ushijima x reader

1

And just like that, from New York City to rural Japan. 

Broken Japanese, weed in your bag (that could land you years in prison, by the way), spotty WiFi, and lots of blocking out the memories of the last month in your head. The plus side, there was chocolate on the seat next to you in the car and you got your own place with no family, not even your distant Japanese aunt who had so graciously invited you to her hometown. Mizaki? Miraki? Miyaki? Something like that. 

 Allowed one suitcase, one hour to pack, one chance apparently. All you needed to be torn from everything, your entire life up unto now, was being discovered living like anyone else your age did.  Drugs on your clothes and in your bag,  discovering the years worth of stolen clothes in your dresser, and reading through your wonderfully decorated Bible diary hybrid (however not so wonderful in a Christian household). 

The answer to you maneuvering through your life was not found in helping you, only in shipping you away. And as long as the internet worked when you got there, you didn't mind as much as you wished you did. 

And so, you pulled in, and you watched as you greeted your home for the next year. A small apartment in a small apartment building overlooking Karasuno High School, where you would also happen to be attending as a senior, or third year as someone said to you. 

It was almost six in the morning and light began to seep through the darkness of your future apartment. The grass was wet and soaked your socks on the way in, but at least the air felt fresh and the flowers were blooming. Japan was beautiful, and although you would much rather be home, even you could appreciate it in the moment. 

The apartment was also surprisingly nice. It was modern, pretty, and functional, all you really could ask for being that it was paid for you each month. All you had to do was go to school and do well, and come home and be okay, you reassured yourself as a sleepless night coming to Japan turned into your first morning at Karasuno. 

You were fully aware you looked like an idiot from America, and you were fully aware that you would indeed be the idiot from America. You hadn't had time to change from the airport, and you also had no uniform yet, leaving you in sweatpants and a tank top with a sweatshirt over it and a carry on backpack to match. To make it better, you understood Japanese fluently but spoke it with a heavy American accent, not to mention almost completely grammatically incorrect.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you just ran with the dead girl look. Smudged eyeliner and deep eye bags suited you. Maybe you could pretend its a statement against traditional values in makeup or beauty norms or something. 

Finally, eight o' clock, school was about to start. You saw the principal and got a used uniform to use for tomorrow, and he showed you to your classroom. It felt strange knowing that these people have known each other for years, while you are meeting them for the first time this morning. The classroom made you feel strange, the light coming from the windows felt warm and nostalgic and slightly somber. 

They all looked at you, not inherently in a negative way, but they did nonetheless. The lazy, sloppy, American girl took her seat in the back of the classroom before realizing she was supposed to actually introduce herself to the class. You quickly, squirmed your way past your peers to the front of the room, and began in the best possible Japanese you could muster.

"Hi everyone!" you mustered a smile, "I'm from New York and I just moved here into the apartments next door!"

Someone smiled back at you, reassuring you to keep talking.

"I'm excited to get to know you all! Sorry if my Japanese is choppy, by the way. I came here kinda impromptu," you laughed. 

A few other kids laughed too, you felt relieved. The kids here seemed surprisingly nice to someone who looked like she crawled her way out of the sewers.