My suitcase stands by the door, a silent executioner. Black leather. Expensive. A gift from Kimiko, who insisted I look the part of U.A.'s top prospect. Now it mocks me, packed tight with folded clothes and carefully arranged toiletries. Everything I need to start my new life.
For two weeks, we've been perfect actors in a play about a brother and sister. The applause is silence, and the curtain is about to fall.
"Yu-yu, did you pack your phone charger?"
Kimiko's voice drifts from the kitchen. She's been humming the same off-key melody for the past hour—some pop song she heard on the radio. The tune wavers whenever she thinks I'm not listening, revealing the cracks in her performance.
"Of course I did," I call back, adjusting my collar in the mirror by the door. "What kind of amateur do you take me for?"
The reflection staring back at me looks confident, composed. The white hair catches the morning light streaming through our tiny window. My violet eyes show nothing but lazy amusement. A perfect mask.
If only masks could hide the way my chest tightens every time I hear her voice.
"And your toothbrush? You always forget your toothbrush when you travel."
"When have I ever traveled anywhere, Kimi-nee?"
I see her freeze in the kitchen doorway, spatula halfway to her mouth for a taste of whatever she's cooking.
She recovers quickly. Always does.
"Well, you're traveling now," she says, turning back to the stove. "And you're going to be living with other people. I won't be there to remind you about basic hygiene."
"My hygiene is impeccable, thank you very much."
"Says the boy who used to go three days without brushing his teeth in middle school."
"That was the old Yukio. The new and improved version has standards."
Our banter flows like water. Too easy. We've perfected this routine over fourteen days of careful distance and forced normalcy. Every joke lands perfectly. Every tease hits its mark. We sound exactly like we always have.
Except we don't touch anymore.
Not even a casual brush of fingers when she hands me my coffee. Not even a playful shove when I steal food from her plate. We navigate our cramped apartment like dancers who know each other's steps by heart, never quite occupying the same space at the same time.
The smell of eggs and rice fills the air. She's making my favorite breakfast—the one she used to prepare before important exams or job interviews. Another performance, another attempt to make this morning feel normal.
"Breakfast is ready!"
I join her at our tiny table, settling into my usual spot. The chair creaks under my weight—a sound I've heard thousands of times before. Today it feels like a goodbye.
She sets a plate in front of me. The eggs are perfectly cooked, the rice seasoned just right. She's even arranged it in a way that makes the modest portions look more substantial.
"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," I say, picking up my chopsticks.
"It's no trouble. Besides, dorm food is probably terrible. You should have at least one good meal before you go."
She sits across from me, her own plate barely touched. Instead, she watches me eat with those warm mahogany eyes, as if memorizing every detail.
"You know they have professional chefs at U.A., right? Lunch Rush is literally a pro hero whose specialty is cooking."
"Still. Nothing beats a home-cooked meal."
Home.
This apartment isn't much—cramped, worn, filled with secondhand furniture and the constant hum of the ancient refrigerator. But it's ours. The only place where I can drop the act and just be... me.
Whatever that means anymore.
"I'll come visit," I say, surprising myself. "On weekends. When I can."
"You better. Someone needs to make sure you're eating properly."
We finish breakfast in silence. The silence between us had a weight of its own, a third guest at our tiny table.
I check my phone. 9:15 AM. The train to U.A. leaves at ten.
"We should go," I say, standing and collecting our plates.
"I'll wash those."
"You cooked, the least I can do is clean up."
"Please."
She takes the plates from my hands. Our fingers don't touch.
"Kimiko."
She looks up from the sink, soap bubbles clinging to her hands.
"Thank you. For everything. I know I don't say it enough, but..."
"Yu-yu." Her voice is soft, almost breaking. "You don't need to thank me. You're my little brother. Taking care of you isn't a burden, it's a privilege."
Little brother.
===
The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms from the park nearby. Spring in Musutafu. New beginnings and fresh starts. How poetic.
"The weather's nice today," Kimiko says, breaking the silence.
"Perfect traveling weather."
"You'll want to open a window in your dorm room. Get some fresh air."
"I'll keep that in mind."
More meaningless chatter. More careful distance. We could be strangers making small talk.
The train station is busier than usual—morning commuters mixed with families seeing off their children for the new school year.
"Platform 3," I say, checking my ticket.
We make our way through the crowd, Kimiko's hand resting lightly on my arm to avoid getting separated. The touch is casual, innocent. It burns like acid.
The train pulls into the station right on schedule, sleek and silver. Modern efficiency at its finest. I'll miss the rickety old trains that service our neighborhood—they had character.
The train is packed. Rush hour in the big city means standing room only, bodies pressed together in the universal dance of public transportation. I manage to find us a spot near the doors, my suitcase wedged between my legs.
Kimiko grabs the overhead rail as the train lurches into motion. Her knuckles are white from gripping too tight.
The movement of the train pushes us closer together. Her shoulder brushes against mine—the first real contact we've had in two weeks. She tenses, as if the touch burns her too.
I should move away. Give her space. Maintain the careful distance we've worked so hard to preserve.
Instead, I reach out and take her hand.
She looks down at our joined hands, her eyes wide and questioning. Those beautiful mahogany depths search my face for answers I don't have.
I stare straight ahead at the passing cityscape, jaw clenched. This is dangerous territory. Every instinct I have screams at me to let go, to step back, to rebuild the walls.
But her fingers are cold, and she's trembling slightly, and she's the most important person in my world.
So I hold on.
Her grip tightens around mine. We stand like that for the rest of the journey, hand in hand, pretending it means nothing while our hearts hammer against our ribs.
This is insane. This is wrong. This is going to destroy everything we've built.
I don't care.
The train begins to slow as we approach our destination. Through the windows, I can see the towering spires of U.A. University.
My new home. My new life. My chance to become everything Kimiko believes I can be.
We exit onto the platform along with dozens of other students and families. The noise and chaos of the station fade into background static as we walk toward the exit.
"So," Kimiko says, her voice carefully neutral. "This is where we say goodbye."
"For now."
"For now," she agrees.
We stand there in the shadow of the gates, two people who have shared everything, suddenly strangers again. The weight of unspoken words presses down on us like a physical thing.
"I should go," I say finally. "Want to make sure I get unpacked soon."
"Of course."
Her smile is bright and fake and perfect. The same smile she's been wearing for two weeks.
"Take care of yourself, Kimi-nee. Don't work too hard."
"You too, Yu-yu. And remember to call. I want to hear about everything."
I pick up my suitcase and turn toward the gates.
"Yukio."
I stop, not trusting myself to turn around.
"I'm proud of you. Whatever happens, whatever you become... I'm proud of you."
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to drop everything and run back to her.
"I know," I say without looking back.
Then I walk through the gates of U.A. University.
The last thing I hear is the sound of her footsteps, walking away in the opposite direction.
===
END OF VOLUME 1