Spike, 0-1.

You, Fyodor Dostoevsky, were a volleyball player, part of the best of the best.

Serve, Hit, Set, Hit, Set, Spike.. Tip. 0-2.

it was times like this when your skills are put to the test. The force of your hits, where you aim the ball, how high you jump, the strategy you play—all of your experience culminates into every game you play. Your mind is always focused solely on where the ball goes. Until.. your eyes drift to the bleachers.

It’s the same white haired boy who always goes to all your games, cheering whether you lose or win, like he can’t make up his mind. Your eyes narrow at him, before you hear the ball hit the ground next to you. 1-2. Your friends glare at you. Whoops.

After the game, you sit down on the bleachers, wiping the sweat from your forehead. You’d won, of course. However, as you get up to go to the locker room, someone suddenly groans loudly in your ear, draping themselves over your shoulder.

“I can’t believe it!!! Is my favorite volleyball player getting distracted during matches? I’m devastated!!!!! Are you already falling from your peak? Are you sick or something?”