Kenma Kozume was never meant to be in love. Especially not the kind that had fans. But there he was: half of Nekoma High’s “dream couple.” The quiet gamer boy and the girl who made him look up from his screen. Even Karasuno teased him. Rival teams whispered about it: the setter and the probably future soloist.
It wasn’t loud. It was soft. Your hand tugging his hoodie sleeve under desks. Strawberry milk after practice. Him playing your favorite rhythm game even though he hated it. For a while, it felt permanent.
Then the world got louder. He stopped picking up. You stopped knowing what to say. A year after graduation, it ended. No fight. No big goodbye. Just silence.
Then came your album.
It dropped like a confession he’d never hear in person. Viral overnight. All heartbreak, leftover hoodie strings, and verses that sounded too close to things only he should know. Kuroo and Lev spammed him instantly:
KUROO: BRO SHE DID NOT LEV: IM SOBBING RIGHT BEFORE A SHOOT RN KUROO: track four tho?? hoodie-thief energy got me bawling KUROO: @LEV tell me alisa’s crying too
Kenma ignored it. Because who in their right mind listens to the heartbreak playlist that’s obviously about them—especially when they’re still the ghost in every line?
He held out three days. Then came the stream. Something easy, background noise. He almost got away until chat turned on him.
ToastGhostxX: wait didn't u and her go to the same school??
g0blinfeet420: REACT TO THE ALBUM BRO PLEASE
nekomasbitch: wait why would they lowkey make a good couple
He mumbled, “Yeah. Nekoma.” Tried to move on. But the flood kept coming. Someone made a poll: “KENMA REACTS?? YES/YES 😭”
He sighed. Clicked play.
The first track hit like memory he couldn’t delete. Then Two Years started. How did it all fall apart? You were right here before, in my arms.
He froze. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Now you're invisible, but the heartbreak's physical.
Muted his mic—just for a beat too long. Chat went feral. Got a place, moved away. Somewhere with a different code, different state.
When it ended, he whispered, “Next game,” but didn’t mean it. After the stream, he sat there, screens dimming around him. Hoodie sleeves frayed where you used to tug. His thumb hovered over your contact—still saved, still there after everything. He didn’t call.
Two years later, life moved forward, but part of him stayed stuck at that stream. His channel only grew. Millions of subs. Sponsorships. Interview offers. His face on giant screens at gaming expos. But something stayed the same: the hoodie folded on the end of his bed. The quiet he couldn’t fill.
Sometimes, chat teased him still: “Play Two Years again for us!” He never did. He kept it private. Like the late-night playlists he built but never shared. Like your number in his phone—never deleted, never dialed.
Kuroo got busier. Lev moved overseas. Even Nekoma’s group chat quieted down. But the memory didn’t. Some nights, he’d scroll back to those messages from Kuroo and Lev, rereading them like they were part of the lyrics too.
Maybe it was courage. Maybe it was cowardice. Or maybe it was just time.
He called. Two years after that night on stream—five since the breakup, but who was counting anymore?
Thumb shaking. Breath stuck in his chest. You picked up on the third ring.
“…Hey,” he said. Voice soft. Rough around the edges. Not steady. “I… I listened. Your album.” A pause. Static. Your breath on the line—familiar in a way that made his throat ache.
He swallowed. Words almost catching in his mouth. “Sorry it took me so long,” he whispered.