Graduation rehearsals were a strange mix of excitement and finality. Walking through the motions, practicing receiving diplomas, seeing our classmates in their caps and gowns – it all felt surreal, like we were practicing for the end of a play we weren't quite ready to leave.
For Sakura and me, the rehearsals weren't just about the ceremony; they were about the tangible approach of the moment that would mark the official end of our high school reality and the beginning of our long-distance challenge.
Seeing our names side-by-side on the seating chart (alphabetical order, thankfully) was a small, comforting detail. But the thought that after the ceremony, we would be going our separate ways, to different cities and different futures, hung heavy in the air.
During a break in one rehearsal, we found a quiet spot to talk. The usual schoolyard buzz was replaced by the rustle of gowns and the murmur of classmates practicing their walks.
"It feels... real now," Sakura said softly, looking at the empty stage where the ceremony would take place.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Like it's actually happening."
"Hard to believe," she murmured, "that this is where it all... ends. This part, anyway."
"It's also where the next part begins," I said, trying to sound positive, though I felt a pang of anxiety.
She looked at me, her expression serious. "Will we still see each other, Hiroshi? At future school events? Like reunions?"
The thought hadn't really occurred to me. Future reunions felt like a lifetime away. "I hope so, Sakura," I said honestly. "I'd want to see you. See everyone."
"Me too," she said, a small, sad smile on her face. "It's just... hard to imagine this place without... without our routine. Without seeing you every day."
Her vulnerability, her admitting how much she would miss the simple routine of seeing me at school, was a quiet echo of my own feelings. The structure of our high school lives had provided the framework for our relationship, and leaving that framework behind was daunting.
Walking through the graduation walk-through, practicing the steps, felt symbolic. We were walking towards the end of our high school path, a path we had unexpected found each other on. The path ahead was less clear, split into two different directions, requiring conscious effort to keep them connected.
We talked about the logistics of graduation day – who our families would be with, where we would meet afterwards. Practical details filling the space where bigger, more emotional thoughts about the future lingered.
Seeing other couples during the rehearsal, some holding hands, some laughing together, some looking nervous about their own futures, was a reminder that everyone was facing their own transitions. But for us, the transition felt amplified by the looming distance.
Leaving the rehearsal, the feeling of finality was palpable. Graduation wasn't just a ceremony; it was the official marker of the shift in our relationship, the moment when daily proximity would become a memory and long-distance communication the new reality. The practice walk across the stage felt less like a rehearsal for receiving a diploma and more like a practice walk into the unknown future, a future we were choosing to face together, hand in hand, even as the path split ahead. The real performance, the performance of making long-distance work, was about to begin.