The cursor blinked.
So did he.
Hasegawa bit the end of his pen, his eyes fixed on the analog clock hanging above the office's glass partition. The emails kept piling in, most from overseas suppliers replying to his subordinates' inquiries, but he wasn't reading them anymore. Not really. He just clicked, skimmed, ignored.
Fifteen minutes left.
Normally, he'd stick around another hour. Wrap up reports. Maybe sneak a cigarette out by the emergency stairwell. But not today.
Today, he had a detour.
Ten minutes.
Then five. And then—
5:00 p.m.
With a decisive snap, he shut his laptop and began gathering his things. Pens, phone, a few papers into his bag. The sudden motion caught the attention of his team.
Sakai-kun shifted in his chair, brows furrowing as he watched their usually overtime-loving boss rise.
"You're leaving on time, kacho?"
Hasegawa zipped up his bang and slung it over his shoulder. "Got a date," he said, throwing in a wink.
"Ehh?!"
The office burst into disbelief.
"A date? You?"
"Kacho, didn't you swear off romance?"
"Wait, is the world ending today?"
He laughed. "Don't stay too late, alright? I'm not writing anyone's overtime reports tomorrow."
"Liar," one of the juniors muttered, laughing.
"Enjoy your date, kacho~!" another teased.
With a mock salute, Hasegawa waved them off and made his exit.
Outside, the office hallway was quiet, save for the soft click of Hasegawa's polished shoes on the smooth floor tiles. His pace was steady, shoulders squared, his hand absently brushing his tie as he moved toward the elevator at the far end.
But just as his fingers grazed the elevator button, a flicker stirred in his mind—
Sixteen years ago...
That day, the air was thick with the sound of teenagers laughing, shouting, calling out to one another across booths and stands. It was the annual cultural festival at Miyamoto High, a well-known school in Shinagawa.
Hasegawa was one of the visitors in the festival, but unlikely others, his purpose wasn't to look around or experience moments. He was curious with what his girlfriend was up for... but fate had a better idea for him as he went toward the maze of classrooms packed with displays and activities.
His denim jacket felt a bit too stiff, his hands buried awkwardly in his pockets as he wove through the crowd.
Suddenly, the voices up ahead turned sharp, chaotic. "That blonde guy! He touched Miura-san!"
There was a crash, followed by a ripple of gasps. People were shifting aside, making way for something—or someone.
Hasegawa barely had time to figure out what happened when someone brushed hard against his shoulder from the front.
And in that instant, the noise around him faded, the air seemed to pull thin.
The boy who passed him was striking.
Sandy blonde hair that fell slightly over his brow, round glasses perched on a delicate nose, almond-shaped eyes sharp beneath thin brows, a light dusting of freckles across pale skin.
That time, Hasegawa had no idea who that was, but his breath caught, heart skipping a beat as if his body instinctively knew something his mind didn't.
The boy glared at him, panic visibly written on his face before running away and disappeared in the ocean of people.
And that fleeting second branded itself into Hasegawa's memory, like a still photograph trapped between the turning pages of his youth.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open in front of him, snapping him out of the past.
Hasegawa stepped inside, straightening his back. He pressed the button for the Logistics floor, exhaling quietly as the doors closed.
The elevator hummed to life, descending.
Another memory surfaced.
The faint scent of oil paint filled a quiet clubroom, sunlight pooling through the window onto the wooden floor. Daichi, with his sandy blonde hair, stood by the easel, brush in hand, paused halfway through a stroke on the canvas. His profile was calm, his pale skin catching the late afternoon glow, the edge of his lip faintly bitten in thought.
Across from him, Hasegawa sat at a table, fists clenched slightly at his sides, his chest tight.
"I… I like you, senpai."
His voice was trembling but determined. He watched as Daichi's brush hand lowered slowly.
Silence stretched between them, delicate and sharp.
But then, Daichi turned, his almond eyes unreadable behind the round glasses. His voice, when it came, was soft—so soft it felt like it barely reached across the room.
"We loved the wrong persons."
And just like that, even though there was a smile, a part of Hasegawa crumbled quietly inside him.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open again, this time onto the Logistics floor. And so, Hasegawa stepped out.
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his face set in that familiar calm expression as he made his way toward the Import Section office.
Inside, the lighting here was cooler, less warm than his office, sterile and industrial. Desks lined the space, workers half-standing as they talked into headsets, flipped through papers, tapped furiously at keyboards.
As he stepped in, Makoto rose from her seat. "Hasegawa-san, good evening. Can I help you with something?"
"Ah, evening, Asahina-san. I'm here to see Morikita-san." He grinned, leaning a little closer. "Thought I'd drop by for a little ice-breaking."
She blinked. "Oh? Ice-breaking?"
"You know," he said, gesturing vaguely. "The whole new-department-head thing. I don't want him to be as grumpy as your previous kachou Matsuura-san. But tell me... do you also think Morikita-san looks a bit… intense? Like he's gonna be another grumpy old geezer in just a few days?"
Makoto gave a giggle. "Maybe he's just adjusting. It's his first day, after all. Whole new floor, new people."
"And that," Hasegawa said, straightening, "gives me the perfect reason to drop by, doesn't it?"
He nodded toward the office at the end of the hall—glass walls frosted, but surely occupied.
"I'll just sneak in. Thanks, Asahina-san."
"Uhm, sure. He's still in," she said with a small nod.