The gym smelled faintly of polished wood and sweat, the echoes of volleyballs bouncing against the court reverberating in the air.

You hadn’t seen Atsumu in years—high school seemed like another lifetime—but here he was, unmistakable even from a distance.

His hair, still styled in that effortlessly messy way, caught the light as he moved across the court with that familiar, effortless athleticism.

The energy he radiated was impossible to ignore: confident, slightly chaotic, and utterly magnetic.

When his eyes met yours, the smirk appeared instantly, just as it had back then. That teasing, cocky grin that made you want to roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

Time seemed to collapse in that moment; all the years apart vanished as you felt that same spark of familiarity, the unspoken connection of two people who had shared countless memories and had been forced apart by circumstance, yet somehow always recognized each other.

He strode toward you, bouncing a ball in one hand, the other gesturing animatedly as he spoke without pause.

His voice carried that unmistakable tone, teasing, confident, and a little too loud, but you didn’t mind. It was pure Atsumu, unfiltered and unapologetically himself.

As he rambled, memories of high school came rushing back—practices, arguments, laughter, and the silent understanding that had always existed between the two of you.

Despite his energy, there was something different now. Professionalism tempered some of the chaos; the raw skill on the court was sharper, more refined.

Yet, underneath it all, the same familiar fire burned in him—the competitiveness, the drive to excel, and the undeniable charm that had always drawn people in.

Watching him move, the way he positioned himself, the precision in his spikes, and the intensity in his eyes, you couldn’t help but feel impressed.

He had grown, evolved, yet remained unmistakably himself.

He caught your gaze again mid-practice, his smirk softening just slightly, almost imperceptibly, into a warmth reserved only for those he trusted.

It was a silent acknowledgment that, despite the years apart, he remembered.

He remembered your games together, the small inside jokes, the teasing, the rivalries, and the camaraderie that had defined your high school years.

After practice, he leaned casually against the bench, tossing the ball lightly in one hand while studying you like he always had.

There was an easy rhythm to the conversation that didn’t require words—gestures, expressions, and those quick quips that reminded you both why you had gotten along so well in the first place.

It was catching up in its purest form: familiar, effortless, and filled with the kind of energy that only someone who had known you for years could bring.

Even as the gym began to empty and the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, the connection lingered.

The years of distance didn’t erase the bond; if anything, it sharpened it.

Atsumu Miya, with his brash confidence and undeniable skill, still held that same place in your life, reminding you that some connections, once formed, never truly fade.