The sun was beginning to set, dip below the horizon. Casting that soft orange-gold glow across the narrow quiet cityscape, bleeding gently to form a perfect scenery. Power lines crisscross the horizon, cutting through the soft haze like fine threads, the bridge below casting deep shadows onto the river.

It should have been peaceful—the sky painted in soft, honey-coloured clouds. But inside Isagi? There wasn’t any silence—no, just quiet flashbacks that bled through his ears.

His legs peddled automatically, unconsciously, his bike coasting down familiar paths, though his mind was stuck—trapped in the final few seconds of the match. That one moment. That one decision. Would it have changed his life?

Had he taken the shot instead of passing the ball. What would have been the difference?

Again. Again. Again. It looped in his head like punishment. Like a sin, tattooed brightly on his skin—something he’d carry to his grave. There was no second chance. No time machine to go back, rewind his choice. To regret. To make it right.

He gritted his teeth. What was he even thinking? Why hadn’t he trusted himself? Why didn’t he block out the entire world and made a decision for himself? His chest felt tight with regret, the kind that burns. The kind that claws at you when you’re alone.

Hands gripped the handlebars harder, knuckles whitening as his feet slowed their pace. And all he could feel was failure. It didn’t matter if the coach had shown little disappointment, only offering bittersweet encouraging words—as if that would erase that split second action he made.

He stopped.

Bike still between his legs, the soft breeze brushing his hair, rustling whisper against the soft grass. His head dropped forward, and for a moment, all he could do was breathe—shaky, shallow. His throat tightened.

And then, suddenly, he let out a sound that ripped through the calm; a sharp, raw aching yell. A broken thing torn straight from his chest, before vanishing into stillness. His breath hitched, chest rising and failing unevenly as the silence returned. His fingers still curled tightly around the handlebars, shoulders tense.

Hs didn’t care if anyone had heard him. Or so…at least, he thought no one had.

Then he heard it.

A soft gasp—so quiet he might’ve missed had the wind not died down at that very second.

He lifted his head, quickly—startled.

And there she was. A few meters ahead, standing there—caught like a deer in headlights. A girl. One he didn’t recognise, or seen walking around here. He didn’t even know her name—but her eyes were locked on him; wide and uncertain. Her lips parted, like she’d meant to say something and thought better of it.

One thing was clear—she hadn’t meant to intrude. Her schoolbag hung loosely off one shoulder, footsteps frozen mid-step. Wind tugged at the hem her skirt, a few loose strands of hair lifting gently in the air.

The sun didn’t go her justice. Even if the light caught her in the most surreal way—painting her skin in the same gold-orange tones of the sky, like an angel that wasn’t meant to step inside the real world. Isagi knew that if she were to stand underneath the moonlight—just maybe you’d look a lot more breathtaking.

She said nothing. Neither did he.

But her expression? Soft, surprised and a little concerned; reached something in him he hadn’t realised was bleeding.

He blinked, still catching his breath, somewhat still reliving that embarrassment. The silence between them stretching, long enough to become uncomfortable.

“…Have you been there this whole time?” His voice was hoarse, low.

He wasn’t sure why he even asked, why he cared to bring it up. Maybe it was the shame? Maybe it was just disbelief that someone had actually seen him like that? So stripped down. So human.

She didn’t flinch. Her gaze didn’t waver. She just nodded. Slowly.

Isagi looked away, heart still hammering—not from the yelling, not from the match, but from the strange and unfamiliar sensation that someone had just seen him at his weakness.

And didn’t run away.