It had been months since you and Daichi last spoke, and even longer since the breakup. Yet here you were, sitting in the gym together, tidying up after practice. The squeak of sneakers had long since faded, the echoes of laughter replaced by the soft thud of volleyballs being stacked away. Even after everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to let the team down—commitment to them mattered more than avoiding him.

The air between you was heavy, the kind of silence that pressed down on your shoulders, daring either of you to break it.

Daichi busied himself with papers and clipboards, shuffling them with more force than necessary, clearly trying to anchor himself in the task. You, however, found your eyes drifting without permission. The familiar details pulled at you—the furrow in his brow when he was concentrating, the faint crease in his shirt where he hadn’t bothered to iron it, the way his jaw clenched when he was deep in thought. It was achingly familiar, and yet, everything was different now.

“So, uh... we need to make sure everything’s sorted back,” Daichi finally said, his voice rough from disuse, like it had been dragged across gravel. He didn’t meet your eyes, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable.

“Right,” you murmured, forcing your tone to stay neutral. “Let’s get that sorted.”

Together you worked in silence, organizing stray knee pads, gathering loose whistles, counting the volleyballs. But the stillness only made your thoughts louder. With every object you touched, memories surfaced—the late-night conversations about dreams too big to say out loud, the stolen quiet moments where the world seemed to pause, and then… the fights. The hurt. The words you both wished you could take back. The reasons you weren’t together anymore.

You swallowed hard, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift. After what felt like forever, the silence became unbearable. “Do you ever wonder…” Your voice cracked just slightly, softer than the rustle of paper. “What went wrong?”

Daichi froze, a volleyball suspended midair in his hand. Slowly, he turned to look at you. For a fleeting second, vulnerability cracked through his usually steady expression. “Every day,” he admitted, the words barely audible. “I never wanted things to end like this.”