*April 22nd - The next day*
Professor Akizuki's office looked different in the afternoon light, warmer somehow than during their usual evening meetings. Books lined every wall, and her desk was covered with the organized chaos of someone grading final papers while planning summer research. She looked up with genuine pleasure when Haruki and Noa knocked on her open door.
"Come in, come in," she said, gesturing to the familiar chairs across from her desk. "I was hoping you'd stop by before the semester ended."
"We wanted to thank you," Noa said as they settled into their seats. "For everything you've taught us this year."
"And to tell you about our graduate school decisions," Haruki added. "We'd like your perspective on how we're planning to handle the transition."
Professor Akizuki set down her pen and gave them her full attention. "I'm honored that you want to share this with me. Where did you decide to go?"
"University of Chicago for clinical psychology," Noa said.
"Northwestern for interdisciplinary literature and psychology," Haruki continued.
"Excellent choices. Both programs are perfect for your research interests." She paused, clearly processing the geographic implications. "And you've decided to maintain your relationship across the distance?"
"We have," Noa said. "We realized that choosing programs based on proximity might mean one of us compromising on the opportunity that's best for our academic goals."
"That's a mature decision. How are you feeling about it?"
"Nervous," Haruki admitted. "But also excited. We think supporting each other's individual growth might actually strengthen our relationship."
"That's exactly the kind of thinking that suggests you're ready for this challenge." Professor Akizuki leaned back in her chair, considering her words carefully. "Can I share some observations about your relationship development over the past year?"
"Please," they said simultaneously.
"When you first started dating, you were both very focused on understanding attachment theory intellectually. You could discuss secure and insecure patterns in the abstract, but you were still learning how to apply those concepts to your own relationship."
"That's true," Noa said. "I remember analyzing our communication patterns like we were case studies."
"Which was actually helpful," Professor Akizuki continued. "Having a theoretical framework gave you vocabulary for discussing relationship dynamics that many couples never develop."
"But something changed over the semester," Haruki observed.
"Yes. You stopped just analyzing your relationship and started actively building it. You moved from understanding attachment theory to practicing secure attachment behaviors."
"What's the difference?" Noa asked.
"Understanding attachment theory means you can identify anxious or avoidant patterns when they occur. Practicing secure attachment means you can choose healthier responses in real time, even when you're stressed or triggered."
Professor Akizuki pulled out a notebook and flipped to a page covered with her careful handwriting.
"I've been tracking relationship development patterns in my students for several years now. Most couples who take my class fall into one of three categories."
"What are the categories?" Haruki asked.
"First, couples who learn the theory but can't apply it to their own relationship. They can discuss attachment patterns intellectually, but they continue repeating the same behavioral cycles."
"That sounds frustrating."
"It is. Second, couples who use the theory to analyze their relationship problems but struggle to actually change their patterns. They become very good at identifying what's wrong, but they can't seem to implement healthier behaviors."
"And the third category?" Noa asked.
"Couples who integrate the theory into their actual relationship practices. They don't just understand secure attachment—they actively work to develop secure attachment behaviors with each other."
"Which category do we fall into?"
Professor Akizuki smiled. "You're definitely in the third category. And more than that, you've developed what I call 'relationship intentionality.'"
"What does that mean?"
"It means you approach your relationship as something you're actively building rather than something that just happens to you. You make conscious choices about how you want to love each other."
Haruki felt something warm settle in his chest. "Is that why you think we can handle the distance?"
"Partly. But there's something else that gives me confidence about your long-distance prospects."
"What's that?"
"You've learned to support each other's individual growth instead of feeling threatened by it. That's the foundation of any lasting partnership, but it's especially important when you're managing competing demands like graduate school and geographic distance."
---
Professor Akizuki stood and moved to her bookshelf, pulling out a slim volume that looked well-worn from frequent use.
"I want to give you something," she said, handing the book to Noa. "It's about maintaining intimate relationships during major life transitions."
Noa read the title aloud: "'Love in the Time of Change: Navigating Relationships Through Career Development and Geographic Distance.'"
"The author is a colleague of mine who studies long-distance relationships among graduate students and early-career academics. Her research might be helpful as you navigate the next few years."
"Thank you," Haruki said. "This is incredibly thoughtful."
"There's one chapter in particular I want you to read together—Chapter 7, on 'Intentional Connection Across Distance.' It outlines specific strategies for maintaining emotional intimacy when you can't be physically present."
"What kind of strategies?" Noa asked, already flipping through the pages.
"Things like scheduled communication that goes beyond logistics, sharing daily experiences in detail, creating rituals that help you feel connected to each other's lives."
"That sounds like what we've been doing naturally, but more systematic."
"Exactly. You already have good instincts for staying connected under pressure. This will help you be more intentional about it."
Professor Akizuki returned to her desk and pulled out another folder.
"I also want to discuss our co-authored paper. I've been working on the first draft, integrating your research findings with the broader literature on attachment pattern development."
"How is it coming together?" Haruki asked.
"Beautifully. Your individual research projects complement each other perfectly—Haruki's work on attachment pattern recognition and Noa's findings on therapeutic interventions create a comprehensive picture of how people can develop healthier relationship behaviors."
"When do you think we'll be ready to submit it?"
"I'm hoping to have a complete draft by the end of summer. That would give us time to revise based on your feedback before submitting to journals in the fall."
"Will we be able to work on revisions from our graduate programs?" Noa asked.
"Absolutely. In fact, having you both in strong psychology programs will probably improve the paper. You'll have access to additional resources and perspectives that will strengthen our analysis."
---
They spent the next hour discussing the paper's structure, potential journals for submission, and how they'd coordinate the revision process across three different institutions. Professor Akizuki's enthusiasm for their collaborative work was evident, and Haruki felt the particular satisfaction that came from contributing to research that might actually help other people.
"Before you go," Professor Akizuki said as they prepared to leave, "I want to give you one piece of advice about graduate school relationships."
"What's that?" Noa asked.
"Remember that you're both going to change significantly over the next few years. Graduate school transforms people—intellectually, professionally, personally. The key to maintaining your relationship isn't preventing that change, but growing in ways that complement rather than compete with each other."
"What does that look like practically?" Haruki asked.
"It means celebrating each other's academic achievements instead of feeling threatened by them. It means sharing your intellectual discoveries with each other instead of keeping your academic lives separate. It means viewing your individual growth as something that enriches your partnership rather than something that pulls you apart."
"That sounds like what we've been trying to do this year."
"It is. And you've gotten good at it. But graduate school will test those skills in new ways—more pressure, higher stakes, less time for relationship maintenance."
"How do we prepare for that?"
"By being very intentional about your communication patterns and very honest about your needs. Don't assume that what works now will automatically work when you're both stressed about comprehensive exams or dissertation research."
"So we should expect to have to adapt our relationship strategies?"
"You should expect to have to consciously choose your relationship repeatedly, especially during difficult periods. Love isn't just a feeling—it's a practice that requires ongoing attention and effort."
---
As they left Professor Akizuki's office, both carrying copies of the book she'd given them and notes about their upcoming paper collaboration, Haruki felt like they'd received something more valuable than academic advice.
"She really believes in us," Noa said as they walked across campus together.
"She does. And not just as individual students, but as a couple building something meaningful together."
"It means a lot to have someone we respect see our relationship as worth investing in."
"Especially someone who studies relationships professionally. She's not just being nice—she genuinely thinks we have the skills to make this work."
They found a quiet spot on the quad and sat down to look through the book Professor Akizuki had given them. The chapter on long-distance relationships was filled with research-based strategies and real examples from couples who'd successfully maintained intimacy across geographic distance.
"Look at this," Noa said, pointing to a section on communication patterns. "'Successful long-distance couples report that sharing mundane daily details is as important as discussing major events. The goal is to maintain awareness of each other's daily rhythms and experiences.'"
"That makes sense. It's not just about the big conversations—it's about staying connected to the ordinary parts of each other's lives."
"And this: 'Couples who thrive during separation create rituals that help them feel emotionally present in each other's daily routines.'"
"What kind of rituals?"
"Good morning texts, scheduled video calls, sharing photos of daily experiences, reading the same books and discussing them."
"Those all sound manageable."
"More than manageable—they sound like things we'd want to do anyway."
They spent the rest of the afternoon reading through the book together, taking notes on strategies that seemed relevant to their situation and discussing how they might adapt the suggestions to their specific circumstances.
"You know what I'm realizing?" Noa said as they finished the chapter on maintaining intimacy across distance.
"What?"
"We're not just hoping our relationship will survive graduate school. We're actively planning for it to thrive."
"Is that unusual?"
"I think it is. Most couples our age either assume their relationship will work out without much effort, or they assume it won't survive major life changes."
"But we're approaching it like a project we're working on together."
"A project we're both committed to succeeding at."
"That feels very us," Haruki said, smiling at the recognition. "Applying the same intentionality to our relationship that we apply to our academic work."
"And having mentors like Professor Akizuki who support that approach."
"We're lucky to have found each other, and lucky to have found people who believe in what we're building."
"Very lucky."
As the afternoon sun slanted across the quad, they sat surrounded by the book and notes that would help them navigate the next phase of their relationship, both feeling prepared for the challenges ahead and grateful for the support they'd received.
It was exactly the kind of foundation that made everything else possible.
---
*End of Chapter 34*