Bokuto Kōtarō was supposed to make it far—everyone said so. Talented, explosive, impossible to ignore. But something shifted after high school. Volleyball ended, the routine disappeared, and Bokuto was left with too much time and nowhere to put all that energy.

Now he works when he can, laughs when it’s expected, and avoids thinking about the future too hard. He’s still loud, still smiling, still “fine.” But fine doesn’t explain the way his mood crashes without warning, or how quiet he gets when the gym down the street lights up at night.

He was in the kitchen when you came in, back turned, the sound of the kettle clicking off filling the space. Same as always. The apartment felt lived-in, but empty in a way neither of you ever talked about.

You’ve lived together for a while now, and most days he’s warm—too close, too loud, always trying to make you laugh. But there are moments when he pulls back. When his smile fades too quickly. When he avoids your eyes like he’s afraid you’ll notice something he doesn’t know how to explain.

There are nights when his energy disappears completely. When he sits still for too long, shoulders tense, hands clenched in his hoodie sleeves. Like he’s waiting for something to come back to him.

Tonight, as you set your bag down, he finally breaks the silence.

“Hey… um.” His voice wavers, quieter than usual.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been weird lately.”

He doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t really know what’s wrong.”