*Last day of finals week*
The morning of Haruki's final presentation for Professor Akizuki's class arrived gray and cold, with the kind of December wind that cut through even the heaviest coats. He stood outside the humanities building at eight in the morning, clutching his printed paper and a travel mug of coffee that had already gone lukewarm, watching other students hurry past with the particular urgency of people trying to survive their last day of academic obligations.
His phone buzzed with a text from Noa: *You're going to be brilliant. I'll be in the front row cheering you on (quietly and academically appropriately).*
Another from his mother: *Good luck today, sweetheart. We're proud of you.*
And one from Professor Akizuki: *Remember—you're not just presenting research. You're telling a story about how people learn to love better.*
Haruki pocketed his phone and headed inside, feeling the familiar mix of nerves and excitement that came with sharing work he actually cared about.
---
The classroom was arranged differently today, with chairs in a semicircle facing a small podium that Professor Akizuki had somehow acquired. Students filtered in looking like they'd survived a particularly challenging week—which, Haruki supposed, they had.
"Good morning," Professor Akizuki said once everyone had settled. "Today you'll be presenting your relationship analyses to the class. These aren't formal research presentations—think of them as stories you're sharing with people who've been on the same intellectual journey this semester."
She looked around the room with the warm attention that had made her class feel safe from the beginning. "Remember, vulnerability in academic settings isn't weakness. It's courage. You're brave enough to examine your own lives with the same rigor you bring to theoretical concepts."
The first few presentations were thoughtful explorations of family dynamics, childhood friendships, and past romantic relationships. Haruki listened with genuine interest, noting how his classmates had learned to apply attachment theory and communication patterns to their own experiences.
"Haruki," Professor Akizuki called as the morning progressed. "You're next."
He stood on slightly unsteady legs, gathering his papers and walking to the front of the room. From the semicircle of chairs, Noa gave him an encouraging smile that helped settle his nerves.
"My paper is about my relationship with Noa," he began, his voice steadier than he'd expected. "Specifically, how it demonstrates the difference between attachment and love that we've discussed this semester."
He looked down at his notes, then back up at the class. "Six months ago, I transferred to this university after what I thought was a failed romantic relationship. I was convinced that I'd ruined a friendship by being honest about my feelings, and I came here determined to keep my emotional distance from people."
A few students shifted in their seats, recognizing the vulnerability of real confession rather than academic analysis.
"But what I've learned through this relationship—and through this class—is that what I thought was love was actually anxious attachment. I was attached to the idea of being chosen by someone I admired, rather than actually knowing and choosing the person themselves."
Haruki glanced at Noa, who was listening with the focused attention she gave to ideas that mattered to her.
"My relationship with Noa is different. It's built on what Professor Akizuki calls 'sustained understanding' rather than intensity. We know each other's flaws and choose each other anyway. We communicate directly instead of hoping the other person will guess what we need."
He paused, looking around the room at faces that seemed genuinely engaged rather than politely tolerant.
"The most important thing I've learned is that secure attachment isn't about finding someone who never challenges you. It's about finding someone you can work through challenges with. When Mirei—my friend from my previous school—transferred here and created a complicated situation, Noa and I didn't pretend it wasn't difficult. We talked about it honestly and supported each other through it."
A student near the back raised her hand. "How did you learn to communicate so directly? That sounds really hard."
"It is hard. And we're still learning." Haruki felt himself relaxing into the conversation. "But I think the key is being more afraid of misunderstanding each other than of having difficult conversations."
"What about when you disagree about important things?" asked another student.
"We try to understand why we disagree instead of just trying to win the argument. Like, when we were both stressed about finals this week, we could have just blamed each other for being distant. Instead, we talked about how we both withdraw when we're overwhelmed, and we made plans to stay connected even when it's inconvenient."
The questions continued for several more minutes, and Haruki found himself genuinely enjoying the discussion rather than just enduring it. When he finally sat back down, he felt the particular satisfaction that came from sharing something meaningful with people who understood its significance.
"Thank you, Haruki," Professor Akizuki said. "That was beautifully articulated."
---
After class, students lingered in the hallway, the end-of-semester atmosphere creating a sense of celebration mixed with exhaustion. Haruki found himself surrounded by classmates who wanted to continue the conversation from his presentation.
"That was really honest," said Maya, a psychology major he'd worked with on group projects. "It made me think about my own relationship patterns differently."
"Thanks. It was terrifying to share, but also kind of liberating."
"Are you going to keep studying this stuff? Like, for graduate school?"
"I think so. Professor Akizuki and I are working on a research paper together, and I'm presenting at the undergraduate symposium next month."
"That's amazing. You should be proud of yourself."
Haruki felt a warm glow of accomplishment as the group gradually dispersed, students heading off to their final exams or winter break preparations. When the hallway had mostly cleared, he found Noa waiting by the windows, looking thoughtful.
"So," she said as they started walking toward the exit together. "That was quite a presentation."
"How did it feel to have our relationship analyzed in front of a classroom full of people?"
"Surprisingly good, actually. You described us in a way that felt both accurate and kind." Noa paused as they pushed through the building's main doors into the cold December air. "But I have a question."
"What's that?"
"You talked about how we've learned to communicate directly. Do you think we're ready for the ultimate communication challenge?"
Haruki felt a flutter of nervousness. "What do you mean?"
"Winter break. Meeting each other's families. Having conversations about our relationship with people who knew us before we learned how to do relationships better."
"That does sound like a challenge."
They walked in comfortable silence toward the dorm, both processing the reality that finals week was over, winter break was beginning, and they were about to face the test of maintaining their connection across distance and family complications.
"Can I tell you something?" Noa said as they reached the quad.
"Always."
"I'm nervous about going home. Not because I don't want to see my family, but because I'm afraid they won't understand how much I've changed this semester."
"Changed how?"
"I'm more confident in my academic work, more sure of what I want in relationships, more comfortable with emotional vulnerability." Noa kicked at a patch of snow on the sidewalk. "What if they still see me as the person I was before all that growth?"
"Then you'll show them who you are now. Gently, but clearly."
"What if they don't approve of my graduate school plans? Or of you?"
Haruki stopped walking and turned to face her fully. "Then we'll figure it out together. From a distance, maybe, but together."
"You sound very sure about that."
"I am sure about us. Whatever challenges we face—family opinions, graduate school decisions, long-distance relationship logistics—I'm sure we can handle them."
Noa's smile was soft and grateful. "I love how you say 'we' automatically. Like of course we're approaching challenges together."
"Of course we are. That's what this is, isn't it? A partnership."
"It is. And Haruki?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you for that presentation. For being brave enough to share our story, for articulating what makes this relationship work, for showing everyone in that room what secure attachment actually looks like."
"I'm proud of us. For building something worth presenting about."
They resumed walking toward the dorm, both feeling the particular satisfaction that came from surviving finals week and sharing something meaningful with people who mattered to them.
"When do you leave for home?" Noa asked as they reached their floor.
"Tomorrow morning. You?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"So we have tonight."
"We have tonight."
They stood in the hallway between their doors, the same space where their relationship had begun with borrowed books and tentative conversations, both recognizing the moment as significant—the end of their first semester together, the beginning of their first real separation.
"Want to have one last dinner together?" Haruki asked. "Before we go face our respective family challenges?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
---
That evening, they cooked together in the common kitchen, making actual food with actual ingredients that Noa had procured from somewhere off-campus. Other students drifted through, celebrating the end of finals or packing for winter break, but Haruki and Noa existed in their own bubble of quiet intimacy.
"Three weeks," Noa said as they sat down to eat.
"Three weeks," Haruki agreed.
"We'll call each other."
"Every day."
"And we'll be honest about how it's going, even if it's difficult."
"Especially if it's difficult."
They ate slowly, talking about practical things—travel plans, family schedules, when they'd be back on campus—but underneath the logistics was something deeper. The recognition that they were choosing to maintain their connection across distance and different environments, that what they'd built was strong enough to survive temporary separation.
"Can I tell you one more thing?" Noa said as they finished eating.
"Always."
"This semester—meeting you, building this relationship, learning how to love and be loved in healthy ways—it's changed everything for me. Not just how I approach romantic relationships, but how I understand myself."
"For me too. Six months ago, I thought I was running away from a mistake. But I was actually running toward you, toward this, toward learning that love doesn't have to be complicated or painful or dramatic to be real."
"It can just be... chosen. Every day."
"Every day."
They cleaned up dinner together, then spent the evening in Noa's room, talking and reading and existing in each other's presence with the particular intensity that came from knowing separation was imminent.
When they finally said goodnight in the hallway between their rooms, it felt like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
"Sweet dreams, Noa."
"Sweet dreams, Haruki."
"See you on the other side of winter break."
"See you on the other side."
But before they went into their respective rooms, they stood in that familiar hallway for a long moment, holding hands and memorizing each other's faces, storing up the closeness to carry them through three weeks of distance.
Outside, snow fell over the quiet campus, but inside their small corner of the world, two people who'd learned the difference between attachment and love prepared to test whether what they'd built could survive the challenges that lay ahead.
It felt like exactly the kind of love worth fighting for.
---
*End of Chapter 22*