Author's Note: And hello again! Thanks for continuing onto chapter two! Here we have Reiha's POV. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 2 — Reiha

I've stayed in small places before. That's not the problem. And really, it's not that small. It's pretty nice accommodations for Japan. It's just . . . living in a place like this? With people I haven't seen in years?

The idea makes me want to choke.

Mitsuri's face when she first saw me didn't help — like I was a total stranger and she wished she was anywhere but standing before me. No . . . like she wished I wasn't here.

Hate to break it to you, sis, but I'm here to stay.

It's not like I want to be here either.

My grandpa helps me move my things in, though I protest that I can do it myself. Honestly, the guy probably shouldn't be helping anyone move anything anywhere, but he insists. My room is next to Mitsuri's. Small and enclosed, with little privacy. The shōji seems so thin that I feel like it'll break if I just lean against it. When I imagined coming back to Japan, I thought we'd be in an apartment or something, not this old-fashioned house with rice paper walls still intact. I suddenly regret all the things I brought.

Being on the road for several years, it's not like I'm unused to traveling light. But when we settled down in America, I acquired more than I needed, specifically in clothes, such as the coral pink bikini and gorgeous cantão I splurged on from Brazil or my collection of flip-flops, because you can never have enough of those.

While Gramps wheels my suitcases in, Mitsuri observes us, her arms crossed over her chest, a shrewd look on her face. I wonder if I look so grouchy all the time. I should try imitating that look. I turn to the mirror hung up on my wall and screw my face up — there is little resemblance to Mitsuri's displeasure, but with practice, maybe.

In reality, I can't see much of myself in Mitsuri at all. She always seemed better than me, in academics and personality both. She was sweeter, nicer, more caring, while I always struggled with holding my tongue and trying not to snatch the last cookie out of the jar. That's not even mentioning my grades — leaving to go abroad was a breath of fresh air. I thought it would loosen Mitsuri up some, too . . . but that didn't happen. And so, with just my mom to school me — and, let's face it, she got more and more carefree every day — I ended up with a bunch of leeway in my academics, something that I'm sure Mitsuri will notice. And then the schools in America were like a joke.

I am . . . not looking forward to high school here.

At Rakuzan, no less.

A prissy and prestigious school for people like Mitsuri.

"Thanks, Gramps," I say, dumping my last bag into the corner of the room. "I think that's it. Um . . . I think I'll just unpack for a bit now?" Not that there's room for everything. I'll have to get rid of some things if I ever want to live here comfortably.

Grandma makes an appearance near Mitsuri and glances around at all my stuff. If she's judging me, she doesn't show it. She just smiles and says, "That sounds good. You just relax in here and rest. I'll have dinner ready in an hour, okay?"

I nod, my insides screaming for them to leave already. Usually, I don't like to be by myself, alone in a room that has yet to be marked with any personalizations. But right now, all I want is time to clear my head.

The three of them leave, Mitsuri casting one last long look at me, and I slide the door closed (not that it helps much), grateful for their absences.

I fish out my phone and earbuds and plug in some music, letting the sound drown out any other noises of the house. The room is bare, obviously a spare, and I can't help thinking that they've kept it just for me. Like they knew that someday I would return.

I bite my lip and try not to think of that. I unzip the first suitcase and start pulling out clothes to hang up or fold into the dresser. I really did bring too much — and none of what I have to wear is probably in style here. Too outlandish, too bright, and too . . . wrong. It's strange because even though I lived in Japan for eight years, and it's technically my home, I don't have a single yukata. I'll have to get one before the summer festivals arrive, because there's no way I'm missing out on fireworks.

Oh, well. At least I'll have a uniform to wear at Rakuzan every day. After I finish sorting out my clothes, I go through my other things, an assortment of knickknacks from five different continents, some of my favorite snacks that I knew I wouldn't be able to get in Japan, and a few other things, like my childhood stuffed animal and the gift Mom gave me when we parted.

It was only yesterday (or was it? I'm still getting used to the time difference), but it feels like a long time ago.

I didn't expect her to send me away.

The last few months have been tough, but I've been getting better. I have. So when she sat down with me and said that she'd been talking with her parents and that they all thought it would be good for me to return to Japan, I'd just sat there, shocked. And then I denied it. Argued. Rebelled. But in the end, it wasn't my choice.

It will be better for you, she said. A change of pace.

I'd tried to tell her that no, it would make things worse, but she wouldn't listen. She insisted that a normal routine and a life back with Mitsuri would do me wonders. But now that I'm back, I just have that restless, crawling feeling.

I sigh, picking up her gift — a silver chain necklace with a single cherry blossom at the end. I thought it was strange, and I asked her why she'd gotten that specifically. Why something from Japan, and not something to represent all our travels? But she just smiled and didn't say a word.

I want to talk to her. I miss her voice, and I want to ask once again why she'd sent me away. But . . . she'd said she didn't want to mess with international calling fees and insisted that I email her instead. Some part of me wants to immediately start a message, but I hesitate.

It's fine. I can do this. I can start again.

I swing the necklace before my eyes, back and forth, and eventually, I put it on.

Dinner is quiet. It's clear that Gram's put her all into the meal, with each dish topped high with flavor. The nostalgic smells make me pause for a moment; I barely remember to say my thanks before digging in.

It's been a while since I've had traditional Japanese food. Sometimes, my mom and stepfather would take me to a sushi place, but it never tasted the same. The chopsticks find their way easily into my fingers. I guess some things you never forget.

I try to distract myself with the food and ignore the stares of Mitsuri and my grandparents. In contrast to me, they eat their food slowly. Almost daintily. It drives me crazy.

Grams tries to make small talk, asking me about my time away, about how Mom is, what my stepdad is like. She's polite and sounds interested, but so does nearly every Japanese person. I set down my chopsticks, frustrated. This was one of the things I never liked about Japan — no one saying what they want to.

And, of course, she doesn't talk about that. Even though I know she knows.

The conversation feels stilted, almost staged. Mitsuri rarely says anything. I'm sitting right beside her, so I can't see her face, can't see what she's thinking.

Does she hate that I came home? Does she wish I'd just stayed away so she could enjoy her quiet life with our grandparents?

In part, I don't blame her.

But then another part of me simmers.

I didn't want this either. I didn't want to leave — and I didn't want you to leave.

Dinner ends quickly. Grams begins to gather up the dishes, and I stand to help her, but Mitsuri shoots me a look. "Thanks for the meal," she says before standing as well.

Ah, right. Mom and my stepdad never cared for formalities — we always just dug right into what was in front of us, then went our separate ways. Actually, it's rare that all three of us were even together for a meal.

"Thanks for the meal," I say. Gochisōsama deshita. The sounds feel foreign on my tongue.

After dinner, I make the excuse of still being jet-lagged and retire to my room. I'm glad that at least I don't have to share with Mitsuri. I can't imagine what kind of night that would be.

I flop onto my bed, glad that they at least have a normal Western bed, and I don't have to pull out a futon every night. I close my eyes and grasp the necklace around my neck. I should probably take it off . . . Mitsuri would say something about a choking hazard . . .

My first day at Rakuzan High is nearly exactly what I expected. Luckily, I didn't have to sit through the entrance ceremony, so I'm starting classes immediately. Since Mitsuri and I are the same size, she lends me one of her crisp white uniforms, and takes it upon herself to instruct me in the school's ways — proper education and all.

Even when we were kids, she would do this. Always talk about what we should do and how we should do it. Back then, I used to make fun of her, and she would accept the teasing with an embarrassed smile. I don't think she would be so easy-going now.

As we walk to the school, I tug at the long skirt and stiff shirt. I hope I can get my own set and make some alterations. Mitsuri seems more relaxed this morning and even makes some small talk as we walk. I humor her, feeling some regret for how I acted last night. It's true that I don't want to be here, but they probably don't want me here either. The least I can do is make it a more pleasant visit. Maybe if I prove to Mom I'm doing well, I can go back.

"Did you like living in America?" Her voice is soft when she asks the questions. She's been to America twice, but only the west coast and only for short periods of time. Living there is entirely different from visiting.

"Yes," I say. "It's a lot different from here, but it's nice."

I don't say more, because if I do, I'll end up saying things I don't want to. Telling her how she'd like it, if she tried. Asking her why she left. Confessing about why I left.

I usually have no problem speaking my mind, but . . . the one thing that needs to be said? Can't.

A pink petal flutters into my face, and I splutter. Mitsuri lets out a low laugh, the first sign of humor I've heard from her. As I glance up, I realize we've entered a whole pathway draped in the cherry blossoms — the trees lean over the street, creating a sort of arch.

Absentmindedly, I finger the chain of my necklace, which I'd tucked under my shirt. It's been a while since I've seen the cherry blossoms. I'd forgotten . . . how pretty they were.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Mitsuri says, her eyes keen on my gaze.

"Eh? Oh, right. Yeah. They're pink and all."

She laughs again, and I almost smile.

Mitsuri takes me to organize my class schedule first, before she heads to do her own stuff. After confirming my courses, I go to my classroom. The smattering of youthful Japanese sends nostalgia through me again. While Mom and I would speak it when we were alone, it's been a while since I've heard so much of it. Kids are still filing through the hallways, our homeroom starting in a few minutes. Luckily (or maybe unluckily), I'm in a different class than Mitsuri. Probably because of our difference in genius. I'm not exactly sure how I managed to get into Rakuzan, but I'm guessing someone pulled some strings.

As I walk through the halls, heads start to turn, and whispers rise around me. I smirk at the attention and hold my head high, strutting past the classrooms until I find mine. I wonder if Mitsuri is popular — if they recognize me from her, or if she's told them about me. Or maybe they're just getting worked up about a new kid.

The classroom is nearly full when I enter, and people glance my way as I step through the doorway. I make sure to look them all in the eye before I turn to find a seat.

Only to see that there is no good seat available.

Arriving in the second year of high school is a pain. This class has had time to be with each other for a full year already, and here I am, barging in. You can tell that all the cliques and groups have already been formed. The free seats are either near people who clearly aren't looking for any friends or at the front, a spot I hate taking.

I realize I've been standing in the doorway for a few seconds, and my face flushes as I eye the nearest free seat — I guess I'll take whatever. If it ends up being someone else's seat, oh well.

Just as I'm about to move, though, there's a skidding sound behind me — and someone collides straight into my back.

The two of us are thrown forward — my hands fling out and find purchase on a girl's desk, scattering her things. She cries out and throws me a glare.

"Oh, sorry! I'm so sorry!" a voice behind me says, the one who'd run into me.

I grunt and straighten myself, adjusting the shoulder strap of my bag and my overly long skirt. I turn to find who the perpetrator is and see a flustered boy facing me, concern twisting his face.

By all means, he's fairly average. Brown hair and eyes, a nicely shaped face, and — my attention is drawn to his lips. I smack my own together.

He is cute.

But obviously not my type.

I say, "You should watch where you're going."

He ducks his head, flame going to his cheeks. "Right. I'm sorry. I was just in a rush, thinking I was late to class."

Then he cocks his head, his eyes filling with confusion. "Hey, wait, what are you doing in here?"

Ah. He must think me to be Mitsuri.

I blink a few times, then I put forth an innocent smile. "I asked to transfer classes."

"Why would you do that?" He's clearly perplexed.

I shrug, and as I do, I adjust my posture, relaxing my shoulders and easing into the slight slouch Mitsuri has — the I-don't-want-to-be-seen-but-I'm-still-here-so-despite-my-efforts-you-still-have-to-look-at-me stance.

The boy's face clears. And then clouds again. He says, "Hey, you're the president of the debate club, right?"

Interesting. She likes to debate? I wouldn't have pegged her for one who likes to shout out her opinion. Plus the president? Well, that's more like her. She does like to organize things. "That's right," I say. "Would you like to join?"

He shakes his head. "I'm actually no good at that sort of stuff. I was just thinking . . . my friend might be interested."

I paste a fake smile on my face. "Well, tell him he's welcome to come anytime."

He frowns. "I thought you hadn't started up again."

Oops. "Well — I mean, when we do start. He can drop by."

"Oh. Well, I'm Ogiwara Shigehiro, by the way. I don't think we've ever officially met."

"Kasayama Mitsuri, but I suppose you already knew that."

"Uh . . . if you're new to this class . . . I guess you don't have a seat, do you? You could sit next to me. I'm at the front here, so you might not like that —"

"That sounds great," I say, relieved that at least I have something. "Thank you."

He smiles, those nice lips turning up at the corners, and I smile back. By now, most of the people have stopped looking at me, but there are still a few stares.

I'm wondering how long it will take this Ogiwara kid to realize he's been fooled — probably at roll call — when a girl stands up as we pass and points a finger at me, speaking before I can.

"Ogiwara-kun," she says, her voice high-pitched and demanding, "don't listen to anything this girl says. She's not Kasayama Mitsuri."

"W-what?" Ogiwara glances back at me, the confusion back on his face. "Who else would she be?"

"I saw it on the roster myself," the girl says. "She has the same last name, but her first name is different. They're sisters, don't you see? Twins. And didn't you see her when she walked in? She had a totally different attitude. She's just trying to play you. Don't fall for her —" The girl falters.

Because in the few seconds she'd been talking, I dropped it — the act, I dropped it all. Mitsuri disappeared, and I came back. I stand up straight, tall, and confident, and I let Mitsuri's nervous smile vanish only to be replaced by the smirk my face muscles are all too familiar with.

Ogiwara and the girl's mouths both drop open at the transformation.

"That's right," I say. "I'm not Kasayama Mitsuri. My name is Reiha. Kasayama Reiha. It's very nice to meet you."

A/N: So why Ogiwara? He's one of the lesser-known characters, that's for sure. But in choosing characters to contrast with Akashi's story, Ogiwara's seemed to fit the best. I know some people have written on Ogiwara going to Rakuzan, so I guess this idea isn't entirely original (although I didn't know that when I started this), but I think it's interesting, considering the history between the two. Since we don't have as much info on Ogiwara, that gave me a bit room to play with his character without having to worry too much about being accurate, which is something I struggled a lot with Akashi (he's one of the hardest KnB characters for me to write).

So far, it's clear that the sisters have some stuff that need to be worked through . . . I'm actually not too confident in my ability to write a sister relationship (even though I have an older sister myself), but I hope so far it's okay. There's a lot of things that are being hinted to, but as you read on, hopefully things will become more clear.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this (or even if you didn't), I would love to hear your thoughts. :)

~ J. Dominique