Chapter 1 — The World's Worst Love Letter
Amagi Kyouya had long accepted that people would notice his body long before they ever bothered to learn his name.
He was chubby.
Or, as the less polite students at school preferred to blurt out without a shred of filter—"fat."
Children whispered it when he walked past the elementary school gates on his way home. Teenagers snickered about it in the crowded hallways, pretending to bump into him just to feel how soft he was. Adults disguised their judgment behind a thin, suffocating veil of "concern," offering unsolicited advice with pitiful smiles.
"Maybe skip that second helping, Kyouya dear."
"You're surprisingly fast on your feet...you know, for someone your size."
"Careful leaning on that plastic chair, it looks like it's about to surrender."
People always had an opinion to share. They talked about his round, flushed cheeks. They made offhand remarks about his broad shoulders and soft stomach. They snickered at how his uniform shirt stretched just a little too tight around his waist when he sat down, or how his tie never seemed to sit quite flat. Even his genuine delight in eating—the way his face lit up when he tasted something truly incredible— was somehow twisted into public entertainment for onlookers.
At first, those casual cruelties cut deep. He used to cry into his pillow at night, wondering why his body made him an open target for mockery.
Eventually, though, the harsh words faded into background noise. Not because they magically stopped hurting— a small part of him still winced every single time but because Kyouya simply became too exhausted to react. He learned that giving bullies a show only fed their appetite, so he wore a quiet, polite smile and let the insults roll off his shoulders like rain on glass.
Still— he considered himself extraordinarily lucky.
Because despite the whispers in the corridors, Kyouya possessed something far greater: people who looked past his weight and actually saw him.
"Your cheeks are squishier than usual today!"
Hanae announced this for the thousandth time that morning before shamelessly reaching across his desk and pinching both of his cheeks with zero hesitation.
"S-Stop it, Hanae!", Kyouya squeaked, swatting uselessly at her hands as his face flushed bright pink. "You're stretching my skin!"
"They're cute!", she insisted, squeezing harder with a beaming grin. "It's a public service to pet them!"
"They're attached to my actual face!"
"Exactly. Which means they go everywhere you go."
Hanae let go, sitting back in her chair with a triumphant look, utterly devoid of guilt. She had been his childhood friend since they were in sandbox-and-fingerpaint days, and somewhere along the line, she had apparently decided that teasing Kyouya was her ultimate life calling.
When they were younger, she had been the fiery little girl who threw gravel at older boys who called Kyouya mean names. She didn't care about his weight, his size, or how many bowls of rice he ate. To Hanae, Kyouya wasn't "fat." He was adorable. Comfortable. Safe. Like a giant, human-sized mochi who occasionally grumbled when she stole his snacks.
"As long as you're happy and eating well," she’d always tell him whenever he looked down, "I'm happy too."
His classmates felt the exact same way. Well— maybe not about the mochi part. But definitely about Kyouya.
"Chef!"
"Kyouya-kun, please tell me you made extra today!"
"Is that...wait, are those tamagoyaki rolled to look like little sunflowers?!"
Every single lunch break in Class 2-B felt like a miniature food festival. Kyouya didn't just cook casually as a hobby; he cooked with an intense, burning passion. His bentos weren't just meals—they were miniature works of art that looked almost illegal to eat.
There were days when his lunchbox featured rice sculpted into sleeping bears resting under blanket-like omelets, or octopus-cut sausages nestled alongside hand-carved carrot flowers. Tiny spinach-stuffed egg rolls, perfectly seasoned karaage that stayed crisp even hours after frying, and sweet dashi soup kept warm in a thermos. Even fully grown adults would probably shed tears of awe if they saw the care he put into every single morning prep.
"Here, try one," Kyouya said gently, opening a wooden side container and offering a piece of freshly fried golden chicken. "I tried a new double-fry technique with sesame oil today."
His classmates practically formed a queue at his desk, chopsticks drawn like swords.
"This is insane. How is a high schooler making food this good?"
"My mom's cooking is going to taste like cardboard after this."
"Kyouya, please marry me. I don't care about gender, just feed me!"
Kyouya threw his head back and laughed, his deep, merry chuckle warming the entire classroom. Cooking made him genuinely happy, but watching people savor his food brought him a level of joy that no bully's words could ever touch. His recipes circulated around the class almost as quickly as juicy gossip, and he never hesitated to write down step-by-step instructions for anyone who asked.
To his classmates, he wasn't "the fat kid." He was their hardworking, kindhearted, ridiculously talented friend who always smelled faintly of sweet vanilla and rich soy sauce, and whose bright smile could clear the gloom out of any room.
Life wasn't perfect. But it was stable. It was peaceful.
It was more than enough.
...Until one foolish social media trend decided to wreck it all.
---------------------------------
It started during the second half of lunch break. Kyouya was standing near the back windows, animatedly explaining his plans for tomorrow's bento menu.
"I was thinking of trying out potato and corn cream croquettes," he said, gesturing with his hands as a small audience listened intently. "If I chill the béchamel sauce long enough overnight, the center will be completely molten once it hits the hot oil."
His classmates gasped in collective reverence.
"No way..."
"With cheese inside?!"
"Two kinds," Kyouya revealed with a mischievous wink. "Sharp cheddar and fresh mozzarella for the stretch."
"I love you, Kyouya," one classmate whimpered dramatically, clutching his heart.
"Get in line, buddy!" another yelled.
Before Kyouya could respond, a sharp *CLACK* rattled the nearby wooden desk. Hanae had slammed her smartphone down so hard the screen vibrated.
"KYOUYA."
Everyone flinched at her thunderous tone.
Kyouya slowly turned his head, eyeing her suspiciously. "What?"
"You have to see this immediately."
"I really don't like the tone you're using right now."
Hanae completely ignored his caution, grabbing him by his sleeve and shoving the lit phone screen directly into his face. A dramatic, slow-motion video was playing on TikTok, set to an overly emotional piano cover of a pop song.
On screen, a high school girl folded a pastel pink sheet of paper into a crisp paper airplane. She walked up to her school's top-floor outdoor corridor, stood at the stone railing, closed her eyes to make a romantic wish, and tossed it into the breeze.
The camera tracked the paper plane as it swooped gracefully through the sunshine, performing a breathtaking dive before landing softly right at the feet of a tall, handsome boy in the courtyard below. He picked it up, opened it, looked up toward the balcony and smiled softly.
Bold, sparkly text flashed across the screen:
>Try the #OrigamiJetChallenge! Fly a paper plane off the balcony to get your Crush's Attention! 100% success rate!💕✈️
3.4 Million Likes.
42.1 Million Views.
Millions of braincells lost nationwide.
Hanae’s eyes were practically sparkling with unholy excitement. "We are doing this. Right now."
"We are absolutely not doing this," Kyouya countered instantly, taking a cautious step back.
"Please? Kyouya, look how romantic it is!"
"No."
"It'll be fun!"
"It will become litter that the janitor has to sweep up."
"You have zero soul," Hanae groaned, pouting. "You're so boring!"
"I'm practical!", Kyouya crossed his arms over his chest, his chubby cheeks puffing out slightly as he reasoned with her. "Why don't you just do what normal human beings have done for centuries? Write a normal love letter and hand it to your crush!"
"Too embarrassing!"
"Text him!"
"No way, what if he leaves me on read?!"
"Then talk to him in person!"
She stared at him as if he had suggested she leap off a cliff. "As if that's easier!"
Kyouya let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Hanae, this trend makes zero logical sense. Think about the variables! What if someone else catches it? What if a draft carries it off course? What if it lands in a mud puddle or a toilet? What if it hits a teacher in the eye? What if it hits an absolute psycho and starts a school-wide war?!"
Hanae nodded thoughtfully, tapping her chin as if processing his mountain of valid points.
"Still totally worth trying," she concluded with a bright nod.
"You listened to a single word I said."
Five minutes later, Kyouya found himself dragged up to the drafty, fourth-floor open-air balcony overlooking the main courtyard. The sun was high, casting long shadows across the concrete below.
Hanae proudly held her pink paper airplane, striking a dramatic, heroine-like pose against the stone balustrade. "Witness greatness in the making, Kyouya."
Kyouya leaned heavily against the railing, clutching his school bag. "I am preparing myself to witness an utter disaster."
"Shut up and watch!"
She closed her eyes, blew dramatically onto the nose of her pink jet, made a silent wish, and launched it forward with a grand sweep of her arm.
The paper plane took off with surprising elegance. It glided through the air, catching the light beautifully.
For approximately two seconds.
Then, physics took over. The nose dipped vertically. The aerodynamic integrity collapsed entirely.
Ploop.
The pink plane dropped straight down like a lead weight, tumbling four stories before landing with a dull, anti-climactic thud directly inside an overflowing metal garbage bin resting near the courtyard benches.
Silence fell over the balcony.
Kyouya stared down at the bin. Then at Hanae.
A tiny snort escaped his nose, followed immediately by an uncontrollable burst of laughter.
"PFFT— HAHAHAHAHA!", Kyouya doubled over, his shoulders shaking violently as he clutched his stomach. "Oh man, that was...that was incredible! A direct hit! The trash bin really loved your confession!"
"Stop laughing!", Hanae shrieked, her face turning as red as a ripe tomato. "It was the wind! The wind betrayed me!"
"You aimed straight down into the garbage, Hanae!"
"I DID NOT!", She stomped her foot in frustration, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as she stared at her wheezing friend. Slowly, her anger shifted into a terrible, calculating smirk.
"Your turn," she sneered softly.
Kyouya's laughter died instantly. "Absolute not. I don't even have a crush."
"I don't care," she said, pulling a second sheet of origami paper from her pocket—this one a loud, bright neon blue—and shoving it against his chest. "Fold it. Now."
"Hanae, no—"
"If you don't fold this plane and throw it right now...", She reached into his unzipped backpack with terrifying speed, pulling out a small glass container sealed with a ribbon. "...I will eat your homemade mango-vanilla pudding cup right here in front of you."
Kyouya froze. His eyes widened in horror. "You...you monster. That took three hours to set in the fridge."
"Try me, cook-boy," she threatened, hovering a plastic spoon over the lid. "One..."
"FINE! FINE, I'LL DO IT!", Kyouya practically snatched the neon paper out of her hands.
Muttering curses under his breath, Kyouya began folding the sheet. Because he spent hours every morning painstakingly cutting decorative garnishes, his hands were exceptionally precise. Within seconds, he had constructed a sharp, sleek, perfectly balanced paper airplane with razor-crisp edges.
"Happy?", he grumbled, stepping up to the railing. "I still think this is the dumbest social media trend in human history."
"Manifest your true feelings, Kyouya!"
"I don't have feelings!"
"Liar!"
"I have hunger!", he shot back. "That is the only emotion driving me right now!"
"That's completely unromantic!"
"It's romantic to me!"
He took a deep, steadying breath, closing one eye to line up his trajectory. "Watch and learn. I am aiming directly for the trash can. If I hit the bin, I get my pudding back, and we go back to class."
"That violates the spirit of the challenge!"
"I refuse to participate emotionally," Kyouya declared.
With a quick, sharp flick of his wrist, he sent the neon blue jet sailing over the edge.
The plane was an absolute masterpiece of engineering. It glided smoothly on the warm afternoon air, swooping gracefully toward the ground, tracking straight toward the metal opening of the garbage bin. Perfect. Clean. Safe.
Kyouya began to smile, turning to demand his dessert back.
Then—
A sudden, inexplicably cold breeze swept through the courtyard.
It wasn't a strong gust, just a sharp, freezing draft that rattled the leaves of the surrounding cherry trees. The draft caught the left wing of the neon blue plane.
The airplane tilted violently.
It turned forty-five degrees.
It lifted, sailing right past the garbage bin, soaring far beyond the designated trash zone and heading straight toward the paved courtyard pathway where a group of upperclassmen were walking.
"No,", Kyouya whispered, his smile instantly vanishing. "No, no, no, stop falling—"
The airplane glided through the air with agonizing, cinematic beauty. Past the water fountain. Past a group of laughing first-years.
As if steered by the invisible, sadistic hand of fate itself, the bright blue paper plane swooped downward, making a sharp final descent toward a tall, dark-haired student walking near the center of the courtyard.
Thwack.
The sharp tip of the origami plane hit the back of the tall student's head with a soft, crisp sound, snagging lightly in his messy black hair before fluttering to the pavement.
The entire courtyard seemed to drop ten degrees in temperature.
The student stopped dead in his tracks.
The three guys walking beside him froze mid-sentence, their confident, relaxed postures instantly turning rigid with visible panic. The chatter of surrounding students died down in a wave of horrified whispers.
"Oh, man...", someone near the fountain breathed. "He's dead. Whoever threw that is so dead."
Kyouya leaned over the railing, his knuckles turning white against the stone. His soul was actively exiting his physical body.
"..."
"..."
"...Hanae," Kyouya squeaked, his voice cracking horribly. "I'm changing schools. I'm moving to another prefecture. Today."
Hanae stared down at the scene below, her eyes wide as saucers. "Maybe fake your death too...just to be safe."
Below them, the boy who had been hit slowly bent down. He reached out with long, pale fingers, picking up the crumpled neon blue airplane.
He didn't yell. He didn't swear. He just unrolled the paper with agonizing slowness.
The atmosphere in the courtyard suffocated.
The boy finally turned around and looked up.
Kyouya felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his neck.
The senior had sharp, dangerously piercing silver eyes that seemed to cut right through the distance between the ground and the fourth floor. Messy, dark raven hair fell over his brow, framing a high-bridged nose and a sharp, sculpted jawline. Silver studs lined the cartilage of both his ears, catching the afternoon sunlight, and as his lips parted in a slow, icy scowl, the metallic glint of a silver tongue piercing flashed behind his teeth.
His expression screamed a message loud and clear to the entire campus: 'Whichever absolute idiot threw this is about to deeply regret breathing.'
It was Hajime Reodo.
Nineteen years old. A repeating senior who operated entirely on his own rules.
Reodo wasn't a cheap street thug or an obnoxious bully; he was far more terrifying. He was the lead vocalist and guitarist for a hugely successful indie rock band that performed in real music venues outside of school. He was effortlessly brilliant, holding top scores in academics without ever opening a textbook during class, and an absolute monster on the sports field.
The school administration practically treated him like a visiting VIP because his band brought national recognition and endless trophies to the school. But the student body knew the truth: Reodo was cold, volatile, possessed a tongue like a scalpel, and had a ruthless history of rejecting girls who confessed to him so brutally that they ran away sobbing.
Reodo’s sharp eyes began their slow, deliberate search up the building facade.
First floor...nothing.
Second floor...empty windows.
Third floor...just scared onlookers hiding behind curtains.
Then—
His icy silver gaze landed directly on the fourth-floor balcony.
Directly on Kyouya.
Eye contact was established.
It was crisp. Clear. Unavoidable.
Kyouya was still frozen in his follow-through pose, leaning over the stone balustrade like a giant, helpless target.
Reodo tilted his head slightly, his dark brow furrowing into a dangerous, dark scowl as he twirled the neon blue paper airplane between two long fingers. The silence stretching between the ground floor and the fourth floor felt heavy enough to flatten a skyscraper.
Somewhere in the back of Kyouya's mind, he could hear his ancestors collectively sighing in disappointment.
'Well...It was a nice sixteen years of life. At least I died fed.'
Behind him, Kyouya heard the soft, cautious sound of rubber soles against stone. Hanae was quietly taking a step back.
Then another step.
Then another.
"K-Kyouya...", she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
"...What?", Kyouya murmured, not daring to break eye contact with the apex predator watching him from below.
"I just remembered something super important."
"What?"
"I...I left my math homework on my desk. I need to go."
"You already handed it in this morning."
"I suddenly have more!"
"HANAE, YOU TRAITORous—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Hanae gave him a quick, apologetic finger-gun sign and sprinted down the hallway at full speed, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as she abandoned him to his fate.
"TRAITOR!", Kyouya hissed under his breath.
Down in the courtyard, Reodo hadn't moved an inch. He was still staring straight up at Kyouya, holding the bright blue paper plane like a bloody weapon retrieved from a crime scene.
Kyouya stared back at the formidable senior, his mind frantically sprinting through his severely limited survival options:
Option A: Drop to the floor immediately, crawl on his belly like a seal, and pretend he was never on the balcony.
Option B: Scream an apology from four stories up and pray the wind carried his remorse to Reodo's ears before his soul was harvested.
Option C: Withdraw from school by noon, legally change his name to Aoto, and live out the rest of his days as a quiet baker in a rural mountain village.
Because standing right where he was—under the heavy, suffocating, piercing stare of the school's scariest senior—meant one thing was absolute:
Kyouya's quiet, peaceful, food-filled high school life hadn't just been interrupted.
It had just crashed, burning and unsalvageable, straight into the most dangerous guy on campus.
TBC...
