Chapter 7:

Chapter 7: What Lingers After Silence

Color Me Yours

POV: Hana Fujimoto

When I left the Minami penthouse that morning, the city looked different.

Not brighter—just sharper.

Like someone had turned up the contrast on reality without warning.

Every sound felt clearer: footsteps splashing through puddles, vending machines humming, a salaryman muttering curses into his phone. Tokyo had always been a thousand voices competing to be heard, but that morning it felt like the city was pausing—listening.

Or maybe it was just me.

Maybe it was because of him.

Kaito Minami.

Even his name sounded deliberate, as if it had been polished for corporate use.

But when he said my name earlier—“Hana.”

It wasn’t polished. It was hesitant, real.

Too real.

I’d meant to just clean, quietly, get through the day. But there he was, standing in the soft morning light with that look—distant, analytical, like someone measuring distance and deciding whether to cross it.

When he asked if I’d been at the plaza, I thought my heart had stopped.

He remembered.

Most people in this city didn’t look twice at cleaners. We were just part of the background noise, the invisible rhythm that kept everything shining and unremarkable.

But he looked.

And worse—he saw.

---

I stopped at a crosswalk, the light blinking red. A crowd formed around me, umbrellas unfurling even though the rain hadn’t started again. Tokyo weather liked to play games.

So did people.

I thought about what he’d said:

> “You don’t have to knock next time.”

At first, I’d assumed I misheard him. The words were too strange, too out of place coming from a man like that. But his tone—low, precise—had been almost… sincere.

Which made it worse.

Because I didn’t understand what he meant. And because part of me wanted to.

---

By the time I reached the train platform, the air smelled of rust and electricity. I found an empty seat near the window, set my bag on my lap, and stared at my reflection in the glass.

My face looked the same—plain, ordinary. But something behind my eyes had changed, like a thought I couldn’t put down.

I tried to laugh at myself.

There it was again—the dramatic overthinking that got me through every quiet evening.

A girl sees her boss twice, hears him say one cryptic line, and suddenly she’s rewriting the whole day in her head like a bad novel.

If Tanabe-san hadn’t called in sick, none of this would’ve happened.

I’d still be sweeping in silence, apologizing to furniture for existing.

But she did. And I went. And now the world won’t stop feeling like it shifted half an inch to the left.

---

Later, at home, I hung up my uniform and made tea I didn’t drink. My small apartment hummed with the sound of pipes and the faint chorus of someone’s TV next door.

Normal life. The kind I used to crave.

But all I could think about was how he’d stood by the window—his reflection merging with mine on the glass.

The way his voice had dipped when he said my name.

The way silence felt after he stopped speaking.

There was something about that silence—it wasn’t empty.

It pressed against the edges of thought, asking to be noticed.

I sat at the table, notebook open, pen tapping absently. I used to write small notes to myself—little observations about people or the city. But this one felt different.

> Some people speak in silence.

And some silences feel like they’re waiting for an answer.

I dropped the pen and covered my face with my hands, groaning softly.

“Okay, no, that’s ridiculous,” I muttered into my palms. “You’re not writing poetry about your employer.”

Still, I didn’t cross it out.

Outside, the rain started again—soft, hesitant, tapping against the window like it wasn’t sure if it should stay.

I understood the feeling.

I lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling, the glow of the city slipping through the blinds in fractured lines.

Part of me wanted to see him again.

Not to talk. Not to understand.

Just to see if that feeling—the one that made the gray look alive—was real.

And part of me was afraid it was.