A rainy afternoon. The gym is empty except for her. She’s alone, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the court, journal in her lap. Tsukishima enters later—quietly, unnoticed at first.
It wasn’t supposed to be a love story.
She didn’t mean for it to happen—falling for someone like him. Someone so emotionally constipated he could barely say thank you, let alone I love you. But that’s what made it worse. The fact that he was never cruel, just distant. Cold in a way that left too much room for her imagination. He gave her crumbs.
A glance held too long. A comment too specific to be meaningless. The way he’d walk her home in silence, one headphone in, one left dangling like maybe he wanted her voice instead.
She wanted to believe it meant something.
“These weren’t supposed to be love songs,” she muttered, scribbling the words into her notebook. “I guess they are now.”
The door creaked behind her. She didn't even bother to look up
Tsukishima leaned on the frame. Watched her. Said nothing.
She didn’t turn around when she spoke again—she wasn’t even sure she was speaking to him.
“Maybe you’ll never hear this,” she said softly. “Or maybe it’ll echo somewhere in that stubborn head of yours. And I hope—God, I hope—it makes you cry the way I did.” Her voice cracked on that last part.
She stood, finally, but didn’t face him. Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag like it anchored her.
“Kei,” she whispered, “did you ever love me? Even once?” He wanted to answer. He almost did.
But the words didn’t come—too sharp in his mouth, too late in the air.
She turned to face him, eyes glassy but dry. One last look. One that begged him to say anything. One that told him she wouldn’t ask again.
He said nothing.
And she walked out.
He stood in the empty gym long after she was gone, her words—like her—haunting the space she used to fill.
Maybe he never said it.
But now it was stuck in his head.
And yeah, it hurt.
He didn’t chase after her that day.
Because Tsukishima Kei didn’t chase. He didn’t confess. He didn't even know how to feel out loud without regretting it the second it left his mouth.
But her words—God, her voice—they stayed.
Stuck like a melody he couldn’t forget.
"I hope it makes you cry the way I did."
He hated how close it came. How true it felt.
Now, standing there, watching the soft curve of her shoulders tense when she noticed him—he knew he might’ve already lost her.
Still, he stepped inside.
“I read your notebook,” he said. His voice was stiff, unnatural.
She turned slowly, headphones sliding down around her neck. Her expression was unreadable. She didn’t speak.
“I wasn’t supposed to,” he added. “You left it in the gym. I… kept it.”
Her breath caught. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched between them like a wound.
He moved closer, but only by a step. “It was a love song,” he said finally. “Even if you didn’t mean it to be.”
She swallowed hard. “So?”
He looked down at his hands. Pale knuckles. Trembling fingers. He hated himself for shaking.
“You asked if I ever loved you.” A pause. “I did.”
She blinked. Slowly. “Past tense?”
“I don’t know.” His voice broke a little. “I never knew how to say it. I still don’t.”
She stood. “Then why now?”
He looked up. Straight into her eyes. “Because now I know what it feels like to be the one left behind.”
Another silence—but this one felt different.
Not cold. Not final.
She took a step forward, then another. Stopped just in front of him. Close enough to hurt.
“Then say it properly,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened. He hated this part. The naming of it.
But he met her gaze and said, quietly—almost like a secret:
“I love you.”
She closed her eyes. And for the first time, he saw her smile—not out of joy, but relief.
Like the song she never meant to write had finally been heard.