The realization hit Shota like a punch to the chest, and he nearly collapsed right there.
Sure, you want to make a space battle anime? Go ahead. You want to slip romance into it? Fine. But why the hell did it have to hurt like this? What kind of sadism drives someone to set the story up this way? Is the writer actually unwell?
The encounter near Pluto showed the heroine, Mikako, piloting her mecha and holding the line for nearly a full minute. If that sequence had been in the PV, Shota would've jumped off the couch without thinking twice. The motion was smooth, the speed obscene- missiles tearing through the void with burning trails, a monstrous alien enemy- mechs and creatures- crashing into the human fleet in the darkness of space. The camera never stopped shifting, every cut more breathtaking than the last, a spectacle beyond words.
And yet, in that moment, Shota could barely focus on what should've mattered to any action fan. His eyes were locked on Mikako's communicator, praying the message would finally go through.
Please… send it. Just send it…
His pupils widened. Noboru, back on Earth, needed to know she hadn't died in that attack. Even if the next message wouldn't arrive for a year, there had to be that thin thread of hope- I'm still here- a promise that he didn't have to say goodbye for good.
But the story had no mercy.
Against the starry sky, the human fleet's motherships erupted into a cascade of crystalline light, beautiful as lightning tearing open a heavy cloudbank. And at the exact moment Mikako's mecha returned, those massive silhouettes simply vanished from the solar system's sky.
Then the music came back- "Sorrow of Farewell."
Mikako was alone in the cockpit, a small figure before the panels, a single point adrift in an indifferent universe. She hit the send button too late, and what appeared on the display made Shota's nose sting.
[Ultra long-distance SMS.
Distance: 13,477,536,000,000 km.
Estimated time to reach Earth: 1 year, 16 days, 12 hours.]
One year and sixteen days.
The only bridge between a boy and a girl, separated by an ocean of stars and the cold of a place where no one hears anyone scream.
"This isn't normal… this writer is sick," he muttered, anger and a lump in his throat twisting together. "Seriously sick."
As if that weren't enough, the official broadcast from the Allied Fleet, echoing through the cockpits, crushed whatever hope was left: the "return anchor" hadn't been found. Which meant the journey was one-way. Until they located the jump point necessary to return to Japan- to Earth- Mikako simply couldn't go back to the solar system.
And on top of that, to continue the extermination campaign against the aliens, the Allied Fleet would depart immediately for the Sirius sector, eight light-years away. From there, any SMS she sent would take eight years to reach Noboru.
Eight years.
And what could she do about it? She was just another cog in the machine, a tiny piece on a colossal board. All she could do was steal whatever time remained before the next jump and type- hands trembling- everything she needed the boy on the other side to know… and send it.
The message she was writing now would arrive in one year and sixteen days.
But for Noboru to receive the next one, sent after they reached the Sirius sector… he would have to wait eight years and seven months.
The thought was suffocating.
Shota was a seasoned anime fan, the kind who could grasp a complicated plot on the first viewing. Which only made it worse. This wasn't some "hot-blooded space battle anime" at all. It was a romance in the void designed to crush your heart- using outrageously good combat animation as bait.
Last week's PV… that damn PV.
Yume Animation. Directed by Sora Kamakawa.
"You're a bunch of con artists," he snarled, genuinely wounded. "You hid it way too well."
Real life was bitter enough. At twenty-five, he'd never even had a girlfriend- he already carried plenty of his own sadness. And now he had to watch an anime where someone waits eight years to receive a text from the person they love.
By the time the episode reached that point, viewers across the regions around Shikoku erupted into emotion- a sea of frustration, grief, and shock. Somewhere in a company office, Sora Kamakawa absorbed that surge like numbers stacking in the system's space.
"Noboru… is it possible you'll forget me?"
Gripped by that terror, Mikako pressed "send," and with the click came her second interstellar jump.
…
By now, the story felt like a winter that would never end. The colors, the soundtrack, the framing- everything was a quiet warning of mourning.
[One year later…]
The words appeared onscreen.
"Last winter… I'd already given up waiting for Mikako's SMS."
Noboru's narration- now that of a high school student- played over the sound of another rainy season. And just when it seemed nothing would ever change, the phone he always carried vibrated.
As he always did, he yanked it out in a panic, the seriousness of someone holding an entire life in his palm, and read the message.
Mikako explained her situation. And at the end, almost apologizing for existing at that distance:
[The next time we receive each other's SMS… it will take eight years and seven months. I'm sorry.]
[Noboru… it's like we're lovers separated between Earth and the universe.]
So short. So simple. And still it cut through Shota like a blade.
Like we're lovers separated between Earth and the universe.
Of every anime he'd watched that year, no line had hit him harder than that.
…
On the other side, in the Sirius sector, there was a planet with alien life. The Allied Fleet was hunting for the enemy there.
That world's sky was a pale green, its clouds flawless white, and above them floated the looming presence of another enormous planet- as if the scenery itself wanted to remind you the universe was always bigger than you were. The background art was free, beautiful, delicate- just for a moment, it let you breathe.
Only for a moment.
Mikako walked her mecha across waterlogged grass. Birds took flight and a fine drizzle fell, pooling into the deep footprints the machine left behind.
"Wow…" Her eyes widened in awe.
"I really wish the rain would stop…"
"I want to go to a konbini… and have ice cream with you, Noboru…"
The mecha tilted its face to the sky, bathing in the rain- then sunlight tore through the clouds. Inside the cockpit, though, she clutched her head and started to cry, as if the light only made it crueler.
"Noboru…"
She was 8.7 light-years from Earth. If the Allied Fleet couldn't find an anchoring point for a return jump… she and Noboru would never see each other again.
Even as she cried, Mikako took out her communicator, swallowed the despair, and sent another message to the boy far beyond the sky.
[Hello, Noboru at 24… this is Mikako at 15…]
The text was bright, lively- almost playful- as if she were pretending any of this was normal. That was what broke Shota. He grabbed a tissue and blew his nose hard, already past the point of control.
They were nearly the same age.
And yet Mikako, at fifteen, had to imagine how to speak to the Noboru who would read that message eight years later- already twenty-four. What would future Noboru be doing? Would he have fallen for someone else? Married? Had kids?
Would he… have forgotten her?
The sky cleared, the sun won completely, but the tears wouldn't stop. She stared at the screen as she typed, and her thoughts slipped out in a trembling inner whisper:
"I just want to see Noboru one more time… and tell him I like him."
Then, paired with that wish- too small for the size of the universe- came the warning alarm inside the cockpit.
The alien fleet was attacking. The human fleet was under fire.
There was no time to cry. No time to hurt.
In that instant, Mikako had to fight- truly fight- for her life.
…
Eight years later, Noboru, now twenty-four, dragged his exhausted body home after work. The phone he'd never changed- the one he'd kept since his teens- vibrated. That device, which hadn't received any signal from her communicator for half a year, finally did.
And that was when the theme song of Voices of a Distant Star began.
A track that was intense, heroic, and mournful all at once, driving Shota's emotions to the edge. The best combat scenes in the entire anime exploded across the screen: a powerful black mecha beneath a burning orange sunset, the sky packed with alien monsters and enemy machines, bullets streaking through the air, missiles dragging long tails of fire. The camera cut too fast- through atmosphere and into space- until everything became a storm of explosions, shockwaves, and light.
A massive war tableau, a sky that looked stained with blood, and acrobatic mecha shots so fast you could barely see the silhouettes- paired with the inner monologues of Noboru and Mikako: separated by eight years and a chasm of stars, yet converging as if longing had its own gravity.
[Mikako's message was only two lines. The rest was greetings. Even so… it felt like a miracle. Hey, Mikako… I…] - Noboru.
[Noboru… there are so many things I miss. There's nothing here.] - Mikako.
[Like the summer clouds, the cold rain, the autumn wind.] - Noboru.
[The sound of raindrops striking an umbrella, the soft soil of spring… and the sense of comfort from a konbini at night.] - Mikako.
[The lightness in the air after school.] - Noboru.
[That romantic feeling under the setting sun… all of it, always…] - Mikako.
[All of it… I wanted to feel it together with you, Mikako.] - Noboru.
A girl battling aliens eight years ago… and a boy reading her words eight years later.
Their hearts, despite time and distance, beat in the same rhythm.
What they were reaching for… was the same thing.
Mikako cut down countless enemies- creatures and mecha alike- and broke through the planet's atmosphere, climbing from ground to sky, slicing through layer after layer until she reached open space. Of the three human motherships, only one remained: the Lystea. The other two had become violent flares, detonating into the black.
All around her drifted wreckage- broken mecha frames, torn ship hulls, and fragments of what had once been people.
Mikako brought her mecha to a stop before the Lystea, as if placing herself between the last home and the end. She had to protect that ship. It was the only one left that might still carry someone back.
Beside her were the few teammates the human fleet still had. The Lystea extended every gun barrel and fired at full capacity. Ahead, an uncountable mass advanced- alien mecha, alien creatures, and a mothership surrounded by its escort- charging straight at humanity's last hope.
Mikako's mecha had already lost an arm.
Even so… she had to go.
The human fleet poured out nearly all its missiles to cover her advance. Her mecha's engines erupted into flame- full power- and the acceleration was so brutal that, even launching after them, she caught up to the very missiles and bullets already racing ahead, slipping between streaks of smoke and tracer fire as if chasing fate itself.
The enemy tried to block her. Mikako answered with impossible movements in the vacuum- dodging missiles by inches, spinning away from fire, twisting at the last moment and drawing her blade in a slash that looked like it split the void.
The camera shook so much Shota couldn't tell up from down anymore.
In space, there is no "up."
Beneath that dazzling, blood-pumping choreography, their voices continued- delicate, human- as if the war were only backdrop to what truly mattered.
[We parted in a place so, so far away…] - Mikako.
The black mecha broke through the enemy's outer line.
[But longing surpasses time and distance.] - Noboru.
[Noboru… have you ever thought about this?] - Mikako.
Behind her, enemy wrecks detonated in a chain, lighting the emptiness.
[If there were an instant like that… what would I think? And you, Mikako- what would you think?] - Noboru.
Thousands of missiles surged toward her. Mikako threaded the narrow gap between blasts, but the heat melted both legs of the machine down to nothing.
[I…]
Her gaze steadied. A long laser blade formed from the remaining arm, shining like a final vow. The engine pushed beyond its limits, and the remaining energy count plummeted across the display.
The blade punched through the alien mothership's armor and struck the engine section.
Her mecha crossed the enemy hull at impossible speed- then the sword's light died. The engine's flame vanished too, as if the universe had snuffed it out.
Only one arm remained. A broken body. No fuel.
And inertia carried Mikako into the black.
In the tight, lightless cockpit, she smiled.
[Hey… I'm sure we're only thinking of one thing.] - Mikako.
Hey, Noboru!
Even in different places, in different times… they thought the same.
[I'm right here.] - Mikako.
[I'm right here.] - Noboru.
…
In his room, Shota stared at the TV as the words slowly appeared: Voices of a Distant Star - End.
He was in shock.
Shaken by Mikako's final charge- an advance with no return- by a courage that seemed to burn brighter than any explosion. And shaken, too, by the impossible beauty of two people who could still meet in the same feeling, even across time and space.
Voices of a Distant Star…
So that was what it meant.
I'm right here.
Even if they might never see each other again in this lifetime, I'm right here- and what I feel won't disappear just because the universe decided to place years and distance in the way.
Was that… what the writer and director wanted to say?
Shota felt his eyes sting. He tried to hold it in- he really did- but it was no use.
The tears came anyway.
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