Spring crept in quietly—no announcement, no grand arrival. Just a slow softening of the cold, a gentle bloom of color where there had been only gray.
The first time I saw cherry blossoms that year, I froze.
They reminded me of you.
Of that day we skipped class and walked through the blossom path by the river. You had your arms wide, catching petals like they were snowflakes, spinning and laughing with your eyes closed.
"Everything dies, In-ha," you'd said suddenly. "But not all deaths are sad. Some are beautiful."
At the time, I didn't understand.
Now I do.
This spring didn't come with warmth. Not at first. The sun still hid, and the breeze still bit. But there were signs—tiny, persistent signs—that the world was ready to start again.
And maybe, so was I.
I walked the same cherry blossom path alone.
The petals fell slowly, dancing around me like little echoes of you. I didn't cry this time. I didn't smile either. I just walked, letting the moment be what it was.
I passed a couple holding hands, and for a moment, it hurt. But then I thought: I had that once. I had love that bloomed like spring—brief, brilliant, unforgettable.
You gave me that.
Back in my room, I picked up a fresh canvas.
For the first time since you left, I painted not from grief—but from growth.
I painted cherry blossoms.
Falling.
Blooming.
Fading.
I called it *The Spring You Promised.*
Because in your last letter, you wrote:
*If you're reading this during spring, I hope you're walking under blossoms, smiling without guilt. That means you're still living. That means I didn't fail.*
You didn't, Yuna.
You never did.
And though the ache is still there, softer now, it lives beside something new—peace.
When spring returned, so did I.
A little different.
A little stronger.
Still missing you…
But no longer drowning.
—