Winter in Tokyo wasn't as romantic as I had imagined.

At least not at Haneda Airport in December.

The sky outside the glass windows was gray like a photo washed too many times. Planes slid across the runway one after another, their wings slicing through the thin mist before quickly vanishing into the clouds.

I sat by the window in Terminal 2, with a 26-inch silver suitcase beside me.

My phone vibrated for the third time in my coat pocket.

I didn't take it out.

I knew who it was.

Two hours ago, I left the apartment in Kichijoji where I had lived for six years.

The deep blue men's slippers were still in their usual spot by the entrance. The fridge held half a carton of eggs, a jar of miso, and the beer I bought for Naoki last night.

His white shirt hung on the balcony.

The trash had been forgotten too.

This probably wasn't a proper goodbye.

A real goodbye should be a little prettier.

Clean up the room, leave the keys on the table, write a letter, take one last look at the place we shared, then close the door.

It would be best if it snowed too.

But I did none of that.

I just dragged the suitcase to the entrance, put on my shoes, grabbed my coat, and stood there for a long time.

Six years ago, the first time I walked into this apartment, it was winter too.

I was twenty-seven then.

Naoki was squatting on the floor assembling a dining table bought from IKEA. He had the instructions upside down, and after three attempts the legs were still uneven.

I laughed so hard sitting on a cardboard box that I couldn't get up.

Embarrassed and annoyed, he tossed the screwdriver aside.

"Stop laughing. If you're so capable, you do it."

"Fine, I will."

In the end, he assembled the table himself.

That table stayed with us for six years.

We ate ramen on it, made dumplings, paid bills, and once had a huge fight across it.

One time I got so angry I knocked over miso soup, and the broth dripped down the table leg onto the floor. He said nothing, just crouched down and wiped it clean bit by bit.

I thought that was love.

Not fireworks, not a man running on a platform in a movie, but someone willing to wipe miso soup off the floor for you.

So I stayed.

One year.

Two years.

Six years.

We went from lovers to a kind of family that was hard to define.

Naoki knew I didn't drink coffee in the morning, that I always added green onions to natto, that I kicked off the blanket after falling asleep.

I knew he hated meetings on Mondays, that when drunk he didn't make a fuss but just sat on the sofa watching baseball replays, that he was actually afraid of thunder but never admitted it.

We knew each other too well.

So well that even "I love you" felt unnecessary.

But sometimes, when nothing has gone wrong, a person suddenly realizes they aren't happy.

Last spring, I received a job offer from a publishing house in Sapporo.

It was the job I had wanted for a long time.

Editor.

I studied literature in college, but after graduating I worked in administration in Tokyo. Not because I liked it, but because the salary was stable, it was close to Kichijoji, and it fit conveniently with Naoki's life.

The night I got the offer, I stood in the kitchen holding my phone for a long time.

Naoki was chopping cabbage.

"I got the job."

"What?"

"The publishing house in Sapporo."

His knife paused for a moment.

Just a moment.

"Sapporo?"

"Yeah."

"That's far."

I smiled.

"It's only an hour and a half by plane."

He lowered his head and kept chopping.

"But what about us?"

That sentence was so ordinary.

So ordinary that I didn't even notice something inside me had fallen away.

It wasn't "Do you want to go?"

It wasn't "Isn't this the job you've always wanted?"

It was, what about us.

In the end I turned down the job.

The publisher was polite and replied wishing me all the best in the future.

I sat in the office staring at that email for fifteen minutes, then deleted it.

That evening Naoki brought home my favorite strawberry cake.

"Let's celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"You don't have to go to Sapporo."

He said with a smile.

I smiled too.

But the strawberries that day were sour.

Sour enough that I still remember it now.

After that, I started going to Haneda Airport alone often.

I wasn't going anywhere.

I just took the train over, bought a hot tea, and sat by the window watching planes.

Sometimes I sat there for three hours.

I liked watching the moment a plane lifts off.

Something so massive, carrying hundreds of people, luggage, cargo, fuel—clearly incredibly heavy—yet still able to leave the ground.

The first time I saw it, I suddenly felt jealous.

So being heavy doesn't mean you can't fly.

The phone vibrated again.

This time, I took it out.

Naoki.

I answered.

"Hello."

The other end was quiet.

After a few seconds, he said, "Where are you?"

"Haneda."

"Are you really leaving?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I looked out the window.

A flight to Fukuoka was being pushed back.

"Naoki."

"Yeah."

"Have you ever wondered why we're still together?"

He didn't answer.

I continued, "Because of love?"

"Of course."

I gave a small laugh.

"But I've been thinking about it for a long time, and I don't think that's all it is."

"Then what is it?"

"Habit."

The other end went silent.

"We're used to eating together, sleeping together, going to Seiyu on Saturdays to shop, going to your parents' house during New Year. I even know it takes you about twelve minutes to shower."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing's wrong with it."

I said.

"It's because nothing's wrong that it's even scarier."

If he betrayed me, I could hate him.

If we fought every day, I could leave.

If he became a terrible person, I could even righteously tell everyone that he disappointed me.

But Naoki wasn't like that.

He was a good person.

He would buy fever medicine in the middle of the night when I was sick, remember my mother's birthday, and unconsciously pull me closer to him on the train.

So it took me a long time to admit something.

Someone being good doesn't mean I have to stay by his side forever.

"Do you still love me?"

He finally asked.

I lowered my head.

The boarding pass was in my palm.

Haneda to New Chitose.

One way.

"I do."

I said.

His breathing paused for a moment.

"Then why leave?"

I suddenly started crying.

No sound.

Just tears falling onto the boarding pass, blurring the words New Chitose.

"Because I've loved you for so long that I almost forgot I used to really like myself too."

The other end went completely silent.

I wiped away my tears.

"I used to write novels, travel alone, ride two hours for an out-of-print book. I wanted to be an editor, live in a snowy city, and one day make a book I truly loved."

"But later, every decision I made, I thought of you first."

"What to eat—would you like it?"

"Where to work—would it be far from you?"

"Whether to go to Sapporo—what about us?"

I took a breath.

"Naoki, I'm not leaving because I don't love you."

"I'm afraid that one day, if I stay, I'll start to hate you."

The announcement sounded.

Passengers for Sapporo New Chitose began boarding.

Naoki suddenly said, "What if I come to the airport right now?"

I closed my eyes.

I knew if he came, I might really waver.

Six years isn't something you can cut off just by saying you're leaving.

It's more than two thousand mornings, cherry blossoms seen together, toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, the blanket he drowsily pulled over me in the middle of winter.

The love was real.

The reluctance was real.

But wanting to leave was real too.

"Don't come."

I said.

"Please, don't come."

His voice was low.

"You're afraid you won't be able to leave if you see me?"

"Yes."

I didn't pretend to be strong.

"So don't come."

After a long while, he suddenly gave a small laugh.

Very softly.

"You're really selfish."

"Yeah."

"You weren't like this before."

"So I want to be selfish this once."

I heard him breathing.

Finally, he said, "Message me when you arrive."

I bit my lip.

"Okay."

"Wear your coat. Hokkaido is cold."

"I know."

"And."

"Hmm?"

He paused for a few seconds.

"Go do what you want to do."

I didn't answer.

Because if I opened my mouth I would definitely cry out loud.

After the call ended, I sat there for a long time.

Only when the final boarding announcement sounded did I stand up.

Dragging my suitcase toward the gate, I didn't look back.

When the plane left Tokyo, the sky was still overcast.

For those few minutes breaking through the clouds, the plane kept shaking.

The little girl beside me clutched her mother's hand in fear.

I was a little scared too.

But soon the plane broke through the clouds.

Sunlight suddenly poured into the cabin.

Only then did I realize that overcast skies were only a thing on the ground.

Above the clouds, the sun had always been there.

Leaning against the window, I watched Tokyo gradually disappear.

I didn't feel free.

At least not the kind of freedom you see in movies.

No sense of relief, no rebirth, no excitement at finally escaping someone.

I just felt very sad.

Sad enough that my chest hurt.

So real leaving isn't about not loving anymore.

It's knowing that even while you still love, some paths can only be walked alone.

An hour and a half later, the plane landed at New Chitose Airport.

It was snowing in Sapporo.

I dragged my suitcase out of the terminal, cold air rushing into my collar.

My phone lit up.

A message from Naoki.

"Did you arrive?"

I stood in the snow for a long time.

Finally replied.

"I'm here."

He quickly replied with one word.

"Okay."

Just that.

I put the phone back in my pocket.

The airport bus slowly approached.

I picked up my suitcase and, for the first time, felt that the 26-inch case wasn't as heavy as I had imagined.

Many years later, I would still think of that day.

Someone asked me if I would regret leaving someone I still loved.

I said yes.

Of course I would.

Some nights I even wonder—if I hadn't gone to Sapporo, if we had gotten married, if that uneven table had stayed—maybe we could have lived a quiet life together.

The answer is probably yes.

But this is where life is most cruel.

"Can" has never been the same as "want."

We always think birds fly because they hate the ground.

Only later did I understand—no.

Some birds deeply love the eaves they once perched on, remember the position of every branch, and even after flying far away, will still miss the wind there in certain seasons.

Yet they still fly.

Not because the sky is more worthy of love than the ground.

Only because one day they finally understand.

The reason wings exist isn't to prove you can leave someone.

It's so that when the distance calls, you at least have the ability to answer.

I'm here.

#OneSongOneStory#ShortStory#Love

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