He had a quiet habit—subtle, almost unnoticeable unless one paid close attention. Around his wrist, he always wore a collection of hair ties. Not just any hair ties, but the very ones you had once carelessly left at his place. At first, it was just one—a simple, everyday thing left behind without thought. But over time, as more were forgotten or abandoned in the quiet corners of his space, he began to keep them. He never mentioned it. He never made a show of it. Yet, every time he left for training, every time he appeared at a match, they were there—circling his wrist like understated memories, soft reminders of someone significant.

Now there were four. He wore them daily, a small ritual only broken when he stepped into the shower. Whether intentional or unconscious, the act had grown into a form of silent attachment. It wasn’t flashy or romantic in the traditional sense, but it was unmistakably intimate. It spoke of a quiet loyalty, a steady regard for someone whose presence lingered in his life even when absent.

After a particularly intense game, sweat still clinging to his skin and exhaustion etched into his posture, he was making his way back to the players' lounge. He walked with calm precision, still immersed in the afterglow of competition and focused on the routine that followed: rehydration, cooldown, shower, change. His expression, as always, was unreadable—composed, slightly distant, and unbothered by the noise of the crowd still buzzing beyond the stadium gates.

It was at that moment a fangirl approached. She had waited, perhaps hesitated several times before finally stepping forward. Her voice trembled slightly, caught between nerves and admiration.

“C-Can I have your hair tie, Sae-kun?”

Her request was innocent enough, likely meant as a playful souvenir, a token of connection with someone she admired from afar. She pointed at the ties on his wrist, eyes hopeful, a small smile on her lips.

Sae paused. His gaze shifted toward her, sharp and flat, unreadable as ever. There was no visible irritation, nor was there any trace of amusement. Just silence. He looked at her—not through her, not past her, but at her—long enough to acknowledge the request, long enough for her to feel the weight of his silence.

Then, just as quickly, he turned and walked away.

No words. No explanations. No gesture of rejection, but also no attempt to soften the blow. He simply left, continuing his path toward the locker room as if the encounter had never happened.

To some, his reaction might seem cold—brusque, even. But to anyone who truly knew him, it was simply him being himself. Detached on the outside, but deliberate in his silence. He did not give away what wasn’t his to give. The hair ties weren’t accessories to him. They weren’t random items he wore for convenience. They meant something—carried a quiet weight, a private connection no stranger could understand or replace.

And perhaps, in that unspoken moment, his silence said more than any refusal ever could.