyes searching. "Can... can we make it work, Hiroshi? If our futures pull us in different directions?"
Her vulnerability, her voicing this fear, made my heart ache. She wasn't just worried about the logistics; she was worried about whether our connection was strong enough to withstand the very real forces that might try to pull us apart.
"I... I want to," I said, reaching across the table and taking her hand. "More than anything, Sakura. I don't know how, exactly. But I want to try."
She squeezed my hand, her grip firm. "Me too, Hiroshi-kun. I don't want... I don't want 'us' to be just a high school thing. An 'unexpected' moment that ends when high school does."
Her honesty, her fear of our relationship being temporary, was a mirror of my own earlier insecurities about being a 'temporary solution.' But now, it was about the future, not the present.
"It won't be," I said, my voice firm, pouring all my sincerity into the words. "This isn't just a high school thing, Sakura. It's real. And I... I want it to be a future thing too."
A faint, hopeful smile touched her lips. "Okay, Hiroshi. Okay."
We sat there for a moment longer, holding hands across the cafe table, the buzz of other students and the aroma of coffee fading into the background. The conversation hadn't provided easy answers. The future was still uncertain, our paths still potentially diverging. But we had faced the question together. We had voiced our fears and our desires.
The reality of university decisions and differing futures was a daunting challenge, perhaps the biggest one our real relationship had faced yet. But acknowledging it, together, and reaffirming our desire to try and make it work, felt like a crucial step forward. Our unexpected love story was now entering the phase of facing a very real, and potentially long-term, future.