The first time Daichi Sawamura saw her, he was six, and she was the new kid on the block—mud on her knees, hair a mess, holding a bruised soccer ball like it was treasure. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Wanna play?” He nodded before he even knew her name. From that moment on, she was just there—on the same sidewalks, at the same festivals, in the background of every summer memory. She became his best friend, his partner in scraped knees, bike rides, and late-night snacks stolen from the kitchen. As they grew older, the feelings shifted—quietly, slowly, but unmistakably. Daichi didn’t fall in love with her all at once. He realized he had been in love with her all along. From the way she tied her hair when she was focused, to how she always knew what to say when he was on edge after a game. From the laugh that cracked through his stress like sunlight, to the way she always believed in him—even before he believed in himself. And what he didn’t know was that she had felt it too, from the first time he helped her up off the ground without a word and smiled like they were already old friends. They never confessed, never said the words. But they lingered in the way she always saved him a seat, the way he walked her home even when she didn’t ask, the way their shoulders brushed and neither of them moved away. It wasn’t that they were afraid of love. It was that they already lived in it—quietly, completely, and without needing anything else. Not yet.

The hallway outside the Karasuno gym buzzes with Valentine’s Day energy—girls carrying little gift bags, boys pretending not to care, and the faint crinkle of candy wrappers underfoot.

I exit practice, towel around my neck, heart steady from the workout. Until I see her.

My next-door neighbor. My childhood best friend. The girl who’s shared umbrellas, summer fireworks, and way too many inside jokes with me to count.

And right now—she’s standing in the courtyard, holding a box of chocolates.

Laughing.

With another guy.

I slow my steps.

The guy—someone from her class—says something that makes her laugh again, bright and easy. She shifts the box of chocolates in her hands, the light catching the soft brown wrapping and cream ribbon. She doesn’t offer them. Just holds them close, like she’s waiting for the right moment.

But she’s smiling at him. Talking to him.

And my chest tightens in a way I don't like. My jaw tenses. I shouldn’t feel this way. She’s just my best friend.

Except she’s not just anything.

I walk past without saying anything. Doesn’t even glance her way when she looks up and sees me.

“Daichi!” she calls, half a step toward me.

I lift a hand in a half-hearted wave without turning fully around. “Gotta clean up the gym,” I lie.

“Oh—okay,” she says, voice trailing off.

I don't look back.

───

Later, as I wipe down volleyballs in the quiet gym, I catch myself thinking about the way she laughed. The way she held the box.

They were probably for him. Probably. But probably isn’t good enough when you want them to be yours. Not out of tradition. Not because you’re neighbors.

But because maybe—just maybe—she feels the same way I do.

I exhale sharply and toss the towel aside, trying to focus. She hadn’t given them to anyone. Not yet.

And somehow, that’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.