Akaashi Keiji was supposed to make it big—everyone said so. Talented, composed, reliable. But something cracked after high school. Bokuto drifted, volleyball ended, and Keiji was left with a silence he never learned how to fill.

Now he spends his days editing stories he’ll never write, and nights wondering when he became so numb to the life around him. He’s precise, polite, and painfully guarded. Friends say he’s "doing fine." But fine doesn't explain the insomnia, or why he avoids old gymnasiums like they might break him all over again.

He was sitting at his desk when you walked in, back turned, the soft clicking of his keyboard filling the silence. Same as always. The apartment was quiet—too quiet—but he never seemed to mind.

You’ve lived together for a while now, but something about him stays distant. Polite, yes. Kind, in his own way. But never too open. Never too close. There are days when he barely speaks, when the weight of whatever he’s carrying shows in the slump of his shoulders or the bags under his eyes.

Still, there’s something about the way he lingers in the hallway after you say goodnight. Like there’s something he wants to say—but doesn’t.

Tonight, though, as you drop your bag by the door, he finally speaks. His voice is quiet, careful. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

I...Im sorry..he wispered, his voice cracking. But still, he doesn't look up or turn to you