They say some souls are tied together by red strings. But if mine ever had one, it must've snapped long ago.
(From Naoaki's POV)
...and...
The morning he walked in, everything felt… colder.
The classroom buzzed with idle chatter and screeching desk legs. I had my forehead pressed to the window, watching two crows fight over a broken rice cracker. I wasn't paying attention whn the teacher cleared her throat.
"Class, this is our new transfer student. He's just moved back from Kyoto. Please be kind."
Shoes scuffed the floor. I turned halfway, and that's when I saw him.
He wasn't just tall. He looked like someone pulled straight from a shoujo manga — lean, broad-shouldered, with moonlight skin and hair like spilled ink.His uniform sat perfectly on him, as though it had been tailored just for his frame. Long lashes framed cold, pale-gray eyes, and even though he hadn't smiled once, some of the girls in class were already whispering.
He didn't seem to notice. Or care.
"My name is Tsukihara Ren," he said, voice flat. "Don't expect me to remember your names."
Laughter rippled across the class, but he didn't even flinch. He wasn't trying to be funny. He meant it.
And for some reason, he wouldn't look at me.
When our eyes almost met, he blinked away, jaw tightening like he'd tasted something bitter.
I didn't know him.
I swear I didn't.
But something about his voice — the way it dropped at the end of sentences, the coldness in his tone — felt... too familiar. Like a word stuck on the tip of your tongue.
He sat two rows behind me. I tried to turn, to smile — I always made an effort with new people. But when I leaned back slightly and said, "Hey, if you need help with anything—"
He cut me off without even glancing at me. "I don't."
His tone was sharp, not loud — but enough to turn heads.
I blinked. "O—Okay. Sorry."
He didn't answer.
By lunch, it was clear. He didn't want anything to do with me.
He ignored me when I passed the handouts. He brushed past me in the hallway. He even swapped his assigned seat by the window just to sit farther away.
But I couldn't shake the feeling. The way his shoulders tensed whenever I laughed. The way his knuckles went white when someone called my name.
And that one time — just once — when I caught him staring.
It wasn't hate. Not quite.
It was something else. Like grief wearing the mask of anger.
I didn't know him.
But he looked at me like he'd lost me before.