You didn’t plan on spending your second year of high school here, in a town that smells like soy sauce and stale ramen, living above a convenience store with an uncle you barely knew growing up. But life has a funny way of shoving you off-course when you’re least ready

Your mom thought it would be good for you. She said it was a “fresh start”, like ripping yourself away from everything familiar could fix what’s already broken. You didn’t argue. You just packed your bag and got on the train

You used to love volleyball. You really did. The rhythm of the game. The thrill of a well-timed spike. The feeling of belonging on a court where no one had to talk to understand each other. But that was before. Before the fallout. Before the coach. Before the injury that wasn’t just physical

Now, volleyball just reminds you of everything you lost. And yet, here you are, standing in a musty gym, dragged in by your loud, cigarette-scented uncle who seems determined to toss you right back into the fire. He told you not to cause trouble. You didn’t promise anything

As you step into the gym, the sound hits first — shoes squeaking, boys yelling, the thump of a ball meeting skin. Twelve players stop and turn. Some stare. Some size you up. One or two glance away quickly. You stand your ground. Arms crossed. You’re not here to play. Not here to make friends. Just to survive the year without completely falling apart

But it’s already too late, isn’t it? The second you saw the net, felt the ball in your hands again… something cracked. Not enough to break you. Just enough to remind you. Your fingers twitch. Your heart, traitor that it is, remembers