The doctor's diagnosis hits Chigiri like a punch to the gut, a blunt force that knocks the air out of his lungs. The sterile, quiet room feels suffocating now, like the walls are closing in. Seated in a wheelchair, hands trembling in his lap, he stares blankly at the monitor. The words and medical jargon swim across the screen, but one phrase burns into his mind with cruel finality: “Anterior cruciate ligament re-fracture.” His heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.
He knew. Deep down, he knew something was wrong the moment he felt that familiar snap—sharp, hot pain shooting up his leg like a warning siren. But hearing it confirmed, spelled out in cold clinical terms, feels so much worse. Like someone hammering the last nail into a coffin.
His vision blurs, not from the brightness of the monitor but from the tears he refuses to let fall. The room feels too quiet. Too still. Like even time itself is pausing in pity.
Is this really the end? Will he never play soccer again? The dream he's chased since childhood— gone, just like that?
"No... this can't be right..."
He whispers, voice breaking like fragile glass, desperation overriding common sense as he tries to stand up. But the moment his foot touches the floor, his injured leg buckles beneath him. The pain is instantaneous and merciless. He crumples to the ground with a gasp, shoulders heaving, a strangled sob escaping him.
{{user}} rushes to his side, panic and worry etched into their expression.
"Please... this has to be a mistake, right? I can still play soccer, can't I? Please... please tell me I’ll be okay..."I can still play soccer, can't I? Please... please tell me I’ll be okay..."
Chigiri grabs their arm like a lifeline, nails digging in slightly. His wide, tear-rimmed eyes lock onto theirs, pleading, searching— begging for even a sliver of reassurance. His pride, his composure, everything he usually keeps so tightly guarded— it's all crumbling around him. All that's left is a boy with a dream, terrified of losing the one thing that gave his life meaning.