5 Centimeters per Second Is Neither Depressing Nor Terrible: A Radically Positive Interpretation

Released in 2007, 5 Centimeters per Second (Official, in Japanese) is a stunning animated feature by visionary director Makoto Shinkai. Back when it premiered, I was already a fan of his work, having been captivated by The Place Promised in Our Early Days (though my memory of watching Voices of a Distant Star is a bit foggy).

Whenever anime fans discuss 5 Centimeters per Second, the conversation almost inevitably spirals into describing it as a “depressing masterpiece” or a “terribly tragic story.” For years, I confess I viewed the film through that exact same melancholy lens. However, after revisiting it, my perspective has completely flipped. I am here to argue that 5 Centimeters per Second is actually an incredibly positive, life-affirming film with absolutely nothing depressing about it. To prove this, let’s dissect the film, starting with a fresh look at its iconic first act.

*This is a translated version. The original (Japanese) is available here.

Why 5 Centimeters per Second is Actually a Story of Triumph

Part 1: Cherry Blossom — The Birth of Lifelong Buddies

The first chapter, “Cherry Blossom,” chronicles protagonist Takaki’s transition from elementary to middle school, centering on his intense connection with Akari. At first glance, it feels like a classic tragic romance. Separated by their parents’ careers, Takaki embarks on an agonizing, snow-delayed train journey across Japan to see her one last time. They finally reunite, share a magical first kiss under a barren cherry tree, and part ways the following morning without ever exchanging the letters they had painstakingly written.

It is undeniably poignant, but the key to unlocking the true meaning of the film lies in Takaki’s final narration. As the train pulls away from the station, he reflects:

“I knew with absolute certainty that we couldn’t be together forever. Before us lay a life still too immense, a vast and empty expanse of time stretching out helplessly. But the anxiety that had gripped me eventually, slowly melted away, and in its place, only the memory of Akari’s soft lips remained.”

(Original Text in Japanese)
僕たちはこの先もずっと一緒にいることは出来ないと、はっきりと分かった。僕たちの前には未だ巨大すぎる人生が、茫漠とした弛緩が、どうしようもなく横たわっていた。でも、僕を捕らえたその不安は、やがて緩やかに溶けていき、あとには、明里の柔らかな唇だけが残っていた

The linchpin of this entire sequence is the profound realization: “I knew with absolute certainty that we couldn’t be together forever.” That snowy night was not a desperate vow to defy fate; it was a mutual confirmation of their feelings, followed by a definitive, mutual “goodbye.”

It is a massive misinterpretation to assume Takaki spends the rest of the film “hung up” on Akari. Yes, at the end of the first act, he states, “I strongly wished for the strength to protect her.” But this is not the whining of a boy refusing to move on; it is a fierce declaration of his intent to grow up and “become stronger” to face the brutal reality of adulthood.

Akari, too, makes the conscious choice not to hand Takaki her letter. She likely realized, “If I give this to him, it will only chain him to the past.”

Ultimately, “Cherry Blossom” is not a tragedy of lost love. It is a beautiful story about discovering that “first person” with whom you share the raw vulnerability of youth, recognizing your own powerlessness against the grinding gears of adult life.

In that freezing shed, Takaki and Akari transcended romance and became “that one person you will always hold in your heart.” They aren’t obsessed with each other; rather, they have become the ultimate emotional benchmark. They are the person who flashes through your mind during life’s hardest crossroads, prompting a quiet, “I wonder how they are doing now.” (Think of the bittersweet finale of La La Land).

Applying this positive framework completely recontextualizes the most perplexing moments of the second act.

Part 2: Cosmonaut — Facing the Terrifying Void of the Future

Perhaps the most misunderstood element in “Cosmonaut” is the recurring visual of Takaki staring into the sky, seemingly texting a ghost, while a massive rocket is transported in the background. Audiences naturally assume he is obsessing over Akari, making him look pathetic. But that rocket is actually “a massive symbol of Takaki’s paralyzing anxiety about his own future.”

“Cosmonaut” explicitly discusses the concept of a “lonely journey through the darkest depths of space.” This is a direct metaphor for the terrifying solitude a teenager feels when staring down the barrel of an unwritten adulthood.

While the chapter is framed through the perspective of Kanae—a local surfer girl desperately in love with Takaki—the internal crisis she faces (an inability to choose a career path or catch a wave) is the exact same existential dread drowning Takaki. Kanae’s internal monologue is simply a narrative mirror reflecting Takaki’s own silent terror.

Takaki is not staring at his phone paralyzed by lingering romantic feelings for Akari. He is staring into the void, confronting his utter lack of direction. In these moments of intense vulnerability, he mentally reaches out to his ultimate touchstone, wondering, “What is she doing right now? Is she struggling to find her path just like me, or has she figured it all out?” The rocket launching into the pitch-black sky perfectly encapsulates his internal scream: “I am such a microscopic existence. How am I supposed to navigate a life that feels as terrifyingly vast as the deep universe?“

Part 3: 5 Centimeters per Second — Taking the Hardest Step

This brings us to the controversial third act, “5 Centimeters per Second.”

What is Really Happening to Takaki?

Throughout the final act, Takaki is depicted as a hollow, exhausted shell of a man. He is clearly drowning in depression, but what exactly is the source of his misery? Takaki explicitly diagnoses his own condition in a voiceover:

“For the past few years, all I wanted was to move forward, to touch something I couldn’t reach. I didn’t even know what that specifically was, or where that almost obsessive compulsion came from. I just kept working, and when I realized my heart was losing its resilience day by day, the pain became unbearable. Then one morning, I noticed that the earnest, sincere passion I once had was completely gone. Knowing I had reached my absolute limit, I quit my job.”

(Original Text in Japanese)
この数年間とにかく前に進みたくて、届かないものに手を触れたくて、それが具体的に何を指すのかも、ほとんど脅迫的とも言えるようなその思いが、どこから湧いてくるのかも分からずに僕はただ働き続け、気づけば日々弾力を失ってく心がひたすら辛かった。そしてある朝、かつてあれほどまでに真剣で切実だった思いが、キレイに失われていることに僕は気づき、もう限界だと知った時、会社をやめた

Just as he was in high school, the adult Takaki is driven by a blinding, aimless compulsion that he “must keep moving forward.” But by allowing himself to be swallowed whole by corporate burnout, he lost his soul. It would be one thing if he found purpose in the grind, but his work is entirely devoid of meaning. Takaki simply cannot endure another day acting as a mindless cog in a profit-driven machine.

This profound career burnout is the exact reason his romantic life has collapsed.

Takaki’s girlfriend brutally dumps him via a text message, stating that despite being together for years, their hearts haven’t grown even one centimeter closer. Why? It’s not because Takaki is secretly pining for his middle school crush. It’s because he is trapped in the “pathetic sorrow of a man whose personal life disintegrates because his professional life has stripped him of all joy.” He has nothing left in his emotional tank to give to a partner.

So, is the third act actually a tragedy? Absolutely not. Look closely at the beginning of Part 3: Takaki has successfully transitioned into working as a freelance programmer. He recognized that the corporate structure was destroying his soul, so he took a massive risk and forged his own path.

In other words, the final act is the triumphant story of “a man who fiercely questioned his toxic environment, took a terrifying leap of faith, quit his soul-crushing job, and finally reclaimed control of his destiny.” It is undeniably a story of victory. And beautifully, this aligns with Akari taking her own “new step” forward into marriage.

The True Meaning of “5 Centimeters per Second”

The film explicitly tells us that “5 centimeters per second” is the speed at which a cherry blossom petal falls to the earth. But what is the thematic meaning behind this specific speed in the final act? I argue that “5 centimeters per second” represents “the agonizingly slow, microscopic steps we take when we are desperately trying to rebuild our lives.“

Five centimeters per second translates to just three meters a minute. If a human walked at that speed, they would appear to be standing completely still. It looks exactly like stagnation.

This perfectly mirrors Takaki’s internal crisis. Trapped in a life that “didn’t feel right,” he was suffocated by the terrifying illusion that he wasn’t moving forward at all. But through this film, I believe Director Makoto Shinkai is delivering a fiercely uplifting message to anyone struggling through the grind of adult life:

“You look at your life and think you are completely stagnating, right? You feel like a failure. But you are wrong! You are steadily, undeniably moving forward at a rate of 5 centimeters per second. Do not lose hope! Believe in your own agonizingly slow progress and live your life to the absolute fullest! The future you desperately desire is waiting for you at the end of this slow march!”

(Original Text in Japanese)
君たちは停滞しているように思ってしまうだろ？でもそうじゃないんだ！君たちは秒速5センチメートルで確かに前に進んでいる。くじけず自分を信じて懸命に生きていくんだ！その先に君の望んだ未来がきっとある！

When viewed through this lens, the film is a masterclass in resilience. There is absolutely nothing depressing about it. 5 Centimeters per Second is a breathtaking, cathartic work of art designed to “cheer on those who are quietly fighting their hardest.”

Appendix: How to Watch 5 Centimeters per Second as a “Comedy”

Flipping the Timeline: The “Real” First Part

While the main article above provides a sincere, empowering reading of the film, I want to take a massive analytical swing and explore how to view the movie as a borderline “comedy.” This is admittedly a wild stretch, which is why it belongs in the Appendix.

The theory hinges entirely on a structural question: “Which act is actually the beginning of the story?” Chronologically, “Cherry Blossom” is obviously the start. But from a narrative framing perspective, I believe the third act, “5 Centimeters per Second,” is the “true beginning.”

If we accept that the core theme of the film is “battling existential anxiety and forging a new path,” the adult timeline is the anchor. Under this theory, the events of Part 1 and Part 2 are simply “exaggerated memories” flashing before Takaki’s eyes on a random spring day, after he has successfully established his new freelance life.

If you view the entire film as the subjective, nostalgic memories of an adult man, the “epic, tragic romance” of the first act suddenly becomes incredibly funny. Human beings naturally inflate the drama of their own pasts. In reality, maybe his train wasn’t actually delayed by three grueling hours in a blizzard. Maybe he arrived reasonably on time, and they just had a nice chat. (Though the “special night” in the shed likely still happened).

The reason the film feels so intensely “melodramatic” is simply because Takaki is romanticizing his own youth, injecting unnecessary tragedy into his memories to make himself feel like the protagonist of a movie. We all do this! Even the devastatingly poetic breakup text from his adult girlfriend might have actually been a mundane, annoyed message, but his brain remembers it as a poetic tragedy.

When you apply this cynical “unreliable narrator” lens, the second act becomes absolutely hilarious.

The Bizarre Inclusion of “Kanae’s Sister”

If the second act is purely Takaki reminiscing about high school, the inclusion of “Kanae’s internal monologue” makes zero sense. How can he know what she was thinking? The only explanation is that an adult Takaki is looking back and arrogantly deducing: “Oh man, that surfer girl was totally obsessed with me. I bet she was thinking dramatic stuff like this all day.” That alone transforms the chapter into the embarrassing delusions of a teenage boy. But the funniest element is the presence of “Kanae’s older sister.” Why on earth is her sister in this story?

She blends into the background so well that we don’t question it, but I propose a wild theory: The person Takaki actually had a massive crush on in high school was Kanae’s older sister (who was a teacher at their school). He was nursing a doomed crush on a staff member. That is why his brain insists on including her in his grand flashback.

Midway through the second act, there is a distinct scene where the sister watches Kanae repeatedly fail to stand up on her surfboard. The sister wears a fiercely serious, almost angry expression. While it can be read as a concerned sibling, what if it’s something else entirely?

Because immediately following that scene, we see Kanae waiting by the scooter shed for Takaki, but he never shows up. The film then cuts to Takaki sitting alone in a grassy field, staring miserably at his flip phone. If we apply our cynical comedy lens, what if Takaki had just foolishly texted a love confession to Kanae’s older sister? And what if she brutally rejected him (because she is an adult and his teacher)?

Takaki wasn’t staring at his phone pondering the vastness of the cosmos—he was nursing a humiliating, self-inflicted heartbreak. The fact that the adult Takaki’s brain chooses to edit his memory to show the younger sister (who actually liked him) waiting for him while he sulked is the ultimate display of male ego. You almost want to slap him through the screen and say, “Dude, what are you doing?”

The first half of this analysis may have been a bold reinterpretation, and this Appendix is undeniably unhinged. But honestly, viewing 5 Centimeters per Second as the highly embellished memories of a dramatic guy isn’t the craziest way to watch the film.