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I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 138
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 18:17:57 +0000 UTCRight now?
Haruki was a bit surprised.
He had originally planned to schedule a meeting with the Kazuya for the next day or even later in the week. He hadn't expected Kazuya to be so responsive to his message.
“Apologies, Producer Mori. I’m not near Kazanami Studio at the moment—I’m still around the university area,” Haruki explained over the phone. “I just wanted to get your thoughts first, so I wasn’t expecting to meet today…”
“It’s fine, really. I’ve got time. Just come by whenever you’re free,” Kazuya said cheerfully.
Haruki knew there was no way someone like Kazuya—a senior producer at a major animation studio—was truly “free.” He was making time for Haruki, clearly giving this meeting importance.
“In that case... would this afternoon be okay? I can head over now.”
“Of course. That works perfectly.”
…
After hanging up, Haruki didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the storyboards he’d drawn recently for Voices of a Distant Star and 5 Centimeters per Second, flagged a cab from near his dorm, and headed straight for Kazanami Studio.
Since Kazuya had responded with such enthusiasm, Haruki felt he had to meet that energy. If the producer had been indifferent, he wouldn’t have pushed, but given the eagerness, Haruki felt it was only right to go now.
An hour later, Haruki stopped at a quiet restaurant near the studio to wait.
Soon enough, Kazuya arrived.
“It’s been a while. You’re still as energetic as ever, Mizushiro-sensei. I envy that,” Kazuya greeted him with a smile.
“You flatter me, Producer Mori.”
Both knew the pleasantries weren’t the main reason for meeting, and Kazuya got straight to the point.
“I heard on the phone that you’ve got a new concept. Did you bring the script?”
“I did,” Haruki nodded. “Though I’m not a professional screenwriter, so I’ve sketched the work in manga storyboard form, just like last time.”
He handed over two thick stacks—his drafts for 5 Centimeters per Second and Voices of a Distant Star.
Haruki had even included some finalized designs for the main characters of both works. He had revised the character art for Voices, ensuring it matched the refined style of 5 Centimeters—the original version, after all, had a very retro aesthetic that felt outdated by today’s standards.
Kazuya flipped through the pages and quickly noted the thickness.
“Short stories?”
“Yes, both are around 50 minutes in runtime, if adapted fully,” Haruki said seriously.
He felt slightly anxious—most studios focused on full-length seasonal series. Short-form works like these often landed in a gray area: too long to be called an OVA, too short for theatrical release, and risky for online streaming. The general perception was: how good could a story that short really be?
Studios tended to avoid projects like this unless they had clear artistic or viral appeal.
Kazuya, though, didn’t dismiss them outright. He opened the storyboard for 5 Centimeters per Second and began reading.
He was greeted by the delicate portraits of Takaki Tono and Akari Shinohara, along with a few vivid color illustrations of background scenes—train platforms, cherry blossoms, and silent snowy streets. The detail caught his attention immediately.
The artistry was striking.
Haruki had poured time into replicating the feeling of the anime, painstakingly translating the visual poetry of the original into manga form. Even as his drawing speed improved, some frames—particularly the iconic scenic ones—took real effort. But they were worth it.
Then came the narrative.
“Did you know? The falling speed of cherry blossoms is five centimeters per second.”
That was the opening line.
Soon, a girl and a boy stood separated by train tracks. She held an umbrella and smiled at him across the platform.
“Next year, let’s watch the cherry blossoms together.”
That was the setup.
The story then shifted to letters exchanged between the two. At first, they were simply childhood friends. As time passed, life separated them. Akari transferred to a different school. Then later, Takaki had to transfer too—putting a long physical distance between them.
Still, they kept writing.
Eventually, Takaki decided to travel across the region just to see Akari again.
Kazuya found himself engrossed. The plot was simple, but the emotional tension—crafted through subtle expression and internal dialogue—was deeply compelling. The delayed train. The heavy snow. The silent waiting. The kiss in the snowy night. The wordless parting the next morning.
By the time the first part ended, Kazuya set the papers down for a moment, took a sip of water, and silently nodded before continuing.
In the second act, a new character—Sumida—entered the picture.
She had a quiet, unspoken love for Takaki. She cheered him on from the sidelines, misread his kindness as something more, and then slowly realized that his heart was elsewhere.
When she teared up, knowing her feelings would never reach him, Kazuya couldn’t help but feel a twinge of recognition.
“Please… just stop being so kind to me.”
The line hit him unexpectedly hard.
Sumita’s unrequited love felt real. Tangible. Painfully relatable. She had never even confessed, yet her heartbreak was clear. Her moment of realization, framed by the rocket launch cutting through the sky behind them, was cinematic in its quiet devastation.
It reminded Kazuya of his own youth.
This was the power of 5 Centimeters per Second. No big drama. No shocking twists. Just a quiet melancholy—the ache of what could have been. Of lives diverging. Of moments lost to time.
It was beautiful.
Without pause, Kazuya turned to the third part of the story.
A new chapter title graced the page:
"5 Centimeters per Second – Part Three"
As soon as Kazuya saw the title of the third episode, his interest instantly spiked.
Five Centimeters Per Second.
The story was divided into three parts: Cherry Blossom, Cosmonaut, and Five Centimeters Per Second.
Just from the titles, Kazuya could tell this final part had the weight of a literary conclusion.
The first chapter, Cherry Blossom, told the story of Takaki and Akari—how they met in elementary school, grew close through middle school, developed feelings... and then were slowly pulled apart.
Cosmonaut shifted the perspective. This time, from Sumida’s eyes, we watched Takaki moved to another prefecture. Following that last bittersweet meeting with Akari, Takaki drifted—still haunted by her memory. Sumida, watching Takaki silently unravel, fell for him. She worked up the courage to confess... but never managed to say the words.
And then came the third chapter: Five Centimeters Per Second.
Years had passed. Takaki was now an adult, back in Tokyo for work. He had a girlfriend—someone he had been dating for quite a while.
But maybe she, like Sumida, had noticed the shadow that never left Takaki’s heart. One night, she messaged him:
“Even if we sent a thousand text messages... our hearts would still only be one centimeter closer.”
Eventually, they broke up. The message was clear. Even after all these years, Akari’s presence lingered inside him like a ghost.
Neither Sumida nor Mizuno—his ex-girlfriend—had ever truly been able to reach him.
Reading this far, Kazuya glanced across the table at Haruki.
What kind of mind thinks like this? As far as Kazuya knew, Haruki was single. But how could someone so young write love stories with such emotional precision?
From Rurouni Kenshin to Anohana to this... Mori could only chalk it up to raw talent.
He kept reading. The final episode was layered with meaning.
There were subtle cues—Akari hinting to her family she was about to get married. A ring on her left hand. Flashbacks cut through the ending theme: their letters, their missed connections. Two people, once so close, had become strangers.
And then came the most emotionally crushing moment.
Takaki and Akari—after all these years—crossed paths at a train crossing. For a moment, they both paused.
If I turn around now, Takaki thought, I know she will too.
The train roared by, separating them physically, but not emotionally. They waited on either side of the crossing.
And then... they both turned.
But the train blocked their view.
Kazuya, already drawn in, could barely breathe.
Would they meet again? Would they finally speak? Maybe Akari, now engaged, would at least give him closure?
When the train finally passed...
There was no one on the other side.
Kazuya froze.
That ache in his chest wasn’t just the story—it was his own past surfacing. He had once been like Takaki, in love with someone who faded from his life because of distance and circumstance. They had liked each other. That was never in doubt. But life got in the way. And eventually, they stopped trying.
This story stirred all that up.
Even now, he wanted to rewrite the ending in his mind—have Akari stay just a moment longer, maybe even say goodbye properly. But no. She walked away.
Only Takaki couldn’t let go.
The last scene showed Takaki smiling faintly as he turned and walked off.
And with that... it ended.
Takaki was finally at peace. But Kazuya wasn’t.
He let out a long sigh, the emotions still caught in his throat.
Then, Haruki finally spoke.
“So, Producer Kazuya... what do you think?”
Haruki’s expression was calm, but Kazuya could tell he was watching closely.
“Your new work... it’s incredible,” Kazuya said slowly, choosing his words with care. “Honestly, I’m still trying to recover. The story hit me harder than I expected. I’m not usually this affected by romance dramas...”
Haruki gave a knowing nod.
But Haruki wasn’t really focused on Kazuya’s emotions—he was gauging something else. He needed to know: would Kazuya push this project forward? Would Kazanami Animation be willing to take a chance on animating it?
What Haruki didn’t realize was that Kazuya was conflicted.
He wanted to support it. The work had artistic merit, and the emotional depth was undeniable. But the runtime... it was short. Too short. Even if he submitted it to the higher-ups at Kazanami, Mori wasn’t confident they’d greenlight it.
After all, the management team didn’t think like him. For them, animation was about one thing:
Profit.
Could a melancholic, short-format romantic drama like this make money?
Kazuya looked at Haruki’s hopeful expression and felt the pressure settle in.
Finally, he spoke.
“Let me take a look at the second project you brought. That might help me decide.”
Haruki nodded immediately. “Of course. Take your time.”
Kazuya turned to the next manuscript.
Voices of a Distant Star.
And just like that, the weight of the decision shifted again.
He wasn’t sure if either of these stories would get the greenlight—but if they didn’t... it wouldn’t be because they lacked heart.
Comments
Dhvaj Patel
Gurren Lagann isn't in this novel, and I haven’t actually watched it myself yet. If you all want to see it included, I can watch the anime and consider adding it later!
FogRainP
Hey you thought about him animating Gurren Lagann
Jetos
Thanks for the chapters!
