Simulations With You
"If you catch a falling cherry blossom, your love will come true."
I don't remember who told me that. Maybe it was my grandmother, or a friend's older sister, or something I read in a book. But I believed it completely. The way children believe in everything—tooth fairies, shooting stars, the certainty that good things happen to people who deserve them.
Every spring, I'd position myself under the biggest cherry tree in the neighborhood park. The one with branches that stretched so wide they created a canopy of pink and white. I'd stand there with my arms outstretched, neck craned back, watching petals spiral down through shafts of sunlight. Most of them drifted past my fingertips. The wind would carry them just out of reach, as if teasing me. But occasionally, one would land perfectly in my palm.
When that happened, I'd close my hand so carefully, afraid my grip might crush it. I'd peek through the gap between my fingers to make sure it was still there, still intact. Then I'd run home to show my mother, convinced that something wonderful was about to happen. "You caught one!" she'd say, smiling at my flushed cheeks and tangled hair. "Make a wish."
I always wished for the same thing, though I never told anyone what it was.
The Years of Looking Down
In high school, I learned that my friends believed in the legend too. It became a game. A ritual. Something that marked the arrival of spring as much as the warming weather or the longer days. College brought new cherry trees and someone who believed in the legend as much as I did. We'd walk through campus with our eyes on the sky, abandoning conversations mid-sentence whenever a petal started its descent.
But legends don't work the way you think they will. Relationships end. People change. Often there isn't a dramatic reason; you just wake up one day and realize you've been walking parallel paths for a while now. The conversation where we decided to part was quiet. Sad, but not angry. We were sitting under cherry trees when it happened. I remember a petal landing on the bench between us. Neither of us reached for it.
After that, I stopped paying attention to cherry blossoms. I'd walk under them during my commute, but I kept my eyes forward. Earbuds in, mind on work or groceries. The petals fell around me like pink snow, and I let them. Dozens would catch in my hair or on my shoulders, and I'd brush them off without looking. What was the point? I'd caught so many, and none of them had made any difference in the end.
Years passed like that. Cherry blossoms became just another seasonal inconvenience, like rain or falling leaves. Something pretty that made a mess.
The Touch on the Wrist
Then yesterday, something small happened. I was checking my phone while walking—a text from a coworker about a meeting time—when I felt the lightest touch on my wrist. A cherry blossom had landed there, so delicate I almost didn't notice. It sat on my skin, pale pink against my veins, its edges slightly curled. I stopped walking. People flowed around me on the sidewalk, annoyed at the obstruction, but I couldn't move. I just stared at this small, perfect thing.
Suddenly I was ten years old again, running through the park. I was in college again, laughing as our hands collided in mid-air. I was sitting on that bench, watching a petal fall between us. My chest felt tight—that specific ache that comes from remembering something you've been trying not to think about.
The blossom on my wrist trembled in the breeze, threatening to fly away. I caught it this time. Closed my hand around it gently, the way I used to as a child.
Reaching for Beautiful Things
Tonight, after work, I'm going to walk home slowly. I'm going to look up at the cherry trees instead of at my phone. I'm going to reach for falling petals again, not because I believe they'll make love come true—I'm not that naive anymore—but because somewhere along the way, I forgot how to reach for beautiful things.
I stopped letting myself hope for small magic. I stopped paying attention to moments that didn't serve a practical purpose. I became the kind of person who brushes cherry blossoms out of their hair without looking, who walks through pink snow without feeling wonder. Maybe that's what I actually lost. Not the relationship, but the part of myself that believed in reaching for things, even when the odds were against me.
Spring comes every year. The cherry trees don't care if you believe in legends or not—they bloom anyway. But those feelings—that lightness in your chest when something beautiful lands in your palm, that willingness to look foolish while chasing wind-blown petals—those don't come back on their own. You have to reach for them.
Did you used to chase cherry blossoms too? Do you still?
🌸 Catch a Moment of Spring
Since we can't always stand under real cherry trees, I built a small digital space where spring lasts forever. It's a place to slow down, look up, and just... catch petals. No high scores, no time limits. Just the wind, the music, and the blossoms.
Stand Under the Tree