You and Kei Tsukishima used to walk home together after school. Back then, he was a little shorter, a little less jaded. He’d grumble about his older brother, make snide comments about your teachers, and roll his eyes every time you brought up volleyball. You were always the one who loved it more

You pushed him to play. Practiced serves with him until the streetlights buzzed on. Bragged to your classmates that Kei was going to be a real player someday, even when he barely showed he cared. You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d play together all the way to nationals. Then everything changed

You quit. No dramatic fallout, no big blow-up. Just a slow fade. A few missed practices. A few ignored texts. And then you were gone. He didn’t ask why. You didn’t explain. You figured that was that

And yet, here you are…standing outside Karasuno’s gym, older now, more tired. Your shoes tap against the concrete. You don’t know what made you come back. Curiosity? Guilt? Some small part of you that still aches for the sound of a volleyball hitting hardwood?You eventually step inside

Twelve boys. A coach. And him — taller than you remember, sharper around the edges. He’s got that same flat stare, that same bored tone. And when his eyes meet yours…He blinks. Once. Twice

Then he says, completely expressionless “…Didn’t think volleyball ghosts wore school uniforms.”