I Hear a Symphony || Kaedehara Kazuha

1 | I used to hear a simple song

❝If only I hadn't spoken
to you that day in front
of the sakura tree,
would things be
different?❞

---

There he was again, Kazuha,
drifting like a specter through
the school's front campus.
He returned once more,
compelled by an unyielding
ache, just to feel it again.

Just to feel your presence
again.

For the past few months,
this had become his
clandestine ritual. Many
would perceive him as a
specter of madness, a
ghost wandering the
familiar grounds with no
destination.

Some might see him as a
vagrant, lost and homeless,
adrift in his own memories.
A few, perhaps the more
perceptive, would sense there
was a deeper meaning
hidden in his silent pilgrimage.

And there was.

Each step he took was a dance
with the past, the crunch of
gravel underfoot a symphony
of nostalgia.

He moved with purpose,
eyes scanning the landscape,
seeking the familiar
silhouette of the large
sakura tree.

In the distance, he thought
he saw you standing
beneath the beloved sakura
tree, your form bathed in
the soft, pink glow of
its blossoms.

With you only in his
mind, he sprinted towards it,
his heart pounding with a
desperate hope.

"Excuse me—" he called out,
breathless.

The woman turned, her
face a mask of confusion
as she met his gaze.
Reality hit him like a
cold wind.

Kazuha mumbled an
apology, his cheeks
burning with embarrassment
for thinking, even for a
fleeting moment, that
it was you.

The woman then left,
her footsteps fading into
the distance, leaving him
all alone beneath the
sakura tree.

It was true, the woman
did resemble you. But no
matter how similar she
appeared, she could
never be you.

Kazuha glanced toward
the spot where you used to
sit and lose yourself in
books beneath the sakura
tree. The memory of you
there, absorbed in another
world, drew him like a
moth to a flame.

Hoping it would soothe
the ache in his chest,
he made his way to that
sacred place and settled
down.

The ground felt cool and
familiar, as if it, too,
remembered.

As he sat there, the pain
in his chest began to ebb,
transforming into a
bittersweet warmth.

The blossoms above
rustled softly, whispering
secrets of the past. Yet,
this comfort was laced with
an agonizing sweetness,
like adding fire to gasoline,
igniting memories that both
healed and hurt.

He could almost hear your
laughter mingling with the
rustle of leaves, almost see
your figure bent over a
book. The illusion was as
painful as it was comforting,
a poignant reminder of what
once was and what could
never be again.

He knew how disappointed
you would be if you could
see him now, still tethered
to the past, unable to move
on, returning to this
bittersweet ritual.

It was an unhealthy habit,
a wound he kept reopening.

But he would rather endure
a scolding from you,
feel the sting of your reproach,
than continue to live in
this miserable nightmare
of your absence.

Unbeknownst to him,
the tears that had been
gathering in his eyes finally
spilled over, tracing a
silent path down his cheeks.

He missed you with an
ache that consumed him,
a longing so deep it felt like
a physical weight on his chest.

With every fibre of his
being, He wished you
were still here.

He wished you were
still alive.