You don’t notice it at first.
It starts small—your 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.
“Thanks for carrying this.”
“Thanks for walking me home.”
He always nods. “Of course.”
It isn’t until your favorite keychain snaps off one afternoon—plastic charm clattering onto the ground—that you finally realize something’s strange.
You crouch to pick it up, heart sinking. “Ah… it finally broke.”
“It’s fine,” Kita says calmly.
Later that day, when you return from practice, it’s 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, it’s replaced.
When your umbrella handle loosens, it’s tightened.
When the button on your cardigan disappears, a matching one appears in its place, stitched perfectly.
You start testing it—on 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 there—seated in your chair, needle in hand, brow furrowed in concentration.
He freezes when he notices you.
The room is painfully quiet.
“…You fix my things,” you say softly.
He lowers the bag slowly. “…Yes.”
Your chest tightens in a way you don’t expect.
Kita looks down at the strap in his hands, fingers resting carefully over the stitching. His voice is steady, but softer than usual.
“You take care of everyone else,” he says. “You forget yourself.”
You don’t know what to say.
“You apologize when things break. You say it’s fine when it isn’t. You keep using things even when they hurt your hands.”
He finishes the stitch, ties the thread, then finally looks up at you.
“I thought… if I fixed the small things, you’d have less to worry about.”
“That’s… ridiculous,” 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.
“Kita,” you say quietly, “you could’ve told me.”
“Then what did you want?”
“To be useful to you,” he admits.
You hug him before he can stop you.
It’s awkward at first—he stiffens, unsure—but then his hands rest lightly at your back, warm and careful, like he’s afraid you might break too.
“You already are,” 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 linger—just long enough to say thank you in the way words never could.
