The promise to make long-distance work was a powerful commitment, but it was also one that came with a very real price tag, both emotionally and financially. As graduation grew closer, the practical challenges of bridging the miles became more apparent, adding a new layer of stress to our final high school days.
Money for train tickets was a major concern. University students, especially first-years, usually don't have much disposable income. While our families were supportive, asking them to fund regular, expensive train trips felt like an added burden.
"Train tickets are like... half my monthly allowance," I commented one afternoon, looking at ticket prices online. "And that's just one way."
Sakura sighed, leaning her head on my shoulder. "I know. Mine too. It adds up really quickly."
We started brainstorming ways to save money – cutting back on small expenses, maybe getting part-time jobs during the summer or school breaks (if our rigorous Todai and university schedules allowed). These weren't the romantic challenges of a love story; they were the mundane, practical realities that could strain a relationship.
Time was another challenge. University schedules are demanding. Coordinating free weekends, factoring in travel time, and ensuring we still had time for studying and other essential activities felt like solving a complex puzzle.
"Looks like most of my core classes are Monday to Thursday," Sakura said one evening, looking at a sample Todai schedule online. "Which leaves Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. But I'll probably have study groups or club activities on weekends too."
"Mine are pretty similar," I replied, looking at my potential university's schedule. "Maybe we can aim for... once a month? Or every six weeks?"
Discussing the limited frequency of visits felt like a punch to the gut. It wasn't just about train tickets; it was about the reality of how little physical time we might have together once university started.
"That feels so... far apart," Sakura murmured, her voice quiet.
"I know," I said, squeezing her hand. "It's not ideal. But we'll make the most of it."
These practical difficulties sometimes led to moments of frustration or quiet anxiety. It wasn't that we doubted each other, but the sheer logistics of it all felt overwhelming at times. Could we really sustain a meaningful relationship with so little physical proximity and so many practical hurdles?
"What if... what if it's too hard, Hiroshi?" Sakura asked one afternoon, her voice small, voicing the fear that I also held.
"We promised we'd figure it out," I said firmly, drawing strength from our earlier commitment. "We knew it wouldn't be easy. But we'll face it together. We'll find ways."
We started setting up shared online calendars, looking at potential travel dates for months in advance, trying to make the abstract idea of future visits concrete. These were small steps, but they felt important – tangible efforts to bridge the approaching physical gap.
The cost of miles wasn't just the money for tickets; it was the emotional cost of knowing how little time we might have together, the effort required to coordinate schedules, the constant awareness of the distance. It was a challenge that required practicality, planning, and a shared determination to not let the real-world difficulties overshadow the strength of our connection. Our unexpected love story was facing the mundane but powerful reality of logistics, proving that even practical challenges needed to be tackled hand in hand.