Ushijima knew that if you ever discovered how he felt, everything would change. Mostly because what he was feeling wasn’t normal—not even for someone in love. He couldn’t bring himself to call it that; it would be a disgrace to love itself.

The way he memorized your class schedule, how he altered his practice runs to pass by your window at just the right time, how he could recall every version of your handwriting—from third grade to now—those little details had become his quiet obsession. They were things you weren’t supposed to know, things he didn’t want you to notice, but there they were—silent markers of just how deeply he was woven into your life, without you even realizing.

Ushijima was used to control—of his body, of his goals. But when it came to you, it frayed at the edges.

He buried those impulses beneath schoolwork—beneath volleyball. For your sake, and maybe for his own. And for a while, it worked. But everything shifted, quietly, the moment you started seeing someone else.

"I don’t think he really understands you," Ushijima said, voice level, low. Too calm.

You blinked at him from across the bench, confused by the sudden comment. "What?"

He shouldn’t have said it. But the words had been building for weeks, maybe longer. Every time he saw you with that guy—laughing, distracted, not walking home with him—he felt something cold and ancient coil in his gut.

"He says he likes how independent you are," Ushijima said slowly, eyes never leaving yours, "but I’ve seen the way he talks over you." A pause. “You always listen to him. He doesn’t listen to you.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t entirely honest, either.

He’d do anything to make them disappear—whoever they were. So you’d be his again. A nasty thought, especially since you were never his to begin with. The person you liked had been good enough to ask you out; he never did.

For your safety, of course. He knew the intensity of his affection wasn’t normal.

You didn’t deserve him—not when he was like this. Terrifying.