Tied by Red Strings | T. Kageyama

I woke up tired—not the kind of tired you fix with sleep, but the kind that settles behind your ribs and hums under your skin.

Even after the dream faded, the memory stayed sharp:
The playground. The volleyball. The thread.
And the boy with the unfinished face.

But the promise stayed loudest.

"Promise me you'll never forget. Even if I do."

"Okay. But if you forget, I'll remind you."

⸻

The day blurred. I sat through class with one ear on the lecture and one eye on the window. The wind moved outside, soft and steady, like it knew something.

And around my pinky, the thread tugged—light but constant. Like gravity had changed its shape and decided it was following me now.

I didn't fight it.

⸻

By the time the last bell rang, my feet were already leading me back to the gym.

I told myself it was curiosity. That I was observing. That I liked the energy.

But the truth?

I was hoping to see him again.

⸻

The gym was half full when I arrived. The lights buzzed softly overhead, and the sound of drills echoed off the walls. Spikes, shoes, whistles—it all layered into something strangely comforting.

I found my place on the bench. Same spot as yesterday. Familiar now.

Yachi sat beside me, eyes on the court. "You keep showing up," she said, nudging my arm.

"You keep letting me."

She smiled. "That's because I like watching people get pulled in."

"Pulled in?"

She didn't explain. Just grinned and leaned back. "Watch."

⸻

And then I felt it.

The thread pulled again—tighter, more focused.

When I looked up, he was there.

Kageyama.

Moving through drills with quiet precision. Not flashy, not loud. But it was like the whole court moved around him. Like the gravity in the room bent toward him without permission.

And maybe mine did too.

Our eyes didn't meet.

But the thread stayed drawn—like it knew before I did.

⸻

After practice, while players trickled out and the air turned heavy with post-practice quiet, I stayed.

So did he.

He was picking up balls near the back wall when I finally walked toward him.

Slowly. Cautiously.

He didn't look up. "You stayed again."

"Maybe I like the atmosphere."

"Maybe," he said, not buying it.

I stopped near the edge of the court. "Can I ask you something?"

He stood straight. Finally looked at me. "You can try."

I hesitated. "Why did you say you remembered me?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then:
"Because I do."

"I don't."

"I know."

The words were soft, but they cut anyway.

"Why me?" I asked.

He tilted his head slightly. "You don't feel it?"

"The thread?"

He nodded.

I looked down at my pinky. The invisible red thread tugged gently. Not painful. But very, very real.

"I feel it," I admitted. "But I don't know it. I don't know what it means."

Kageyama looked at me for a long moment. Then:
"Not yet."

⸻

That night, I was curled up on the couch when the door opened and Keito stepped in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie slightly too perfect for someone who "just threw it on."

He dropped a convenience store bag in front of me. "I brought you those gross sugar puffs you like."

I narrowed my eyes. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," he said. Then added, "Okay, maybe I'm trying to bribe you into giving me the remote."

I tossed it at him. "I was watching that."

"No you weren't," he said, scrolling already. "You were just staring at the screen like it owed you answers."

I leaned back into the cushions, sipping from a cup of tea. "Do you ever remember something too old to feel real?"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's cryptic. You writing poetry now?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I. And the answer is yes. Sometimes I remember your old obsession with red string."

I looked at him sideways. "You remember that?"

"Are you kidding?" he said, grinning. "You went through a whole phase. You tied red thread to everything—your fingers, your dolls, my backpack—"

"It was symbolic!"

"You were six."

"And dramatic."

He nodded. "Incredibly. There was that one time—what was it? You cornered some poor kid at the park and made him swear he'd never forget you?"

My breath caught.

He kept talking, unaware. "I think you tied the string around his pinky and said something like, 'It's a forever thing.'"

I looked down at my hand.

"And after that," Keito continued, "you stopped talking about it. Like it just... ended. You didn't even say goodbye to the kid. You just let it go."

I didn't say anything for a long moment.

Keito leaned back, something unreadable in his eyes now. "Why bring it up?"

"I think..." I hesitated. "I think I found him again."

That got his attention. He sat up a little straighter. "Seriously?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure yet."

"You gonna tell me who?"

"No," I said. "Not yet."

Keito studied me for a second. Then smirked. "So this is a secret thread situation again, huh?"

I rolled my eyes. "You're impossible."

He grinned and threw a pillow at me. "And you're weird. But you're my weirdo, so I guess that counts for something."

I smiled faintly. "Thanks."

"Don't get soft on me," he muttered. "Now eat your sugar puffs."

⸻

That night, I sat in my room, the light off, the thread pulsing gently against my skin.

And I knew one thing for sure:

If I had forgotten something...
It hadn't forgotten me.