The accumulation of missed calls, rescheduled video chats, and the constant pressure of university life began to take its toll. The easy flow of conversation that had defined our relationship in high school felt increasingly strained, punctuated by apologies for delays, hurried updates, and the underlying exhaustion we both carried.
One evening, we had a scheduled video call. I was looking forward to it all day, eager to talk to her properly after a particularly stressful week. But the call didn't go as planned.
Sakura seemed distracted. Her eyes kept flickering away from the screen, and her replies were shorter than usual. She was clearly tired, but there was something else too, a subtle tension in her expression.
"Everything okay, Sakura?" I asked, feeling a familiar prickle of worry.
"Yeah, fine," she said, maybe a little too quickly. "Just thinking about this history paper. It's due next week, and I'm nowhere near finished."
"Okay," I said. "Maybe you should focus on that then? We can talk later?"
"No, no," she said, though her attention still seemed elsewhere. "It's okay. I can multitask."
But she couldn't, not effectively. The conversation felt fragmented, her mind clearly on her paper. I tried to talk about my day, about a funny thing Kenji said, about a book I was reading. She listened, but her responses were perfunctory.
Frustration began to build within me. I knew she was stressed, but I also needed this call. I needed to feel connected, to feel like I was a priority for these scheduled few minutes we had.
"It feels like you're not really here, Sakura," I said, the words slipping out with a hint of impatience.
Sakura's head snapped up, her expression hardening slightly. "I am here, Hiroshi! I'm just trying to balance everything! I have a massive paper due that's worth a significant part of my grade! I can't just switch off my brain!"
"I know you're busy!" I retorted, the built-up frustration coming to the surface. "But this is our scheduled time! It feels like your paper is more important than talking to me!"
Her eyes flashed with hurt and frustration. "That's not fair, Hiroshi! Don't say that! Of course it's not more important! But I have responsibilities here! Pressures you don't understand!"
"Maybe I don't understand Todai pressure," I shot back, immediately regretting the words, "but I understand feeling like you're not a priority!"
The conversation devolved into a tense, hurtful argument. We were both stressed, both tired, and the miles between us amplified the misunderstanding and the raw emotions. Accusations were thrown, frustrated words exchanged. The call ended abruptly, leaving behind a heavy silence and the sting of unresolved conflict.
Hanging up, I felt a wave of regret wash over me. I shouldn't have said those things. I knew she was under immense pressure. But my own need for connection, my own insecurity about the distance, had boiled over.
The ideal image of our long-distance relationship, the one built on promises and shared nostalgia, had cracked. The strain was showing, laid bare by exhaustion, stress, and the unforgiving reality of communicating across miles when tensions were high. Our unexpected love story was facing a significant test, a reminder that promises weren't enough; they needed to be actively fought for, especially when the pressure to prioritize separate lives threatened to pull us apart.