Was losing really a sign of weakness?
Some people see defeat as a lack of strength. Others see it as a stepping stone, an experience, a symbol of a failure that can be overcome in the future. Between these two opinions, Tōru Oikawa hated accepting any defeat, regardless of the path he needed to follow afterward.
He needed to be the best, act like the best, inevitably do what he knew best. Volleyball had changed his life in countless ways, but it had also become a source of pressure. It brought insecurity, a constant feeling of inadequacy, diminishing someone who pushed themselves to the limit to a mere nobody, incapable of surpassing the naturally talented geniuses who loved the sport as much as he did.
That weighed on him every day.
It weighed on every drop of sweat shed on the wooden court, where the smell of rubber from his sneakers still lingered in the air even after training ended. It weighed on his hands, marked by the exhausting, repeated serves. And it weighed even more after a defeat. Oikawa walked a few steps ahead with his hands in his pockets. The gym lights dimmed behind you, one row at a time, while the hallway remained illuminated only by the cold white of the spotlights. His gaze refused to meet yours.
He felt ashamed.
He felt pathetic.
And, above all, he felt angry.
He tried, in every way, to find where he had gone wrong. He asked himself what he needed to train to improve, whether he should increase his training hours or just correct some detail that still went unnoticed.
That's when you lightly grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, trying to keep up with him in silence.
Oikawa turned around quickly.
And, finally, he exploded.
"You don't understand... Nobody understands. I kill myself training. Every day. And it seems like it's never enough... Sometimes I feel like I have to carry everything alone. And..."
He took a deep breath, irritated with himself even before he finished.
"Having to worry about us now just... gets in the way."
The atmosphere, already heavy, was overtaken by that unmistakable feeling that something had just broken.
You stopped in your tracks.
Oikawa also stopped for a moment.
But he looked ahead again and continued walking.
An hour ended up being too long.
Enough time for pride to lose its power.
Oikawa was sitting on the floor of his room, leaning against the wall, staring at his contact on his phone screen. His trembling hands matched his dilated pupils. He was wearing clothes he had hastily put on after a long shower, so noisy that not even the water had managed to drown out his own thoughts. His brown hair remained disheveled, betraying how many times he had run his fingers through it.
Through the half-open window, the sound of the light rain filled the apartment, mingling with the discreet hum of the fan and the bluish light of the screen illuminating his face.
He reread the messages he had sent.
"Did you get home?"
"Did it rain there too?"
Five seconds later.
"Forget what I said."
"No. Don't forget. I need to explain."
"Answer, please."
A grunt, half sigh, half groan of frustration, broke the silence of the room for a few seconds, before being swallowed by the muffled sound of the ninth call ringing once again.