(Sora’s POV — Years Later)

Sora had never planned to return to Minato.

Not after everything that had happened.
Not after everything he let slip away.

Tokyo had swallowed him whole the moment he moved there. Art school, part-time jobs, portfolios, deadlines — it all came at him fast, overwhelming, exhilarating, terrifying. He had always thought he could balance everything: his dreams, his life, and the person who mattered most to him.

But life wasn’t kind to balance.

Slowly, little by little, Haru faded into the background — buried under exhaustion, under pressure, under Sora’s fear that maybe he was holding Haru back by always being far away.

Sora never meant to stop calling.
But every time he picked up the phone, the words felt harder.

“I’m just tired.”
“I’ll reach out tomorrow.”
“Haru’s busy too.”
“He’s fine without me.”

That last lie hurt the most.

Eventually, weeks turned into months.
Months into almost a year.
And by the time Sora realized how much distance he had created, he didn’t know how to reach across it anymore.

So he didn’t.

His art career grew.
His world expanded.
But something inside him stayed painfully small.

Until the day he got the message from an old friend in Minato:

“There’s an art fair at the boardwalk this winter. You should come show your work.”

Sora hesitated.
He hadn’t been back in years.

But something — a soft ache he never addressed — told him to go.

So he returned.

Now, standing at the small booth with his sketches pinned neatly to wooden boards, Sora felt a strange nostalgia wrapping around him like a cold wind. He hadn’t meant to set up his booth right by the shore, but he couldn’t help himself. The sea had always been his first muse.

He glanced at the waves.

They looked the same.
He didn’t.

His hair was shorter now.
His frame a little slimmer.
He still hadn’t grown much since high school — he was just barely above average height.

He remembered being taller than Haru once, a small comfort he jokingly held onto.
Haru had always complained about it.

“Stop being so tall.”
“I’m not even that tall.”
“You are when I stand next to you.”

Sora smiled softly at the memory.

He wondered — did Haru still walk the shore at sunset?
Did he still drink tea too hot and complain five minutes later?
Did he still look at the ocean like he was trying to understand something inside himself?

Sora hadn’t seen Haru since they drifted apart.

He told himself Haru probably forgot him.
That Haru was happy now.
That Haru didn’t need him anymore.

But that lie had become harder to believe lately.

He’d started drawing the beach again, and every figure he sketched standing beside the waves looked like Haru.
Messy hair.
Quiet eyes.
A softness only he had ever seen.

Sora was adjusting a frame when he felt someone approach behind him.

He didn’t turn.
Not yet.

But the air shifted — familiar, soft, heavy with a feeling he hadn’t felt in years.

Then he heard it.

A quiet breath.
One he recognized instantly.

He turned slowly.

And there he was.

Haru.

Older.
Different.
His hair longer, his features sharper.
A little tired in the eyes but more… grounded.
More sure of himself.

And taller.

Much taller.

Sora blinked. His heart stumbled.
“Haru…?” he whispered.

Haru’s lips parted with a breath he’d been holding. “Sora…”

For a moment, neither moved.
Neither breathed.

Sora stepped closer, the shock settling into something warm and trembling. “You… you’re taller than me.”

It came out before he could stop it, soft disbelief in his voice.

Haru let out the faintest, shaky laugh. “Yeah. I grew.”

Sora stared up at him — actually up — feeling something strange twist in his chest. A mix of pride. Sadness. Fondness. Longing.

“You really did,” Sora said quietly. “You… grew a lot.”

Haru’s eyes softened. “So did you.”

Sora shook his head, looking down for a moment. “Not really. Not enough. Not in all the ways that mattered.”

Haru tensed. “Sora… don’t say that.”

But Sora lifted his gaze, meeting Haru’s eyes fully for the first time in years.

And in that moment, everything he had held back — the guilt, the longing, the loneliness — rushed up to his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Sora whispered.
He hadn’t planned to say it like this.
But now that Haru was here, older and solid and real, the words wouldn’t stay inside.

“I’m sorry I disappeared. I’m sorry I stopped calling. I’m sorry I let everything fall apart. I thought— I thought you didn’t need me anymore. And I didn’t know how to fix it.”

Haru stepped closer — close enough that Sora could feel the warmth of him through the winter cold.

“Sora,” Haru said gently, “I needed you then. I need you now.”

Sora’s breath shook. He looked away, overwhelmed.
“Do you really mean that?”

Haru reached out — slowly, as if asking permission — and brushed his fingers along Sora’s sleeve.

“I never stopped.”

The waves crashed softly in the background, the same rhythm they had shared years ago.

Sora swallowed hard, the sting of tears threatening behind his eyes.

He never imagined this moment — not like this.

“Haru,” he whispered, voice barely steady, “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

Haru smiled softly.
“I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

”I missed you..” Sora said, hiding his tear dried face in Haru’s chest.

Haru let out a weak chuckle seeing Sora hide his face, “And I never stopped”

And Sora felt it too — a warmth blooming deep inside him, fragile but real.

The sound of returning.