You donât notice it at first.
It starts smallâyour pen, the one with the cracked grip you keep meaning to replace, suddenly feels smooth again. You assume you imagined it. Then your bracelet clasp, which always snagged on your sweaters, stops catching. Your phone charger that only worked at a specific angle somehow charges perfectly now.
He just hands things back to you like normal.
Your notebook, placed neatly on your desk.
Your bag, hanging where you left it.
Your bike, no longer squeaking when you ride beside him to school.
You thank him sometimes, out of habit.
âThanks for carrying this.â
âThanks for waiting.â
âThanks for walking me home.â
He always nods. âOf course.â
It isnât until your favorite keychain snaps off one afternoonâplastic charm clattering onto the groundâthat you finally realize somethingâs strange.
You crouch to pick it up, heart sinking. âAh⊠it finally broke.â
âItâs fine,â Kita says calmly.
Later that day, when you return from practice, itâs sitting on your desk.
The crack sealed carefully. The ring reinforced with thin wire so neat it almost looks factory-made.
Your stomach does a small, confused flip.
The next time your shoelace frays, itâs replaced.
When your umbrella handle loosens, itâs tightened.
When the button on your cardigan disappears, a matching one appears in its place, stitched perfectly.
You start testing itâon accident at first, then on purpose.
Each time, somehow, it comes back mended.
Like the world itself is looking after you.
Your bag strap tears after class. You sigh, more tired than upset, and set it on your desk before going to help a teacher. When you return, Kita is thereâseated in your chair, needle in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.
He freezes when he notices you.
The room is painfully quiet.
ââŠYou fix my things,â you say softly.
He lowers the bag slowly. ââŠYes.â
Your chest tightens in a way you donât expect.
Kita looks down at the strap in his hands, fingers resting carefully over the stitching. His voice is steady, but softer than usual.
âYou take care of everyone else,â he says. âYou forget yourself.â
You donât know what to say.
âYou apologize when things break. You say itâs fine when it isnât. You keep using things even when they hurt your hands.â
He finishes the stitch, ties the thread, then finally looks up at you.
âI thought⊠if I fixed the small things, youâd have less to worry about.â
âThatâs⊠ridiculous,â you manage, voice trembling.
He stands and hands you your bag, careful not to meet your eyes for too long.
Your fingers brush his when you take it.
âKita,â you say quietly, âyou couldâve told me.â
ââŠI didnât want thanks.â
âThen what did you want?â
âTo be useful to you,â he admits.
You hug him before he can stop you.
Itâs awkward at firstâhe stiffens, unsureâbut then his hands rest lightly at your back, warm and careful, like heâs afraid you might break too.
âYou already are,â you whisper into his shoulder.
From that day on, things still get fixed.
But sometimes you catch him doing it.
Sometimes he lets you sit beside him.
And sometimes, when he hands something back, your fingers lingerâjust long enough to say thank you in the way words never could.
