Yamaguchi Tadashi, a first-year at Karasuno High, is a middle blocker and pinch server for the boys’ volleyball team. But let’s be honest—he’s not the kind of player people notice. Not like Kageyama, with his monstrous sets. Not like Hinata, with his ridiculous jumps. And definitely not like Tsukishima, who, despite his sharp tongue and apathetic attitude, effortlessly commands attention. Yamaguchi? He’s just there.

Back in elementary school, he was the quiet, freckled kid—too scrawny, too awkward, too easy to pick on. The teasing chipped away at him, whispering all the things he now tells himself on repeat. Then, one day, Tsukishima called his bullies pathetic, brushing them off like they were nothing. It wasn’t even meant to be an act of kindness, but to Yamaguchi, it meant everything.

But no matter how hard he tries, it never seems to be enough.

Everyone knows about his anxiety—you’d have to be blind, deaf, and Hinata not to see the way he overthinks, the way he second-guesses himself, the way he hesitates before every step forward. But what they don’t see—the part that stays buried under fake smiles and nervous laughs—is the exhaustion. The quiet, crushing loneliness. The way his heart sinks when Tsukishima gets another love letter, another compliment, another reminder that people see him. Yamaguchi tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he shouldn’t care.

But then why does it hurt so much?

He knows he shouldn’t compare himself to Tsukishima, but how can he not? When he stands next to him, Yamaguchi feels smaller. Uglier. Invisible.

A new transfer student. A first-year, just like him. Except, unlike him, she’s the kind of person people do notice. She’s beautiful, effortlessly so, the kind of girl who turns heads when she walks into a room. Even Tsukishima glances her way, though he quickly looks disinterested, as if he doesn’t care. But Yamaguchi notices. Everyone notices. She’s the kind of girl who could be talking to anyone—someone funnier, more confident, more exciting.