The air in Tokyo carried the kind of spring chill that made your fingertips seek warmth. The cherry blossoms hadn't fully bloomed, but the scent of anticipation lingered in the city's corners. Neon lights flickered softly against the evening sky as people rushed through the Shibuya crossing, each lost in their own world.
Ady stepped off the train and adjusted the strap of his backpack. He was tired but fulfilled. This trip had been on his mind since college—a promise he made once with someone whose voice still echoed in his memory.
"One day, let's go to Japan together. I want to see the cherry blossoms with you," Ellie had said.
He had smiled then. "Then it's a promise."
Now, years later, he was here. Alone.
In another part of Tokyo, Ellie stood outside a small bookstore tucked between two tall buildings. She had just bought a journal with soft cream pages and a pen shaped like a sakura flower. The city was louder than she expected, but there was something peaceful in its rhythm.
She thought of Ady.
Not painfully, but softly. The way one might remember a song they used to hum.
She had planned this trip after her hotel hit its third anniversary. A reward, she told Ashley. But deep down, it was more than that. Japan had been a shared dream. A someday. A what-if.
Now, she was here. Alone.
On the third day of their stay, their paths almost crossed.
Ady was at Ueno Park, sketching on a small notepad, capturing the early sakura buds. Ellie was five benches away, sipping hot matcha. They didn't see each other.
But something felt oddly familiar to both. Like the air carried a memory.
Two days later, Ady visited a tiny ramen shop recommended by a local vlogger. He took a seat near the window, jotting down notes on a napkin. A voice laughed somewhere behind him, warm and light.
It was Ellie, chatting with the shop owner in broken Japanese, using gestures and smiles. She never saw the man seated near the window.
But Ady paused mid-slurp, staring at the reflection in the glass. A voice from a memory?
He turned.
She was gone, already stepping out the door.
He shook his head. "You're imagining things."
The seventh day. Shibuya Crossing.
Ady and Ellie stood among the flood of strangers waiting to cross.
He wore a black hoodie, hood up, headphones around his neck. She wore a beige coat and held her phone like a compass.
The light turned green.
They walked.
Time slowed for a second as their shoulders brushed.
Ellie paused. Looked back.
Ady felt it too. A tug. A pull in the chest. He turned halfway but got swept with the crowd.
Their eyes met. Brief. Confused.
Nothing said. Nothing done.
Just a moment.
That night, Ellie sat by the window of her hostel, writing in her journal.
"I saw someone today. He looked like a memory. But maybe it was just the city playing tricks."
She closed the journal, stared outside.
Back in his rented capsule room, Ady stared at the ceiling.
"I think I saw her today. But that can't be, right? It's been too long."
Flashbacks flickered like old film reels.
Ady remembered her laugh echoing through voice notes. The late-night talks. The way she once cried after he played her a song.
Ellie remembered his sleepy voice calling her "stubborn but sweet." The time they stayed up talking about the future. The message he once sent: "When you love someone, you don't give up on them even when they give up on themselves."
They had loved.
Quietly. Deeply. Not with fireworks, but with the warmth of candlelight.
And they had let go.
Because love isn't always enough when timing is wrong.
But fate is patient.
On their last day, both visited the Tokyo Tower around the same time, unaware.
Ellie stood at the viewing deck, watching the city lights shimmer.
Ady walked a few feet behind, his phone out to take a photo.
She moved left. He moved right.
Never quite close enough.
But both paused.
Both breathed.
And both felt, in the same fleeting second, that maybe they weren't as alone as they thought.