It had only been one week since Kayo left for France.
Seven days, three video calls, and exactly fourteen messages.
But to Takara, it already felt like a small eternity.
The apartment was quieter now. Not silent—Takara still played music, still narrated his thoughts out loud, still cursed at the rice cooker when it acted up—but quieter in a way that echoed. The kind of quiet that reminded you someone used to be here, filling space with their presence even if they never said much.
He missed the way Kayo always made coffee too strong. Missed the way he organized the spice rack alphabetically and glared at Takara when he messed it up.
He even missed the way Kayo put his headphones on during arguments—half avoidance, half self-preservation.
Mostly, he missed the way Kayo looked at him like he was worth staying for.
But Kayo hadn't left because he didn't care.
He left because he did.
And Takara, for the first time in his life, had learned how to love someone without clutching too tightly.
On day eight, a postcard arrived.
The front was a sketch of the Seine at sunset. The back read:
I found a bookstore here with a cat that lives on the counter. The owner looks like she walked out of a Miyazaki film. You'd love it. I miss your ridiculous laugh.
— K.
Takara clutched it to his chest, then tacked it above the desk beside Kayo's old sketch of them eating pancakes.
He sent a reply through email, with a selfie of him holding the postcard:
"I'm printing this and framing it. Your handwriting is chaotic. Tell bookstore-cat I said hi."
Kayo replied six hours later:
"I showed the owner your selfie. She said you have good eyebrows. I'm not translating the rest."
Classes kept Takara distracted. His new university was bustling with energy, and he'd thrown himself into a theater elective, a scriptwriting class, and—somehow—a yoga course his roommate dared him to join.
He didn't mind the busy schedule. It gave his heart something to grip onto while Kayo was gone.
Still, some nights were harder than others.
He'd lie in bed, scrolling through their old photos, and wonder what Kayo was doing at that exact moment. Eating a croissant? Sketching people at a café? Getting lost in cobbled alleyways with his expressionless face and his artist's soul?
One night, halfway through a rerun of a drama they used to watch together, Takara whispered to the empty room, "Come home safe, okay?"
On day fifteen, another postcard arrived.
A small watercolor of lavender fields.
There's a town here that smells like your shampoo. Someone played your favorite sad song on violin outside a bakery, and I nearly lost it. I bought you a journal with pressed flowers inside. I'll give it to you when I get back.
— K.
Takara bit back a tear and replied with a video.
In it, he waved at the camera with chocolate smeared across his cheek and said, "This is me trying to bake brownies to distract myself. It's also me admitting that I miss you so much it's getting annoying."
Kayo replied with a voice memo. Just one sentence.
"I miss you too."
By week three, the ache had dulled into something softer.
Still there, still present, but no longer sharp.
Takara had learned to let the silence become something sacred. He filled it with his own warmth, his own laughter, his own reminders that Kayo chose this distance so he could grow.
And love that demands someone to stay small isn't love at all.
Midway through the week, Takara went to a coffee shop near campus to write.
He carried his laptop, a fuzzy blanket scarf (that he may or may not have borrowed from Kayo last winter), and his new favorite ritual: replying to Kayo's postcards by hand before typing them into digital messages.
He sat by the window, sipped a cinnamon latte, and smiled at the memory of Kayo pretending to hate whipped cream.
A barista approached him. "Hey, is your name Takara?"
He blinked. "Uh… yes?"
She handed him an envelope. "Someone dropped this off for you earlier. Said you'd be here."
Takara opened it slowly.
Inside was a short letter, not from Kayo, but from a girl named Hana—one of Kayo's classmates in France.
Hi, you don't know me, but I sit next to Kayo in our art theory class. He talks about you sometimes. It's weird—he doesn't say much, but when he does, it's always soft. Like he's holding something precious in his voice.
Anyway, he asked me to deliver this letter to you while I'm in your city for a seminar. I hope that's not too creepy. He's kind of hopeless with timing but very serious about you.
P.S. He drew a sketch on the back. It's good. Like, wow-level good.
Takara turned the paper over and froze.
It was a charcoal sketch of their apartment balcony. A nighttime scene—stars drawn in delicate cross-hatching, soft shadows falling across two figures seated side by side.
One had his legs tucked beneath him, head thrown back in laughter.
The other was staring at him like he held every answer in the world.
Takara's breath caught.
On the bottom, in small, shy letters:
I carry you with me. In my sketches. In my coffee breaks. In the silence before I sleep. I'm not gone. Just preparing to return.
— Kayo.
That night, Takara couldn't sleep.
His chest was too full. His heart too loud.
So he opened a new message and hit record.
"Hey, idiot," he began. "You can't just send people across continents with romantic sketches and soft declarations like that. Do you want me to explode?"
He laughed.
Then softer, "I miss you. But I'm also so proud of you. And I love the way you draw me like I'm magic, even on the days I feel like nothing more than a mess."
He paused, biting his lip.
"I can't wait for you to come home. But even if it takes time, I'll still be here. I'll still be yours."
Days turned into weeks.
And suddenly, it was nearly a month since Kayo had left.
Takara found himself counting backward, now—marking off the days until the return flight they'd already discussed.
He even downloaded a countdown app: Kayo Returns in 32 Days.
But even knowing the end was in sight, something weighed on him.
A feeling he couldn't name.
On day thirty-five, Kayo called unexpectedly at 3 a.m.
Takara answered instantly.
"Is everything okay?" he asked, voice groggy but alert.
Kayo's face appeared on screen, shadows under his eyes but a small smile on his lips.
"I got offered an internship," he said. "At a gallery here. One of the professors submitted my portfolio without telling me."
Takara sat up straighter. "That's amazing! Kayo—holy crap, you deserve that!"
Kayo hesitated.
"But it means staying an extra two months."
The silence stretched.
Takara swallowed. "Okay. Okay, that's… that's big."
"I don't want to decide without talking to you," Kayo said quietly. "I didn't plan for this. But I also don't want to run from something just because I miss you."
Takara felt his throat close up. The selfish part of him wanted to say No. Come home. I need you.
But instead, he said, "Then you should do it."
Kayo blinked. "Are you sure?"
Takara nodded. "Yeah. I mean, it sucks. I want to throw something. But I also want you to have this."
He forced a grin. "And when you come back, I expect at least three sketchbooks full of brooding art student angst."
Kayo laughed.
And then, softly: "I love you, Takara."
It was the first time he'd said it like that.
Takara's heart swelled. "I love you, too."
That night, Takara updated his countdown app.
Kayo Returns in 93 Days.
And under the number, he typed a new note to himself:
Some loves aren't weakened by distance.
Some loves grow deeper with every mile, every wait, every quiet night of longing.
I'd wait a thousand days for him.
But I'm glad it's only ninety-three.