Somewhere between the chords

The next morning began with the metallic slide of an apartment elevator.

Arohi, still adjusting to the Tokyo rhythm, clutched her tote bag and pressed the lift button. The doors parted—and there he was.

Natsuo.

Today, in a light-blue shirt with the first button casually open, black tailored pants, and his usual messy hair barely tamed, he looked impossibly different—office ready, yet effortlessly soft. His frame stood tall, probably around 178 cm, towering just enough over her own 160 cm to make her feel oddly delicate. A subtle fragrance hung around him—clean, musky, and calming. Something in it made her momentarily forget which floor she was going to.

"Good morning," she said softly, eyes meeting his briefly.

He blinked, a hint of surprise flashing in his gaze before a polite smile warmed his expression. "Morning."

She wore a short printed kurta over jeans, the kind that fluttered a little as she walked. Her gentle rose-base perfume lingered lightly, and for a moment, he noticed how well it suited her. Feminine, soft, familiar.

He stole a glance. Cute, he thought. Especially the way her nose crinkled when she nervously pressed the elevator button again, even though it was already lit.

As the doors opened to the ground floor, they stepped out side by side, both a little more aware of each other.

"Have a good day," she offered.

"You too," he replied, and they both walked off—heads slightly bowed, hiding tiny smiles.

The office was a maze of introductions, formal meetings, and tight nods. Aya-san, her translator and temporary guide, helped bridge gaps where language faltered. Arohi sat through her first full team meeting—notes, presentations, and one-on-ones. Her supervisor assigned her a new design project, along with a small team of four Japanese colleagues who spoke varying degrees of English.

It was overwhelming—but satisfying.

She felt like she'd earned something.

Later that evening, Arohi dragged herself up the stairs, the fatigue of the workday pressing hard on her shoulders. Her boss had been kind, but the mounting pressure of language gaps and fast-paced deliverables was slowly chipping at her confidence. Tokyo, as magical as it looked, had its sharp edges.

Her kitchen was dimly lit, a single bulb humming overhead as she stared at a pan of undercooked rice, debating whether instant noodles counted as a balanced dinner.

A soft knock interrupted her culinary crisis.

She padded to the door and peeked through the hole—Natsuo. He stood there awkwardly, holding a small thermal bag in one hand and a paper box in the other.

"I, uh… made too much miso soup," he mumbled as she opened the door. "And… there's tamagoyaki. Just a thank-you. For… last night."

Arohi blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. She stepped aside without thinking. "Come in?"

He hesitated for just a moment before stepping inside.

"I was just failing at cooking rice," she admitted sheepishly.

"Good timing, then," he said with a soft smile.

The dinner that followed was anything but planned. She dug out her leftover lemon rice and reheated some podi idlis, plating them carefully while explaining what the powders were.

They sat cross-legged on the floor, the table between them barely big enough to hold everything. A lazy jazz playlist played in the background from her phone. Between bites, they laughed at each other's reactions—him coughing at the spicy podi, her squinting at the dashi-rich soup.

"What is this texture?" she said, biting into the rolled omelet.

"Tamagoyaki. It's… egg, sugar, soy sauce. Childhood."

"I like it," she said after a pause. "Sweet. Unexpected."

They slipped into a rhythm—sharing food, short bursts of stories, comfortable silences that didn't demand filling.

Arohi reached for her water and leaned back. "You know… if I ever get to launch my dream studio back home, I want it to feel like this. Like a place people don't want to leave."

He looked at her. "What kind of studio?"

"Design. But more like… cozy chaos. Music, light, textures. No cubicles."

He nodded slowly, thoughtful. "Sounds like a place I'd want to make music in."

That brought a spark to her eyes. "Speaking of music—you know who I'm obsessed with lately?"

Natsuo tensed slightly but kept his expression neutral. "Who?"

"NOIR. Oh my god, have you heard his older tracks? There's this one—'Midnight Rain'? It feels like walking alone in Tokyo when you're sad but also healing. Ugh, I can't even describe it."

He gave a small nod, trying to avoid her gaze.

She wasn't done. "Seriously, I need to meet him once before I die. Like just shake his hand or hug him or cry in front of him or something. He doesn't even show his face! What kind of mystery man is he?"

He looked down, cheeks faintly pink.

She laughed. "Sorry, I just get carried away when it's about artists like him. I feel like his music gets me. Like really gets me."

Natsuo cleared his throat, voice low. "I'm sure he'd… be happy to hear that."

They cleaned up quietly after dinner. She washed, he dried. When both reached for the same dish, their fingers brushed—just a fleeting touch, but it sent a jolt through both of them.

Their eyes met. And held. No words.

She finally broke the silence with a dreamy sigh. "If I ever met him, I'd just—I don't know. Cry or something."

Natsuo smiled into his sleeve, shaking his head. "Please don't cry," he whispered.

She didn't hear it. Or maybe she did.

They parted soon after. No promises. No plans. Just a quiet goodbye and a glance that lingered too long.

That night, as Tokyo's neon glow shimmered softly outside their windows, both lay in their separate homes, thinking about the other.

And in the quiet, something gentle bloomed.