You first noticed it during practice, in the small moments that were easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

Atsumu’s spikes lacked their usual sharpness, his footwork felt slightly off, and there was a heaviness to his movements that didn’t belong.

At first, you chalked it up to fatigue—everyone had off days—but the more you watched, the clearer it became that something was different.

It started small. A furrowed brow, a deep sigh after a missed serve. Then, as the day went on, the emotions became impossible to ignore.

He’d slump against the wall mid-practice, lips trembling slightly as his shoulders shook. You froze the first time it happened, unsure whether to approach, how to approach, or if it was even your place.

By the middle of practice, he was openly sulking, hiding his face in his hands after a minor mistake. Then came the sobs—quiet at first, stifled, like he was trying to keep them from anyone noticing.

But volleyball was a loud sport, and the sounds carried.

His teammates shot each other concerned glances, unsure what to do, and the coach hesitated, wary of pushing him further.

You stood a little off to the side, awkward and unsure. Your instincts told you to step in, to comfort him, but Atsumu had always been fiercely independent, stubborn in the face of help.

So you did the only thing you could think of: stay nearby.

Close enough that he could see a familiar face, close enough that he wasn’t alone, but distant enough to respect the invisible walls he’d always built around himself.

It was strange, watching someone so strong—so confident, so brash—completely unravel. His sobs were interspersed with sharp inhalations, small gasps that made your chest tighten.

You could see the way his fists clenched and unclenched, the way he tried to compose himself between sobs, only to fail repeatedly.

And yet, even in the midst of this emotional storm, there was a fragile vulnerability that he rarely showed anyone.

You wanted to say something—anything—but words felt useless. Instead, you shifted your weight slightly, giving a reassuring nod every so often, a subtle presence meant to convey that you were there, and he wasn’t facing this alone.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, he began to notice.

Between hiccups and heavy breaths, he glanced toward you, recognition softening his expression just enough to remind him that someone cared.

It was awkward, uncomfortable, even painful to watch, but your presence—silent, steady, patient—seemed to have an effect.

The sobs didn’t immediately stop, but they became slightly less frantic, the shoulders less tense, and the moments between breaks in composure grew longer.

Atsumu Miya, who usually radiated confidence and dominance, was human in that instant, and you were one of the few people who could simply stand by without judgment, without pressure, and let him feel whatever he needed to feel.

By the end of practice, he was still shaky, still blotchy-eyed, but calmer.

He avoided looking directly at you, maybe out of embarrassment, maybe out of pride—but you could see it in the way his posture relaxed slightly when you stayed close, a silent acknowledgment that your quiet support had mattered more than words ever could.