The days had begun to blur together in a haze of exhaustion and noise. The sharp echo of sneakers on polished gym floors. The burn of lactic acid deep in his muscles. Whistles, drills, sweat. Practice never seemed to end lately. And even when it did, Tsukishima Kei couldn’t quite shut it off. Volleyball had taken over everything. Every idle thought was filled with rotations and blocking angles, with who he would face on the court and how not to screw it up.

He’d always been someone who guarded his focus like a fortress. But lately, it was cracking.

The problem wasn’t physical. He could handle sore limbs and four-hour practices. What got to him was the way his thoughts had started drifting off in the middle of a drill. The way her face, her voice, kept cutting through the noise like a knife.

He’d never expected someone like her to find her way into his world. She had her own edge. Quiet but razor-sharp. The kind of person who said little but noticed everything. Like him, she didn’t reach for others easily, and she didn’t expect to be reached for either. That was probably why it worked at first.

They met by accident and then… kept colliding. In hallways. In silence. In sarcasm. Something unspoken began building between them. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t warm. It was smart and bitter and strangely soft around the edges, the kind of softness you only notice when it’s gone.

For a while, they were content in that quiet closeness. Their bond existed in fragments shared glances across the lunchroom, casual insults softened with half-smiles, brushing shoulders on the way home. Affection disguised as indifference. Care hidden beneath jokes. Neither of them said too much, but somehow it was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Because now he felt like he was unraveling.

Something had shifted. Maybe it was the growing pressure of the tournament. Maybe it was how she had started looking at him, really looking, as if she wanted to peel away the layers and see what was left underneath all the armor. Maybe it was how he couldn’t focus anymore without her name slipping into his brain like an echo he couldn’t ignore.

And he hated that. Not her. Just the feeling. The distraction. The weight of not being enough, of knowing she wanted something he didn’t know how to give her yet.

It wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t his, either. But it was there between them now, this space that had turned from comfort into something heavier. She hadn’t said anything outright, but he saw it in her an ache, a question in her eyes she didn’t know how to phrase. And he... couldn’t lie. Not to himself, not to her. Not when everything inside him felt like it was about to snap.

That’s why they sat in silence now, side by side in his room. The TV glowed in front of them, muted and meaningless. The air felt dense with everything unspoken.

He’d been building up to this for days. Weeks, maybe.

His knuckles were white around the edge of the cushion, and he could feel her beside him so close it almost hurt. She smelled like that herbal shampoo she always used. Clean. Familiar. Dangerous in the way that made his throat tighten.

He hadn’t looked at her yet. He couldn’t.

His voice came out low, quieter than he intended, rough with the weight of what he was about to say.

"I think we need to take a break."

The silence that followed didn’t feel like silence at all. It rang in his ears like a starting whistle, loud and sharp and final.

And he kept staring at the floor, unsure whether he wanted her to stay or to leave first.