Chapter 32: The Call in Color

POV: Hana Fujimoto

The messages blurred into streaks of frantic red and yellow, panic bleeding from my family’s words like spilled paint. Each notification vibrated with its own color—my mother’s bright red worry, my sister’s sharp orange disbelief, my aunt’s neon pink curiosity pretending to be concern. All of it blended into a dizzying palette that made my chest tighten.

My fingers trembled as though trying to escape the chaos of my own heartbeat.

And then—

A single vibration.

Not frantic.

Not sharp.

A steady gray pulse.

My breath caught.

“Kaito-san?” I whispered before thinking, thumb already hovering over the screen.

I didn’t even finish saying his name before I answered.

His voice—low, measured, gray as winter sky heavy with unfallen snow—cut through the noise in my apartment like someone had lowered the volume on the world.

“Hana,” he said.

Just my name. But the way he said it—quiet, deliberate—sent the color rushing out of me in a dizzying swoop. My stomach dropped, turning everything inside me a pale, washed-out white panic.

“Yes… I saw the photo,” I managed, breathy and tight. “I—I don’t know how—”

“I know.”

He interrupted, not harshly, just firmly. Controlled. Contained. “It’s out. Public. Already.”

I bit my lip as my room suddenly felt too bright, too vivid.

The curtains—a soft green—seemed almost harsh.

The morning sunlight painted yellow stripes across the floor, accusing and loud.

Even the lavender throw on my couch glared at me, amplifying every mistake, every misstep.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t think—”

“It’s not your fault.”

His voice dipped lower, smoothing out like slate. “It was a single moment. One sip. And someone saw it. That’s all.”

But it wasn’t “all.”

Not for him.

Not for me.

Not for the world watching him.

A small, bittersweet warmth bloomed in my chest at the way he spoke—so matter-of-fact, as if protecting me was as natural as breathing.

But fear smothered it quickly.

“They’ll see… my family—everyone—” My voice cracked.

He exhaled. Not quite a sigh. More like the sound of someone managing the weight of an invisible world.

“I’m handling it,” he said. “Carefully. No one will approach you. Not beyond this.”

I clutched the phone tighter. My reflection in the dark screen flickered like a mosaic of broken watercolor—brown eyes too wide, cheeks flushed pink, mouth parted in something between fear and disbelief.

“Are you… okay?” I asked, voice barely audible.

A pause.

Muted gray.

“I am.”

But it wasn’t entirely true. There was an edge—thin, sharp—like a crack beginning to form in ice. “But I need you to stay careful. Until this is resolved.”

“I—yes,” I whispered.

My world felt like someone had taken a paintbrush dipped in too many colors and swirled it inside my chest—pink worry, yellow confusion, blue fear, red embarrassment. Everything pulsed. Everything tingled. My heart thudded like it was trying to add its own color to the chaos.

“Thank you for answering,” he said, voice softer now. As if we were sharing a secret instead of a crisis. “I know you saw it. I just wanted to hear your voice. Make sure… you’re safe.”

I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks. The blush was a messy shade of rose, hot and blooming too fast. “I… I’m safe.”

A breath.

“Really. I’m… fine.”

“Good.”

Gray again, controlled. The world he lived in wrapped neatly around his tone. “That’s all I need for now. I’ll call again once I’ve contained it.”

Contained.

Like a fire.

Like a scandal.

Like emotion itself.

The line went still except for our breathing—mine too fast, his too even—and the silence pressed between us, full of words neither of us knew how to say.

“I… Kaito-san,” I whispered. “Thank you. For… thinking about me.”

Another pause.

A long one.

Weighted.

Careful.

Then—

“...Of couse.”

The call ended, a clean cut through the swirling colors of my panic.

I sank onto the couch, pressing the phone to my chest as if I could trap the warmth of his voice there. My apartment hummed in a riot of gentle pastels now—the soft gold sunlight, the warm yellow of my mug, the creamy beige of the carpet, the pink blanket draped over my knees.

And yet beneath all the color, a thin gray line remained. A line stretching from him to me.

Unseen.

Unspoken.

Unbroken.

The world outside went on—cars passing, neighbors walking their dogs, news headlines spinning like storm clouds overhead—completely unaware of the quiet, fragile thread between us.

But I felt it.

I had seen him in that café sunlight, mask briefly lowered.

I had heard his voice—controlled but warm—reach for me just now.

And somewhere in that gray, carefully structured world of his…

I existed.

And he had called me first.