Chapter Text
My family, my mother especially, with what little time she had, always told me, "Kazuha, should the day come where you find yourself questioning a red string attached to your ring finger, I want you to know that it shouldn't be looked down upon. Follow that string and find the someone you've been looking for."
I listened to her. I listened to my family, never questioning a thing they said because I knew they'd only want the best for me. For a long while, I dreamed of the day I'd wake up to a fateful string, the same string that would hopefully bring me to my special someone. Throughout many of my younger years, I believed I'd somehow stumble upon that person by chance, finding common ground in the simplest of things. I hoped to love the same things as they would. My dreams were endless, just as how you'd imagine a child's imagination to be. And while my mind grew wild with countless thoughts, loud or quiet, I found myself struggling to make new friends. I'd sit by myself at my desk and watch as all my other classmates' laughter and small conversations filled the room. They talked about the little red string, a lovely occurrence to them, but to me, I could only see the downside of my situation. As far as I knew, everyone in my family had gotten their thread at an early age. They were talents of all kinds that even the world and time itself seemed to favor them.
Above it all, I stayed hopeful. One afternoon, on a particularly sunny day, I asked my mother, "Why hasn't my string appeared yet? Is there something wrong with me?"
My mother could only look at me with her sad eyes, a fleeting glimmer shining so dimly. Those red pearls she was blessed with since birth were glossed over again. Was it from the tears that coated her eyes? Had I disappointed her by not living up to our family expectations?
She laid the crochet hooks she held onto the table stool she sat next to. Mother had always wanted to try crocheting, but with her busy schedule, she never had the time to come home, not even to see her family. But I knew she cared most deeply for us. She wasn't the kind of woman to act on her feelings or own desires; she wasn't selfish and everything she did, she did with sophistication and reason. Mother spoke of her feelings through words rather than actions. With a slow pace in her steps, she calmly walked towards me, her eyebrows lowering and pulling closer together.
With a hand on my shoulder, she kneeled to meet my face and said to me, "Kazuha, I'm saying this out of my love for you. Please, don't reach for the stars. Your time will come whenever you are ready. Of course, the red string can mean so much to someone, but I wouldn't dare want you to sacrifice your happiness for it."
And there our short conversation had ended. As the words that left my mother's mouth and entered my head shattered my world, so did they shatter my heart. Through my eyes, the wall's color started to fade, the bright big windows now grey and cracked, and the porcelain ware decorated around the room didn't seem so new anymore. They looked as old and worn out as the room started to appear. I left my mother's grey box with a devastating feeling clouding over my mind, my heart, and my body. Why couldn't I just live a normal life like all the other kids? Why did I have to be born into a 'highly-regarded' family?
Mother changed her words because she knew I was a 'late bloomer', that my red string wouldn't appear anytime soon as it had for other children my age.
When I had walked out on her that day, I would always come to find regret in the actions I took and the nonexistent words I conveyed. I never even said goodbye, not one word saved for her before her shortcomings. I walked out of her life just as soon as she walked out of mine. Sunday afternoons never seem to shine as brightly as they did before.
As I grew older, I came to realize that fate loves to take its time, so I gave up. I gave up on waiting for that someone to come along. And though I told myself that, I still had a small number of feelings left within my soon-to-be string.
It had been like that until the day I found a thin red line tied neatly around my ring finger flowing down from my hand to the floor near my foot. It stretched across the room like a red river, hanging over desks and window sills, waiting patiently for me to untangle every bit of it. My head began brimming with thought-filled excitement.
Though, there was something odd about my string. It wasn't the bright red everyone had described it to be. Taking its place was another shade of red, a deathly shade. Suddenly, I felt a wave of a strangely familiar feeling wash into me. The emotions I suppressed over the years had begun to emerge again, surprising me in ways I couldn't imagine. I wanted to share this feeling with someone, to express my joy like I hadn't in so long. I saw a spark of hope in myself and in this red string I had waited for my whole lifetime. This was it. Today was the day I might just finally meet the someone I've been longing for.
Through the years, for a little while, I hoped, and for a little while, I didn't. But I never did find a day where I was completely devoid of the emotions I had attached to that little red string.
I wish I could have told my mother, and perhaps it could have been something we would bond over, even if it meant just a bit more time spent together, but by unfortunate circumstances, she had passed away many moons ago. Her passing never left a mark as significant as I thought it would. I felt guilty for that. I felt guilty that my mother's death did not even affect me, and could even be compared to that of a stranger. I couldn't help it. The feelings I held for my dear mother couldn't be changed no matter how much I tried to imagine her in all of her best images, after all, even though she was alive and well at the time, it didn't feel like she was a part of my life. Mother never came home enough to leave a deep impression on me. I didn't think of it as such a big deal until I realized I couldn't remember her face more than a blur.
Although, there was something I remembered of her and kept with me. Before her passing, she left a message just for me. Mother really did care for me, but I never cared for her in the same way. I haven't opened the letter yet. I don't think I'm quite ready to face the contents inside because it might just feel like a million swords stabbing through my chest, opening the wounds I have slowly tried to seal, the same wounds I was never fully able to heal. It might just return the guilt I felt after her passing, which I wish to never feel again and would neither wish on my worst enemy.
Mother must have known she was going to pass soon. That must be why she wrote me a note just a few days before the accident. I still keep the note in the front pockets of my uniform, neatly folded into a delicate square with a red rose of wax stamped on the face of it. Perhaps one day I'll open that note and learn to forgive myself for never returning those feelings of hers. Perhaps I'll learn the truth about her frequent leavings and will be able to find consolation within that letter. But for the time being, I can only hope to improve in my studies and maybe find my soulmate.
3 years ago, I enrolled in the prestigious high school that I am in now. Either you had to be excelling in all your previous classes, or your family was wealthy enough to get you in. I struggled in neither of those categories, and I don't take that for granted. I'm thankful. Not many people have the opportunities I have. I'm not the most popular kid at school, but I am quite well-known. Teachers favored me because of my status, grades, and overall behavior. I was a diligent student — a role model student. I did everything I was asked of by my superiors, giving the utmost respect I could give. And one would think with my reputation, I'd have a considerable amount of friends, but that is far from it.
I considered my 'cold' demeanor and the weight my last name carried. Was it because of my reserved nature? Did they think I preferred to be alone? Maybe that was why my classmates found it daunting to approach me, even just for a small favor.
There was another idea in the back of my mind, and I knew it was true. If there were students who saw me as an inspiration, there would also be students bound to hate me. I've heard it — the whispers. Some despised me because of my 'perfect' behavior, thinking I was a suck-up. I only act the way I do for my sake, for my father's, for my mother's, and no one else. They were brave enough to carelessly whisper about me, but never to face me directly. I paid them no mind though, only miserable people would talk about others in a demeaning way, and I wasn't going to be another miserable person. I knew when to hold my tongue and when to not.
I felt the chilly air coming through the crack of the windows. Outside, the scenery had gotten more beautiful than ever before. Leaves of all warm hues — most of them brown, fragile, and shriveled, littered across the school grounds. Maple trees are quite popular in the area I live. It made my days better, watching the leaves change throughout the season from a bright green to yellow, to orange, to red, and then entering the last stage of their life and falling to the ground, withering away. In some ways, it reminds me of how life treats every living being.