Chapter 38: When Days of Color Blurred

POV: Hana Kimura

Day One

Home should’ve felt healing.

Warm cedar walls, familiar floors, the hum of my mother’s sewing machines through the workshop wall. It all wrapped around me at once—the past still living inside every corner of this house. Even the air smelled the same: fabric starch, wood polish, and something faintly sweet from Mom’s tea leaves.

But peace didn’t come as quickly as I hoped.

Not when the silence of my phone felt louder than everything else.

I set my bag down by the door and checked my screen without meaning to. No notifications. No missed calls. Just the time blinking back at me like it was mocking my expectations.

Kaito didn’t reply after I told him I arrived safely.

Logically, I knew why.
Meetings. Damage control. Firestorms.
Entire departments probably scrambling because of one single photo.

But logic didn’t stop the small ache from settling behind my ribs.

Mom brewed ginger tea and set it in front of me before I even asked, her hands warm when they brushed mine.
Dad hovered subtly nearby, pretending to look for something in the drawers he’d already checked twice.
Kenji whispered too loudly with Shun about my “mysterious work trouble” in the hallway, failing spectacularly at subtlety.

It should’ve been funny.

Instead, I felt hollowed out—like something had been scooped from my chest and left unfilled.

I curled up on the couch under my old green quilt, the one Mom made when I was fourteen, and stared at the ceiling. The pattern of faint cracks felt more familiar than my own thoughts.

I tried to sleep.

Tried.

But my phone stayed dark on the table.

A message from him never came.

Day Two

I woke up to the smell of miso soup, grilled fish, and rice—the kind of breakfast I hadn’t had since moving out. The kitchen sounded alive: chopsticks tapping bowls, the soft sizzle of the pan, Dad clearing his throat as he read the paper.

Mom nudged a bowl toward me the second I sat down.

“Eat,” she urged gently. “You look like you’re thinking too much.”

“I’m fine,” I lied through rice I couldn’t taste. Every bite felt like obligation rather than hunger.

Dad sipped his tea quietly, eyes flicking toward me now and then—present, but careful not to crowd.

Kenji poked my shoulder. “If someone hurt you at work—just tell me. I’ll—”

“What exactly will you do?” Shun deadpanned without looking up.

“I dunno. Run at them? Kick their ankles?”

Despite myself, I laughed. A real laugh—short and surprised.

The first real one in days.

Later, while Mom washed dishes, I snapped a photo of breakfast and sent it to Megumi. She replied almost instantly.

Megumi:
YOU’RE BACK?? Coffee. Tuesday. No excuses.
I’m dragging Ayaka too.

For a few minutes, my chest felt lighter. Like the world wasn’t only made of waiting.

But then I checked my phone again.

Still nothing.

Day Three

I visited the path behind our house—the old walking trail lined with cedar and stone steps slick with years of moss. My boots followed the familiar rhythm automatically, body remembering what my mind kept losing.

This was where I used to walk every morning before school, earbuds in, dreaming about leaving town and becoming someone new.

The place where life had once felt simple.

Snow dusted the rooftops at the top of the stairs, quiet and untouched. I lifted my phone without thinking and took a picture.

Warm. Still. Familiar.

And maybe a little lonely.

I posted it to my story before I could second-guess myself.

Within minutes, Megumi reacted with “OMG I’M COMING TO STEAL YOU.”

I smiled at that.

Then my chest tightened.

I caught myself wondering if he had seen it.
If he’d even opened his phone for anything other than work.

If he’d noticed I hadn’t texted again.

I forced myself to stop thinking about him.

It didn’t work.

Day Four

Megumi and Ayaka met me at the local café—tiny, old-fashioned, with clouded glass windows and coffee so strong it should’ve come with a warning label. Megumi was impossible to miss, perched halfway out of her chair as if she’d been waiting on a starting signal, oversized cream sweater slipping off one shoulder and scarf knotted carelessly at her throat. Her brown hair was pulled into a high, messy ponytail, loose strands framing a face dominated by sharp, mischievous hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle with constant motion.

Ayaka sat across from her, posture straight and unhurried, long dark coat folded neatly over the back of her chair. Her straight black hair fell smooth past her shoulders, catching the café’s soft light, and her calm brown eyes observed everything with quiet precision. Where Megumi radiated restless energy, Ayaka felt grounded—steady, deliberate, missing nothing.

The bell above the door chimed like it always had, welcoming me back into a version of myself I hadn’t been in years.

Megumi got up and ran to hug me like she was trying to crack my spine.

“HANA. Are you dying? You look like you haven’t slept since January.”

Ayaka nodded solemnly. “I second that. Explain.”

I told them the least messy version.
Work was stressful.
There was a misunderstanding.
I needed space.

Megumi squinted at me. “Is this about that photo online?”

I froze.

Ayaka kicked her lightly under the table. “Megumi.”

“What? Everyone’s talking about it! And the guy was—like—really, really—”

“That’s enough,” I cut in quickly, cheeks burning hot.

They exchanged looks.

Megumi leaned back and smirked. “So it is connected.”

I choked on my coffee.

“It’s NOT like that!”

Except a traitorous part of me whispered that… maybe it could be.
Maybe it almost was.

But he hadn’t messaged me.
And I needed to stop thinking in maybes.

We talked for hours—about old classmates, terrible teachers, jobs we never expected to have. Laughed until my stomach hurt. For a little while, my worry sank beneath familiarity and caffeine.

Walking home through the winter air felt like slipping back into myself.

Until I checked my phone before bed.

Still nothing.

Silence stretching longer.

Thinner.

Day Five

Mom dragged me to the market. She claimed she needed help carrying groceries, but really she just wanted to keep an eye on me. She held onto my arm the entire way like I might drift off if she let go.

She whispered loudly to a vendor, “She’s home for a week. Work stress.”

The vendor whispered back even louder, “AHH YES I SAW THE NEWS—”

I nearly melted into the produce bin.

Mom apologized twenty times while buying twice as many vegetables as she needed, bowing so much I worried she’d strain something.

At home, Dad asked casually,
“Are you planning to go back after the week?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.

Even though the thought made something in my stomach twist tight.

He nodded thoughtfully, as if filing the answer away beside things he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

That night, I scrolled back through my messages with Kaito.
Our last conversation ended so abruptly.
So unresolved.

My thumb hovered over his contact, heart beating too loud in my ears.

I didn’t message him.

I couldn’t.

Not when he was drowning in work trying to protect me from something I’d been dragged into.

Instead, I turned off my phone and buried my face in my quilt, breathing in the faint scent of detergent and home.

Day Six

I helped Mom in the workshop today—threading needles, cutting fabric, organizing patterns stacked neatly by color and size.

It felt nostalgic.
Safe.
Normal.

The steady rhythm of scissors and sewing machines soothed something raw inside me.

Mom studied me quietly while she worked. “You keep looking at your phone.”

I stiffened.
“…Habit.”

“Hana,” she said softly, not unkind, “if someone is important to you, tell them. Before assumptions grow too big.”

I stared down at the thread in my hands, fingers tightening.

“I don’t want to bother him,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

“Then you care,” she murmured.

Heat rushed to my face.

I escaped outside under the excuse of “fresh air.”

The late afternoon sky was pale blue, sun sinking behind forested hills. I walked the length of the neighborhood, breath fogging the air, letting the cold numb the constant churn of thoughts.

When I returned home, I found Shun and Kenji arguing over curry toppings.
Dad reading the paper.
Mom humming in the kitchen.

Life went on.

And there was still no message from him.