Tied by Red Strings | T. Kageyama

The note was still in my pocket.

"You were there, too."

It hadn't moved. But I kept touching it, like the shape of it might change in my fingers. Like maybe the paper would soften, blur at the edges, unfold itself into something I could understand.

It didn't.

But something else did.

It started in the morning, during second period.

The windows were open. The breeze moved through the classroom slowly, like it was looking for something.

And then I heard it—faint, familiar.

A laugh.

Not anyone in class. Not now. Not here.

But I knew it.

High-pitched. Somewhere between joy and challenge. A memory.

Except I couldn't name it. Couldn't place the face behind the sound.

My fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. The air felt thick, humming faintly with some old electricity. My heart beat a little faster for reasons I couldn't explain.

The note remained folded. But I could feel the words pressing against me again.

⸻

Kageyama sat beside me, head down, pencil moving with that same careful precision. He hadn't said a word all day. Hadn't even looked at me.

And yet, somehow, I knew he felt it too.

Just before the bell rang, I caught a small movement, a twitch of his hand, that same pinky flick like before. Tiny. Sharp. Meaningful.

The wind picked up.

My breath hitched.

He didn't flinch.

But his grip on the pencil tightened ever so slightly.

⸻

Yachi found me at lunch again, her energy crashing through the stillness I'd been carrying all day.

"You've officially entered your brooding era," she said, sliding into the seat across from mine. "I respect it."

"I'm not brooding."

"You're drinking milk and staring into the void. That's basically brooding."

I looked down at the carton in my hand. "I just like it."

"You and Kageyama both. I swear he has a milk sixth sense."

I raised an eyebrow. "That a thing?"

"I've literally seen him emerge from a crowd the second milk gets stocked in the vending machine."

I laughed, quietly. But inside, I was still somewhere else.

That laugh from earlier...
Where had it come from?

Yachi leaned on the table. "Hey, I was serious about what I said yesterday. We really do need a new manager. You're already partway in, whether you realize it or not."

"I haven't even seen them practice."

"Then come watch."

It was a simple offer. Casual.

But it hit me harder than I expected.

Because a part of me already wanted to.

And I didn't know why.

⸻

The hallways were quieter after class. Shadows stretched longer across the floors, light pouring through the high windows like honey. I didn't head straight home.

My steps took me past the gym.

I didn't stop. Not at first.

But just as I passed the double doors, I caught a sound—shoes squeaking, a ball being passed, a sharp call of someone's name.

I slowed.

And then it happened again.

Not a memory. Not really.
But something like it.

The scent of rusted metal and warm asphalt. The hollow thump of a ball hitting pavement. Faded chalk lines half-erased by wind and time.

A hand reaching. A shout mid-laugh. The scuff of sneakers as someone ran too fast, turned too sharp.

I was smaller. Lighter. The world felt wider then.

Someone was laughing, clear, bright, close.

And then—
Gone.

Only the breeze, and the sound of my own breath trying to catch up.
⸻

I found myself by the vending machines again, milk in hand, the wind curling faintly around my ankles like it had followed me.

I didn't realize how long I stood there until I heard the gym doors open.

Footsteps.
Soft. Steady.

Kageyama.

He wasn't looking at me—yet.

His hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed. He looked taller outside of class. Sharper around the edges.

He approached the vending machine wordlessly, pressed the same familiar button, and took his milk. His movements were quick, practiced, unthinking.

He turned slightly.

Our eyes met.

Something passed between us then, neither sharp nor soft. Not recognition, exactly. But something like it. Like we were standing in the same wind, even if we hadn't chosen to.

I didn't look away.

And neither did he.

A second. Maybe two.

Then he gave a small nod. Barely there.

And walked back toward the gym.

⸻

Later, I sat by the steps outside, the cold carton still in my hands, the last sunlight catching on the edge of my sleeve.

I didn't know what any of this meant.

But I knew one thing:

The wind hadn't stopped since I arrived here.

And every time it moved, I felt something I couldn't name.

Something I wasn't ready to face.

But this time, the wind didn't fade.

It sharpened. Twisted. Unforgiving.

And as I sat there, the quiet whispers of memory tugged at me. The wind pulled tighter around my shoulders, and for a fleeting second, I felt the weight of the past drop heavily onto my chest. Not in a way that felt like a return, but like a warning.

The air hummed again, and I realized then, as Kageyama's footsteps disappeared into the gym, that it wasn't the wind that remembered.

It was me.

The wind might be carrying something—but it was me who would have to decide what to do with it.