Chapter 11: The Distance Between Worlds

POV: Hana Fujimoto

By the time I got home, the sky had already turned the color of faded steel. Tokyo looked softer from this side of town—the streets narrower, the buildings older, and the light a little less certain.

I locked the door behind me and leaned my forehead against it for a moment. My hands still smelled faintly of the cleaner I used on the penthouse counters. No matter how many times I scrubbed them, that scent always clung, like proof I’d been somewhere I didn’t belong.

The apartment was small—one room, one window, one table. I turned on the radio, letting the hum of a late-evening broadcast fill the space. The host was laughing about some celebrity scandal. I didn’t catch the words.

I took off my apron and hung it neatly, then sank into the chair by the window. Across the narrow alley, someone’s laundry swayed on a line. There was something reassuring about that—fabric moving where it wanted, wind-blown, alive.

Work had been quiet today. Mr. Minami—Kaito, I corrected myself silently—had barely said a word. He’d been focused, precise, the way people like him had to be. Still, I’d felt his presence in the room, the kind that makes you aware of how you stand, how you breathe.

I’d tried not to look, but I’d noticed the smallest things: the way his hand paused over a document for a second longer than usual, or how he looked out the window like he was somewhere far away. I didn’t know what kind of place that was, but I knew the look of someone carrying a weight they didn’t want others to see.

Maybe that was why I’d noticed at all. Because I carried my own.

After a while, I boiled some water for tea. The kettle hissed softly, and I watched the steam curl upward like something alive, escaping.

My phone buzzed—a message from my mother. Just a simple “Did you eat?” and a string of emojis that didn’t really match the question. I smiled. She worried even though she pretended not to.

Yes, I typed back. Long day, but I’m fine.

I wasn’t sure if that was true. Fine wasn’t the right word. The job wasn’t bad; I was grateful for it. The Minami Group paid fairly, and the work was steady. But there was a kind of silence that came with cleaning other people’s lives—being present, invisible, trusted only to disappear when done.

Sometimes I wondered what it would feel like to live in one of those high places, to have walls of glass and a view that stretched endlessly. Would it change how you thought? How you breathed?

The kettle whistled. I poured the water over the tea leaves, watching the color bleed outward.

Maybe that was the difference—people like him lived where everything was clear and cold and bright. People like me lived where the world was smaller but warmer, more fragile. And still, sometimes, our paths crossed for reasons I couldn’t name.

I cupped the mug in both hands, letting the warmth soak into my palms.

The news came on next—a report about the Minami Group’s upcoming partnership meeting. I recognized the name instantly. The anchor’s voice was crisp, rehearsed, the words filled with admiration and weight.

“...Kaito Minami, expected to speak on behalf of the board this afternoon…”

I stared at the cup, the steam blurring my reflection on the surface.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just work. He was just another employer, one of countless faces I passed by each day. But somehow, hearing his name out loud made something shift inside me—a small, inexplicable ache.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was pity. Or maybe it was that strange feeling of seeing someone else’s world up close and realizing it would never be yours.

I finished my tea slowly, tracing the rim of the cup with my fingertip. Outside, the first neon signs were flickering on, casting the walls in a patchwork of colors.

Tomorrow would come like every other day—early, quiet, predictable.

But something in me already knew: it wouldn’t feel quite the same anymore.