My Cherry Blossom

We walk side by side down the long crosswalk, the cool wind gently disarranging our hair as we look at the beauty of the cherry blossoms surrounding us.

I look up at Isak, and his wavy brown hair is softly tossed by the breeze, his light brown eyes reflecting the soft pink of the blossoms. He was taller than I, his features pronounced from this angle, casting a tender and profound expression. Beside him, my darker characteristics—my black hair and deep brown eyes—contrast so much with the night and yet harmonize with the shadows of the paths that we walk. It's late; the soft rustle of leaves and the quiet sounds of families gathering their picnic items to head home fill the air with a peaceful, end-of-day quietness. Isak's eyes light up with a special kind of wonder, a deep appreciation I get the feeling is rare for him; in India, where traditional values guarded the society, the freedom to look in awe at such simple scenes like this alongside someone he loved is just a distant dream.

Under the delicate canopy of pink blossoms in Tokyo, I feel his hand hold mine, clinging to this fleeting moment of shared tranquility. Haruto enjoy this moment, I tell myself. I quickly drop his hand out of fear of those around seeing us, we’re dead if they find out. He turns to me, releasing an exhausted sigh, I understand his frustration as I share the same feelings. We are both tired of having to conceal who we are, of masking the truth of our love from the world.

“My family would never accept our love or allow me to be with you the way you deserve Haruto,” Isak confesses, his voice cracking. “I’m supposed to be focusing on my studies, preparing to provide for a future wife and children.” His words hang heavy in the air, a reminder of the expectations that bind him.

"Isak, my family has the same expectations for me, but here I am, spending every possible minute with you,” I say, my voice low and filled with tension. “Every day, I'm terrified that someone will find out about us. When you hold my hand in those random moments I freeze, scared that someone that knows you or myself might see us.” Isak doesn’t say anything, but he knows that everything I said was true.

We rode the bus to Osanbashi Pier in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The quiet between us speaks volumes, and I can feel a dull ache beginning to throb in my heart, reflecting the pain of our realities. The bus ride lasted only 8 minutes, but with the weight of our silence, it felt like hours stretching endlessly before us.

Isak’s eyes sparkled, lit by the glowing moon above him; he looked in wonder at the fast wave that approached the pier. We both stood enchanted; the waves washed over our feet as we absorbed the gift of the ocean's water. His fingers intertwined with mine. Our hands met, seeking comfort from each other’s touch—the only time during the night when we could both co-exist as one completely and openly. Before us was the lively city with neon lights of all different colors illuminating the narrow streets. Skyscrapers towered high above with the low rippling water that cradled the koi within. The mixed scent of cherry blossom and yakitori reached every corner of my nostrils.

Then he turned his head to meet my eyes; a deep sadness and pain struck my heart, that was once so full of love, in an instant. The glow was so bright; the city so lively and flowing yet during this moment, I saw a desperation in his look that struck me. I released his hand. I can’t bear to hear him put into words how he’s going to break my heart. I put my head down, focusing on the sounds of the cars passing on the bridge close to us trying to block out the words that will shatter the tranquility of our shared moment

“Please don’t do this” I whispered silently.

Isak and I are just two boys, linked by an unbreakable love we can’t refuse to acknowledge but at the same time haunted by a brutal society that refuses to allow it.

“You have to let me go” Isak whispers, his lips gently brushing my forehead as he speaks.

“What would I do without you?” I ask, my voice trembles, terrified at the thought of a future bereft of his presence.

Isak wraps his arms around me, and in that embrace, I have a sanctuary—a momentary haven from the world around us. It’s just me and him. Isak’s presence was comforting yet heart-wrenching.

I could almost forget the harsh reality that he had been taken from me 54 years ago, a victim of a brutal hate crime. Our love, hidden from the eyes of the society that never accepted us, had cost him his life. Back home in India, his confession about our relationship to his very religious family created a storm of anger. The strict societal standards had ruled our love to not only be unacceptable but punishable. That night, the hate that blinded them cruelly ripped him from this world, from me.

With tears flowing down my face, the wind swept him away from my arms, leaving me holding onto myself in the empty space where he once was. My heartbeat is unsteady and my chest becomes a void, as if my heart is broken again. Air comes irregular and in portions as if the weight of his missing is all over me, crushing me, and making me impossible to breathe. Every time I breathe, it is a painful, sharp fight, and I might as well be taken away too, vanished in the void he has left.

I should’ve held on just a tiny bit harder, just a tad bit longer. Maybe, just maybe things would have played out differently. Every year I come to the same pier, the same date that he left, I look down at the water and imagine, just for a moment, that I see him again, his tall, gentle figure walking toward me, his hair getting messy by the wind. But he’s never there—it’s only the quiet waves and the breeze, reminding me of everything that was taken away. The bracelet on my wrist, the one he slipped into my hand that last night, is my anchor. He’d laughed softly, telling me to keep it safe until he could wear it again. I wonder if he knew, if this was his parting gift to me, something small and silver to keep him close as the years slipped by.

Now, standing on this pier, with the memory of his presence embracing me, I become aware of my own aging and the time elapsed since our last meeting. I looked at my own reflection in the water and realized how much my face had changed with deep wrinkles etched all over my face, also seeing silver locks of hair instead of black ones. The world has moved on, but I am still there, in that moment in the past, clinging on to our stolen moments.

I lived on in the quiet lie that he was still here with me, each passing year. I clung to every trace of his voice, every recall like it was really happening in front of me. I lied to everyone that I was married, smiling back at them as they sent their congratulations, building a life inside my head that we never lived. During social gatherings and also in the loneliness of my home, I felt his existence with the most delusive trick of me, that even though I was deprived of his presence, he was simply invisible, maybe, he was just a room away, unnoticeable and soundlessly, as if he was just waiting for me to find him. I made myself believe he’d just moved somewhere I couldn’t reach, to a place where days didn’t pass with my laughter or tears. But in my mind, he was still right there with me, watching over me, quietly refusing to let me face the world alone.

Yet the truth was too painful, it hollowed out the edges of my mind. I managed to avoid it by packing it between many layers of stories and years, but it remained a constant, that raw, merciless absence and sometimes I felt his hand in mine and then opened my eyes and saw only mine. I couldn’t let myself admit to myself that he was dead, to accept it meant that I had failed to protect him forever. And so, I moved on, drifting from one day to another, in the pretense that he was there, just as he always was, though every time I tried to convince myself of this, it never worked as the unbearable emptiness kept following me wherever I went. From the outside, people saw me swaying alone, as if dancing with his ghost, locked in steps only I could feel.

As I stood there, the smell of the water, the cherry blossoms and the yakitori were all the same as when I was last with him. Isak loved the cherry blossoms more than I did, or perhaps it was because he knew he would soon be part of something as fleeting and beautiful.

“I miss you,” I whispered, the words forming a misty cloud in the cold air, each syllable a desperate wish that my words might reach him, wherever he was. My heart ached for one more moment with him, one more touch, one more whispered promise of the “forever” that we never got. All I had were memories, a remembrance of the days we spent keeping our love hidden away from the world, haunting me with what could have been. Standing here in the quiet is a way I can continue to hold onto his memory, his touch, his love. Maybe, even after all these years, that’s enough.