The room was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock. His football cleats sat abandoned by the door, mud still clinging to them, but he hadn’t touched them in days. Chigiri lay on his bed, his injured leg stretched stiffly, wrapped in bandages that felt heavier than chains.

You sat beside him, the air thick with his frustration. His crimson hair spilled across the pillow, his eyes staring at the ceiling, glassy with unshed tears.

"I hate this," he muttered, voice low and sharp. "I hate being weak. Every time I move, I feel like my leg is reminding me I’ll never be the same."

You reached out, your hand brushing gently against his arm.

"You’re not weak, Hyoma. You’re hurt. That’s different."

He turned his head toward you, disbelief flickering in his gaze.

"But what if I can’t come back? What if this injury takes everything from me? Football… running… it’s all I’ve ever had."

Your fingers moved to his hair, combing through the strands with slow care, grounding him in the moment.

"Even if football feels far away right now, you’re still you. The boy who runs faster than anyone, the boy who never gives up. And when you’re ready, you’ll find that strength again."

His lips trembled, the weight of fear pressing down, but he leaned closer, resting his head against your shoulder. For the first time, he let himself break, let himself be vulnerable.

"You really think I’ll come back?" he whispered.

You pressed a kiss to his hair, holding him tighter.

"I don’t just think it. I believe it. And until you believe it too, I’ll keep reminding you."

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty—it was filled with the quiet rhythm of comfort, the fragile hope that even in the darkest moment of his injury, he wasn’t alone.