The sun had barely begun to cast its golden hue across Chennai's skyline, but Arohi's morning had already turned chaotic. Her alarm had betrayed her again, and now her feet slapped against the tile floor as she dashed between the bathroom and her bedroom, toothbrush in mouth and a half-buttoned shirt flapping.
She worked at Dream Designers Corp., a boutique interior design firm in the city that sounded much fancier than it paid. The office wasn't glamorous, but Arohi was fiercely proud of her role there—it was her first real job since graduating.
Today, however, something felt different. Maybe it was the email marked "URGENT: All Department Heads + Interns," or the fact that the usually indifferent HR lady had called her by name that morning. Whatever it was, her gut fluttered with anxiety and hope in equal measure.
By 9:40 a.m., she slid into her seat, breathless and slightly disheveled. She opened her sketchpad out of habit, though her hands trembled slightly. The conference room door opened.
"Arohi, come with me," said Rina Ma'am, the Creative Director.
Her mind went blank.
Was she being fired?
She followed silently, her legs stiff as rods. The door to the conference room opened to reveal a long table lined with unfamiliar executives, the CEO at the far end.
"Miss Arohi Dev?" he said.
She nodded.
"We've reviewed your submissions and the client liked your panel work for the Matsumoto display."
That was weeks ago. A last-minute freelance entry that barely got approved.
"We're pleased to inform you—you've been selected for the Japan Design Exchange Programme."
For a moment, everything went mute.
"W-What?" she blinked.
"You'll work with our Tokyo studio. One year. Paid accommodation and travel. You'll leave in ten days."
She swallowed a gasp. Her fingers curled into her palms.
"Congratulations," someone said. The room clapped lightly, like in a dream.
Everyone congratulated her once she left the room. The elevator ride felt like floating. She stepped outside, the Chennai heat wrapping around her like a blanket.
Japan.
Her heart pounded. It had been her dream since school days—ever since she watched her first Ghibli movie. She had designed half her mood boards with Japanese elements. But still, reality felt too big, too fast.
As she waited for her bus, she imagined Tokyo in spring. Cherry blossoms. Minimalist homes. Kombini aisles. Maybe even snow in winter. Her lips curled up without realizing.
But the excitement dulled a little as she reached home.
Her house wasn't abusive. But it was... dull.
Muted walls, silence during dinners, unspoken expectations. A place where dreams were met with raised eyebrows.
She opened the door. Her mother was folding clothes, father watching the news.
"I have something to tell you."
They looked at her. Blank faces.
"I got selected to work in Japan. It's just one year—"
Her father's eyes didn't blink. "We'll talk later. Turn the fan on."
That was it.
No hug. No smile. No pride.
That night, they told her: "Stay in India. Find a better job here. Girls don't run away."
She didn't argue much that night. But she knew her answer. And her silence was only temporary.
The next few days passed like a test. They didn't speak to her during breakfast. She wasn't included in dinner conversations. Her decision became the elephant in every room.
On the second night, her father raised his voice. Told her she was being foolish. Unstable. That it was just a phase, a silly dream inspired by cartoons.
She locked herself in her room, slid her headphones over her ears, and played her comfort playlist. Noir. Vaundy. Fujii Kaze.
She didn't understand the words entirely. But she didn't need to. Music was her safe space. Her way of building a world where she was allowed to want more.
And so she cried, quietly, every night. But her resolve only sharpened.
On the fourth night, her mother slipped a plate of rice into her room without speaking a word. Arohi saw it not as affection, but as reluctant approval.
She opened her suitcase.
Japan.
She started folding her favorite clothes. Oversized hoodies. Her printed tote bags. A pouch full of designer pencils and fine-liners. Sketchbooks and watercolors. A tiny model of the Tokyo Tower she bought from a flea market years ago. Somehow, it had always felt like a promise.
She picked out her comfiest jeans and a soft kurti-top hybrid—something that blended her Indian roots with the modern flair she wanted to own. She imagined herself walking down Shibuya in it.
Her coworkers gave her a small farewell.
"Don't forget us when you become big," said Reena, her colleague.
"Bring back washi tapes!" joked her project lead.
They had arranged for a cutting cake, and someone brought filter coffee in thermos mugs. Her mentor, a quiet and wise man, handed her a small sticky note before she left:
"Make Tokyo your canvas."
At the airport, she stood alone.
One hand clutching her boarding pass, the other brushing hair out of her face. Her tote bag weighed heavy on her shoulder, full of dreams and anxieties.
Her playlist shuffled to "Nandemonaiya" by RADWIMPS.
She didn't cry.
The moment the plane lifted off, she looked out the window.
The city below blurred. Her past, her pain, her silence—all wrapped in the haze.
New skies.
But the old wounds? She carried them quietly, hidden in her chest like tiny origami scars.
And somewhere above the clouds, with a city waiting for her, she whispered:
Please let something finally go right.
The Tokyo air was colder than she expected.
As she walked out of Haneda airport, suitcase trailing behind her, a soft drizzle kissed her forehead. People bustled past, efficient and quiet. Neon signs lit the gray afternoon with pops of pink and blue.
Her ride to the shared company apartment was silent. She sat beside a translator from the firm—Aya-san—who gave her a polite smile and talked about grocery stores nearby, the closest train station, and how punctual trash disposal days were.
The apartment was compact, pristine, and overwhelmingly quiet.
She unpacked in slow silence.
Every corner of the room looked like a Pinterest board. Scandinavian furniture, cream-white walls, a tiny kitchen tucked into the side with Japanese cookbooks stacked neatly.
She took it all in and breathed out.
Maybe this was it.
Her blank canvas.
That night, after a long session of unpacking and arranging her books by color (a habit she picked up from Pinterest), she sank onto the futon with a sigh. Jet lag pulsed in her bones, but her mind refused to sleep. With a yawn, she reached for a sachet of instant coffee she had and stirred it slowly in the tiny ceramic cup provided by the apartment.
Steam curled as she stepped onto the balcony, sipping gently.
The city was quiet in this part of Tokyo. Just the rustle of leaves, the occasional whisper of wind and a beautiful melody from adjacent house. The streetlamp glowed amber, and a soft moonlight coated the building opposite hers.
She was about to turn in when she noticed someone across the building—on the adjacent balcony.
A boy, tall and lean, wearing a dark hoodie and loose pants. His messy black hair caught the moonlight, strands dancing slightly in the breeze. He had just pulled down his headphones and looked up, eyes meeting hers for the first time.
For a second, time stilled.
Song for this Chapter: "Nandemonaiya" by RADWIMPS