The sun filtered through the curtains in soft threads of gold, casting a warm glow across the shared dorm room. Haruto stirred on his side of the room, groggily reaching for his phone on the nightstand. Aiko had left early for her gallery prep, her presence lingering in the faint scent of lavender and linseed oil she always carried after painting.
He rubbed his eyes and stretched, yawning as he sat up, his fingers brushing against something tucked beneath his pillow. Curious, he pulled it out — a photograph, worn at the corners, its glossy surface dulled with time.
His breath caught.
It was a picture from their second year of high school — beneath the blooming cherry blossom tree, the very place where it had all begun. Aiko stood laughing with her eyes closed, caught mid-movement, as Haruto leaned slightly into the frame, smiling shyly. Neither had posed. It had been snapped by Rika, Aiko's friend, on a whim. He remembered her shouting, "You two look like a postcard!"
He hadn't seen this photograph in ages.
Fingers trembling slightly, he flipped it over. A faint, looping handwriting scrawled on the back: "Our beginning, under spring skies. — A."
Haruto smiled softly, thumb grazing the edge of the message. How had it ended up here, tucked away like a secret?
He stood, now fully awake, and turned the room inside out. Their shared scrapbook — a thick, well-loved tome filled with ticket stubs, dried flowers, and paint-smeared doodles — usually lived in the second drawer of her desk. But when he opened it, he noticed the photo slot where the picture had once been… empty.
A creased corner still marked its place, like a ghost refusing to be forgotten.
He wondered if she had taken it out recently. Maybe to remember. Maybe because she missed something.
Later that evening, Aiko returned from the gallery looking tired but bright-eyed, her hair pinned messily behind her ears and charcoal smudges on her wrists.
"I think it's finally coming together," she said, dropping her bag and plopping down on the rug. "The curator said my work had something... personal in it. Like a story."
Haruto sat beside her, quiet for a beat, then held up the photograph.
Her eyes widened instantly, her breath catching like his had.
"I found it," he said softly. "Under my pillow."
Aiko reached for it, holding it gently in her hands as if it might fall apart. "I'd been looking for it. I thought I lost it at the station two weeks ago." Her voice dropped. "I was heartbroken."
He watched her trace the ink on the back with her fingertip. "Why did you take it out of the scrapbook?"
Aiko hesitated, then looked up at him. "Because I needed to remember. That no matter how busy life gets, or how far we go, it all started with something simple. A moment. A feeling." She smiled a little, sadly. "We don't have many pictures of just the two of us from back then. But this… this one reminds me of when I first knew I loved you."
Haruto felt his chest tighten, not with sadness, but with the tender ache that came with nostalgia and love entwined. He hadn't known it had meant that much to her.
He reached out and took her hand. "Maybe it's a sign."
"A sign?" she echoed.
"That we need to slow down. Between university, work, everything... we haven't stopped to just be us."
Aiko nodded slowly. "I know. Even when we're together, we're rushing between the next thing. Classes. Exhibits. Presentations."
He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. "Let's make a promise. No matter how busy things get, we'll always return to that—our beginning."
Aiko smiled, and it reached her eyes, glistening with warmth. "You're such a romantic sometimes."
"I blame the photograph," Haruto replied with a grin.
That weekend, they returned to the cherry blossom tree.
It was not yet spring, and the tree stood bare, its branches thin against the cold sky. But they brought a thermos of tea and sat beneath it anyway, bundled in scarves and coats, legs touching, hearts lighter.
Aiko pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw — not the tree, not the setting, but the memory. The breeze that day. The laughter. The boy and girl who hadn't yet spoken their hearts aloud but already understood each other in silence.
Haruto watched her, then pulled out his phone and quietly snapped a photo.
She looked up. "You took a picture of me?"
"Just like old times," he said, showing her the screen. "Only now, I get to keep making memories with you."
Aiko smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder.
The photograph they'd thought was lost had returned to them, not just as a piece of paper, but as a reminder. That even in a world of deadlines, galleries, and observatories, love was built on quiet, irreplaceable moments. On laughter beneath trees, on surprise rediscoveries, on promises spoken without words.