The Great Chopstick War of 2025

By the end of Freja’s first week, the entire class had accepted one universal truth:

Freja Lindström vs. Japanese Table Manners was the greatest entertainment since the last season of that idol survival anime everyone was obsessed with.

It all came to a head on Friday.

Lunchtime. The classroom smelled like miso soup, fried shrimp, and impending disaster.

Freja had proudly unpacked her very first Japanese-style bento. Her host mom (Sasaki-san, the ultimate mom friend) had apparently stayed up late watching YouTube tutorials. The box was perfect: tamagoyaki rolled into a golden spiral, little octopus-shaped sausages, onigiri with nori faces, and a pile of glistening karaage that looked suspiciously like my mom’s recipe. Traitorous thought: maybe Mom had already started exchanging recipes via LINE.

“Hibiki!” Freja beamed, sliding the bento toward me like it was the Holy Grail. “Today I eat with hashi! I practiced all morning!”

Hashi. Chopsticks.

The Three Girls Squad instantly materialized around us like sharks smelling blood.

“Kyaaaa, Freja-chan is so cute!”

“Show us, show us!”

“Film it, Yuko!”

Freja pulled out a brand-new pair of pink training chopsticks—the kind with the little plastic ring connector that elementary school kids use. She must have bought them secretly at the hundred-yen shop. My heart did something stupid. She actually went out of her way to prepare.

Daiki leaned over the back of my chair, grinning like a demon. “This is it, man. The final boss of culture shock. Place your bets: will she conquer the karaage mountain, or will the karaage mountain conquer her?”

I wanted to tell him to shut up, but I was too busy staring. Freja’s long fingers fumbled with the training ring, trying to slot the chopsticks in correctly. Left, right—no, upside down—there we go. She looked deadly serious, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration.

First target: the tamagoyaki.

She lowered the chopsticks like a crane in slow motion. The egg roll wobbled. She pinched.

It slipped.

She pinched harder.

It shot sideways and landed on Kisaragi Miu’s desk with a soft *plop*.

Silence.

Miu blinked at the golden egg slice sitting innocently on her math notes. Then she looked up at Freja with the calm smile of someone who has accepted chaos into her life. “Do you… want it back?”

Freja’s face went the color of ripe strawberries. “G-Gomen nasai! I am so sorry, Kisaragi-san!”

Miu just laughed—actually laughed—and picked it up with her own chopsticks, offering it back. “It’s fine. Here, open wide.”

The class exploded. Phones came out. Someone yelled “Ahhn~!” like we were in a romance anime.

Freja, mortified but brave, opened her mouth and let Miu feed her the escaped tamagoyaki. The squealing reached dangerous decibels.

Daiki wiped a fake tear. “I’m not crying, you’re crying. This is peak youth.”

Round two: the octopus sausage.

Freja adjusted her grip, eyes narrowed like a sniper. She went in low.

Contact.

Lift.

Victory!

She raised the tiny octopus triumphantly, legs dangling from the chopsticks like a conquered enemy flag. “I did it!”

The class cheered like she’d just won the Olympics. Even the guys in the back were clapping. Aiko started a chant: “Fre-ja! Fre-ja!”

But pride comes before the fall. Literally.

Emboldened, she went for the karaage—greasy, golden, and roughly the size of a baseball.

She pinched.

It slipped.

She pinched harder.

The karaage launched like a missile, arced beautifully through the air, and landed with a *splat* right in my lap.

Direct hit. Oil stain blooming on my pants.

Everyone froze again.

Freja’s eyes went huge. “Hibiki! I—I am so sorry! Your pants!”

I looked down at the fried chicken casualty, then up at her panicked face. Something warm and stupid bubbled up in my chest. I picked up the karaage, wiped it on a napkin (five-second rule, right?), and took a bite.

“Still delicious,” I said, mouth full. “Victory goes to the karaage.”

The class lost its collective mind. Daiki actually fell out of his chair laughing. Someone shouted “Indirect kiss with chicken!” and I swear I saw Sensei peeking in from the hallway, giving me a sneaky thumbs-up.

Freja buried her face in her hands, but I could see her ears were bright red. “IJag ville vara cool inför Hibiki.…” she mumbled in Swedish, thinking I couldn’t hear.

But I did hear. I don't really understand Swedish, but “ I heard Hibiki which means she was talking about me” was pretty clear.

After school, I found her lingering by the shoe lockers, clutching the pink training chopsticks like a defeated warrior.

“Hey,” I said, holding up a small paper bag. “Bought you something.”

She peeked inside. A pair of adult lacquered chopsticks—simple, dark wood with a tiny carved sakura pattern. Not the training kind.

“For when you’re ready,” I said, scratching my cheek. “You were actually really close today. One more week and you’ll be picking up individual grains of rice.”

Her eyes lit up like I’d handed her a crown. “Hibiki… tack så mycket.” Then, quieter: “Thank you for not laughing too much.”

“I laughed plenty,” I admitted. “But only because it was cute.”

The word slipped out before I could stop it. Cute. I called the tall Swedish goddess cute to her face.

Freja blinked once. Twice. Then she smiled—not the polite exchange-student smile, but something softer, warmer. “In Sweden, we say ‘söt’. You are also… söt.”

My brain blue-screened. Did she just—?

Before I could process, she bowed—properly this time, not forehead-to-desk level—and hurried off toward the gate, braid swinging like a victory flag.

Daiki appeared out of nowhere, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Crush meter update: Freja 28, Hibiki 12. You’re catching up, but she just scored a critical hit.”

I stared at the empty hallway, the faint scent of karaage still on my uniform.

The Great Chopstick War of 2025 had ended in a draw.