Genre: Romance, Slice of Life, TragedyTone: Emotional, Heartwarming, Bittersweet, and Comedic
Part I: Paper Wings
The first time Akira met Hana, she was crying under the school slide, clutching a crumpled paper crane.
It was the second week of first grade, and Akira was on a mission to find the biggest ant hill in the playground. Instead, he found Hana.
She didn't notice him at first. Her tiny fingers kept pressing and unfolding the fragile crane again and again, like she was trying to erase a mistake written in silence.
"You're breaking it," Akira said bluntly, crouching beside her.
Hana looked up, eyes red. "It's already broken."
Akira frowned, took the paper from her hand, and folded it again—clumsily, but with intention. "There. It can still fly."
And with the gentlest flick, he tossed it into the air. It glided for a moment before crashing into the sand.
They both laughed.
That's how it started.
Every day after that, they sat together. Sometimes they folded paper cranes. Sometimes they played silly games. Sometimes they just sat in silence.
By third grade, they had a secret club: The Crane Society. The rule? One crane = one wish. And every wish had to be real. No wishing for candy.
By fifth grade, Hana had told him about her mom leaving. And Akira, in turn, told her about his dad who worked night shifts and barely smiled.
But they always ended their talks with a promise:"When we grow up, we'll be each other's family."
They sealed it with two cranes, taped side-by-side in Akira's math notebook.
Part II: Seasons Shift
In middle school, Hana cut her hair short.
"Why?" Akira asked, staring at the empty space where her long braids used to be.
"New beginning," she said.
She was quieter that year. Wore headphones all the time. Started drawing in the corners of her notebooks instead of folding cranes.
Akira still made one crane every week and left it on her desk.
She never said thank you, but she never threw them away either.
By eighth grade, she started smiling again.
"Wanna know a secret?" she whispered one day, leaning against his shoulder as they watched clouds from the school rooftop.
"Yeah?"
"I think I like someone."
His heart skipped.
He turned to her, trying to act casual. "Oh? Who?"
She grinned. "You."
Akira blinked.
Then grinned back.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
That day, instead of folding cranes, they held hands.
Part III: Fireworks and Firsts
High school was different.
There were more people, more pressure, more distractions. But somehow, Akira and Hana always found each other between classes, between clubs, between cram school.
On the night of their first summer festival together, Hana wore a light blue yukata with white cranes on it.
"Coincidence?" Akira asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Fate," she said, sticking out her tongue.
They watched fireworks from the bridge, hands brushing, hearts racing.
"I want to be with you forever," she whispered that night.
Akira squeezed her hand. "Then we will be."
But life doesn't always keep its promises.
Part IV: Cracks in Paper
Senior year was brutal.
Hana got accepted into an art prep school in Tokyo.
Akira didn't.
He tried, of course. But he wasn't cut out for the chaos of the city, or the competition, or the heavy loneliness that came with empty rejections.
"Long-distance can work," Hana said, hopeful.
"Yeah," Akira replied, trying to believe it.
They video-called, messaged, sent pictures of paper cranes and dumb little doodles.
But slowly, the calls got shorter. The replies took longer.
When they finally met again during winter break, there was a silent wall between them.
At the station, she hugged him tighter than ever.
"I still love you," she said.
"I know," he replied. "Me too."
But love, sometimes, isn't enough.
Part V: Grown
Years passed.
Akira became an elementary school teacher in their hometown. He taught kids how to fold cranes.
Hana became an illustrator in Tokyo. Her books were filled with skies and birds and promises that sometimes get broken but still matter.
They drifted in and out of touch—birthdays, holidays, the occasional message.
One day, out of the blue, Hana visited.
She sat on the same school rooftop where they once watched clouds.
"I'm getting married," she said softly.
Akira felt something crumble gently inside.
He smiled anyway. "That's great, Hana. Really."
"He's kind. Patient. Quiet. But he doesn't fold cranes," she joked, eyes misty.
"You'll teach him," Akira said, heart aching but full of warmth.
She nodded. "What about you?"
"I'm dating someone," he said. It was true. Not the same, not like Hana, but something real.
"Good," she whispered.
They sat in silence, watching birds in the sky.
Part VI: The Last Promise
A year later, Hana sent him a gift.
A shadow box frame filled with 100 paper cranes, carefully folded, lovingly arranged. In the center, two tiny ones were taped together—just like the ones from his old math notebook.
Below it, a note:
"Even if we didn't end up together,you were my first home,my first love,my forever friend."
– Hana
Akira hung it in his classroom, right above the window where the sun hit just right in the morning.
Every time a breeze came through, the paper cranes swayed gently.
And he smiled.
Because some promises, even if they're not kept in the way we expect, never really break.
They just fold into different shapes.
~ The End ~