Tied by Red Strings | T. Kageyama

The uniform still didn't feel like mine.

I tied the ribbon again, then again, each time looser, tighter, crooked in a new way. Finally, I gave up and shoved my hands in my pockets as I stood in front of the mirror. The reflection blinked back at me like it wasn't convinced either.

Downstairs, the only sound was the clink of a spoon in a teacup. My dad waited near the door, dressed in his usual work clothes, silent but steady. He didn't say much, only handed me a small rice ball wrapped in plastic and muttered, "You'll be okay."

That was his version of a hug.

⸻

Karasuno High School wasn't fancy. No towering gates or shiny floors. Just concrete, windows, faint chalk smells, and a sky that hung a little too low.

I stepped through the gates with my head down, the strap of my bag digging into my shoulder. Only a few people stared. A couple of girls near the shoe lockers whispered something and I caught it:

"Kitagawa's sister?"

Of course. It didn't take long.

Keito was famous enough—NYC modeling scene, Tokyo campaigns, that one magazine cover that got him trending for two days. He posted a photo of me once. Guess it stuck.

I made it to my new classroom without tripping, which felt like a win.

⸻

Class 1-3.

The teacher introduced me without much enthusiasm. A brief "Transfer student, came from New York," and a nod toward the desk by the window.

"Next to Kageyama."

The moment he said it, the air shifted.

Not enough for anyone else to notice, but I felt it. The breeze from the open windows suddenly went still. Then returned, stronger than before. My ribbon fluttered gently against my collar.

I walked to my seat and sat beside the boy without a word. He didn't glance my way, didn't move much at all. His energy felt sharp, condensed. Like a storm that hadn't hit yet.

I ignored it. Or tried to.

⸻

Classes passed in a blur. Notes filled themselves. Names flew past. I met a few girls during break, one had neat braids, another perfect notes, and one who talked so fast I thought she was rapping.

They were friendly enough. Curious. Warm. A little too interested in my brother.

"Are you really Keito Kitagawa's sister?" one of them whispered. "I follow him. His Tokyo set was unreal."

"He's even hotter in motion," said another, scrolling through her phone. "You kind of have his eyebrows."

I laughed. "Cool. I'll cherish that."

Still, it was better than silence.

⸻

When the lunch bell rang, I followed the current of students to the cafeteria.

The smell of curry and sweet buns hit me first. It was loud, chaotic, full of overlapping voices and clattering trays. I found a spot near the back corner and unwrapped the rice ball from my dad.

And that's when she approached me.

"Hi! Um, are you new?"

I looked up to see a small, blonde girl with bright eyes and nervous energy. She held her tray in both hands like it might explode.

"I'm Yachi," she added quickly. "Sorry if that was weird—I just noticed you were sitting alone and I know how hard that can be on the first day and—"