Texting was okay for quick updates, for sharing small moments, but it wasn't the same as hearing her voice, seeing her face. Our first few phone calls in our new cities felt both familiar and slightly strained. We were still us, but the backdrop had changed entirely.
My first call with Sakura happened a couple of days after we arrived. I was in my small dorm room, sitting on my bed. She was in hers, the difference in our environments immediately apparent even through the phone camera. Her room, though small for her standards, looked modern and neat. Mine was... well, a typical dorm room.
"Hey, Hiroshi-kun!" she said, her smile a welcome sight on the screen.
"Hey, Sakura!" I replied, smiling back, genuinely happy to see her face. "How's Todai life?"
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Intense! Orientation sessions were long! Met so many people! Everyone is so... accomplished! It's inspiring, but also... makes my head spin a little!"
She told me about the different departments, the introductory lectures, the sheer scale of the campus. Hearing her talk about the Nobel laureates who had studied there, the cutting-edge research, the highly intellectual environment, felt like listening to a report from a different country. Her world was prestigious and demanding.
"Sounds amazing, though," I said.
"It is," she agreed. "But also... a lot. How about you? How's your university city?"
I told her about my campus – smaller than hers, but with a beautiful old library that I was excited about. I talked about my department, the friendly professors, the students I had met. My world felt less grand, less high-stakes, but it felt like a place where I could comfortably pursue my interests.
"That library sounds wonderful, Hiroshi!" she said, her eyes lighting up. "You'll spend all your time there, won't you?"
"Probably," I grinned. "It's my kind of place."
Sharing details about our new lives was important, a way of trying to include each other in our separate experiences. But it also highlighted the differences. Our daily realities were already diverging. Her conversations were filled with talk of intense academic pressure and world-class achievements. Mine were about finding a good study spot and navigating the campus layout.
"Met any interesting people?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but feeling a prickle of insecurity. Todai would be full of impressive, driven individuals. Would she meet someone who fit her world better than I did?
Sakura smiled, a genuine, open smile that chased away some of my anxiety. "Lots of interesting people! Everyone has done amazing things! But... 'interesting' like Kenji or Aiko? Or... 'interesting' like you, Hiroshi? Not yet."
Her reassurance was subtle but powerful. She wasn't just meeting people; she was evaluating them, perhaps unconsciously, against the connections she valued most.
We talked about our potential schedules, trying to find windows for regular calls. It was challenging. Her Todai schedule looked incredibly packed. Mine was slightly more flexible, but still demanding. Coordinating time zones (even within the same country) and finding overlap when we were both free and not exhausted would require effort.
The first call was both a comfort – proof that we could still connect across miles – and a stark reminder of how different our daily realities were becoming. The conversation flowed, but the silence on the other end when one of us wasn't talking felt more profound. It wasn't just an empty line; it was the quiet hum of a different city, a different university, a different life happening miles away.
Bridging the gap wasn't just about physical distance; it was about bridging the growing gap in our daily experiences, finding ways to stay connected when our worlds were no longer the same. Our unexpected love story was entering a phase where conscious effort in communication was just as important as the feelings themselves.