As our high school days dwindled, and our university plans became common knowledge, the whispers and comments about our long-distance relationship began again. It wasn't the public spectacle of our fake dating period, but a more subtle, sometimes skeptical, questioning from those around us. It seemed the outside world wasn't quite ready to believe that the school idol and the average guy could make a long-distance relationship work, especially with Todai involved.
Most comments were polite, phrased as concern. "Oh, long distance, huh? That will be tough." Or, "Todai is so demanding, Sakura-san. Will you even have time?"
But sometimes, I'd catch a glance or overhear a snippet of conversation that felt more pointed, more doubtful. The kind of look that suggested, "They won't last."
One afternoon, I overheard a couple of classmates talking near my locker.
"...Sakura Yamato and Tanaka? Still together? Doubt that'll last once she goes to Todai. Different leagues, different cities. That's just a high school thing."
The words stung, even though they weren't said directly to me. It was the same old judgment, the same assumption that our relationship was temporary, incapable of surviving the realities of her world and her future.
I saw Ichiro Sato in the hallway a few days later. He nodded politely as we passed, but his gaze, as always, felt assessing. He embodied the world that prioritized achievement and saw anything else as potentially detrimental. I had a feeling he was among those who doubted our long-distance plan. His silent judgment felt louder than any overheard whisper.
Sakura noticed the comments too. One evening, after dealing with a few well-meaning but skeptical questions from some acquaintances, she sighed, leaning against me.
"Sometimes it feels like people are just... waiting for us to fail, Hiroshi," she said softly.
"I know," I replied, holding her close. "It's frustrating."
"It's like they can't imagine it working," she continued. "Sakura Yamato... in a long-distance relationship... with..." She didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear. With average Hiroshi.
"Let them doubt, Sakura," I said firmly. "Their doubts don't define us. Our relationship isn't for them. It's for us."
She looked up at me, a small, determined smile on her face. "You're right. It's for us."
We talked about it – the external skepticism, the quiet doubts. It wasn't easy to ignore, but it also served to strengthen our resolve. Every skeptical look, every doubtful comment, felt like another reason to prove them wrong.
"We'll show them," Sakura said, her voice quiet but firm. "We'll show them that it's not just a 'high school thing.' That it's real. And it can last. Even with distance."
"We will," I agreed, squeezing her hand.
Facing external doubts wasn't new to us. Our entire relationship had, in a way, been a response to the public eye and unspoken expectations. But this time, the doubts were specifically targeted at our ability to overcome the practical challenges of distance and different futures.
It added another layer to the 'performance' – not just looking like a successful couple, but looking like a couple capable of surviving separation. But this time, the performance felt less like hiding and more like a quiet demonstration of strength and commitment to each other, for each other. Their doubts weren't a reason to falter; they were a reason to stand taller, hand in hand, ready to prove that our unexpected love was strong enough to withstand not just the miles, but also the skepticism of the outside world.