Sakura's social circle at Todai was just as dynamic, filled with students who were not only academically brilliant but also engaging and ambitious in their own ways. Kenjiro, the history prodigy, remained a prominent figure, a constant presence in her academic life.
She talked about her Todai friends with a mix of admiration and a touch of being slightly overwhelmed. They were discussing complex theories, planning ambitious research projects, and pushing the boundaries of academic achievement constantly.
"Kenjiro is presenting his research proposal to a professor next week," she mentioned during a call, her voice holding a note of awe. "He's only a first-year, but his ideas are already so advanced!"
Hearing about Kenjiro's continued accomplishments sometimes fueled my earlier insecurity. He seemed to fit seamlessly into the world Sakura was excelling in. He was right there, a part of her daily academic life, sharing her intellectual intensity in a way I couldn't from miles away.
Sakura mentioned other friends too – students she studied with, people she debated with in seminars. They shared her drive, her focus, her environment.
"Went out for coffee with a study group today," she said one evening. "We ended up talking for hours about our different research interests!"
These conversations were important for her, for her academic and personal growth. But they also served as quiet reminders of the different trajectories our lives were taking, the different communities we were building.
Sometimes, she would share a funny anecdote about a friend, or a frustrating moment from a group project. I listened, trying to picture these people, this world, trying to feel like I was still a part of it, even passively.
"Does... Kenjiro ever ask about me?" I ventured softly one call, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Sakura paused. "He... not really, Hiroshi. His focus is mostly on academics. And Todai."
Her honesty, while again reassuring that he wasn't a romantic threat, also subtly highlighted that my existence outside her Todai world wasn't particularly relevant to some of her new, highly focused peers. It wasn't personal; it was just the nature of the intense environment.
"It's okay," I said, trying to sound like it didn't bother me.
"Hiroshi," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "My friends here are important. They challenge me academically. They understand the pressure of Todai. But they don't... they don't know me like you do. They don't see... me. Just the Todai student."
Her words were a balm to my insecurity. Even surrounded by academic brilliance, she valued the deep, personal connection we shared, the connection that saw beyond the performance and the expectations.
Building her social circle at Todai was essential for her well-being and success. Her friendships there provided academic support and a sense of belonging in a demanding environment. But navigating these new relationships while ensuring our long-distance bond remained the most significant connection in her life required conscious effort from her too. It was a testament to her commitment that even amidst the intensity of Todai and the brilliance of her new peers, she continuously reaffirmed the unique and irreplaceable place I held in her world. The development of her new friendships was a necessary part of her journey, but it was also a constant, subtle challenge to the boundaries of our long-distance relationship, a test of its strength against the pull of her new, immersive environment.