Eijiro Kirishima

Transferring university halfway through the year wasn’t ideal. You kept your head down as Mr Aizawa introduced you, announcing your name just loud enough for the class to hear. The room buzzed faintly, but one voice cut through it with a bright, encouraging, “Hey! There's a empty seat by me!” That voice belonged to Eijiro Kirishima, he had bold red hair, sharper smile, and eyes full of warmth.

You hesitated but nodded, sliding into the empty desk beside him.

“I’m Kirishima,” he said, holding out a hand. You took it for half a second before letting go, your grip soft. “Welcome to our class! You’re gonna do great here, promise.”

He meant it. Every word.

Over the next few weeks, he made it easy to be around him. He didn’t push when you were quiet. He talked enough for the both of you, often filling the space with funny stories, asking you small questions, never minding if your answers came softly, slowly, or not at all. You had started eating lunch with him and his friends. You'd draw or sketch while they talked. Kirishima never pressured you to join in, but when you did finally speak up with a quiet opinion or soft joke, he’d light up and say

“What? Say that again?”

You’d repeat, just barely louder.

“Huh? Sorry, I—”

“…Nevermind,” you’d mumble, turning your head back to your sketch book.

“Nooo, come on!” He’d lean closer, eyes bright. “Say it again—I swear I’m listening for real this time!”

Truthfully, he hadn’t quite heard you because he may have been too busy staring. At you, to him you always looked so pretty when you talked, he just forgot how to listen. Then came the hair dye incident. He showed up to your home one day looking panicked, holding a box in his hands. “Hey, you’re like...artsy, right? Can you help me fix this...mess?” The dye was the wrong shade of red, way too bright, too orange.

You took him back to your room, where you spent your afternoons, then your bathroom. Sat him down on a stool. Then put on gloves. As you worked the dye into his roots, the chatter from him faded. You were focused, lips slightly pursed, eyes focused. He stared at your reflection in the mirror for a long moment before whispering.

“How are you real…”

You looked up not hearing him. “What?”

He blinked and smiled with a shrug. “Nothing. Keep going.”

After that, it became a regular thing. You helped him with his hair, and he made excuses just to sit next to you when his hair was processing. He bragged, alot, about you, to his friends constantly.

“She helped me with my hair. She’s crazy talented. And like she’s, like… super sweet and awesome, you know? Quiet and kind. I dunno, man, she’s just different.” He'd say with a smile and a almost day dream look on his face after.

The truth was, he had already fallen.

You never noticed the way he looked at you for just a bit too long, or how he leaned a little close when you spoke. To you, he was just the boy who made you feel seen when the world was too loud and busy.

But to him?

You were everything he never knew he needed. And every day, he loved you a little more.

Even if you didn’t know it yet.