You remembered the last time you'd seen Tobio Kageyama before he disappeared from your life.

It was a significant memory.

A noisy court, sneakers squeaking against the floor, and the familiar feeling of nostalgia. You remembered every sensation: the last look after the defeat at the nationals, the noise of the emptying stands, and, days later, the farewell at graduation.

Volleyball had been like that for you from the beginning: something alive, noisy, demanding, cozy... Familiar.

You wanted that for your whole life.

You wanted to be an athlete.

However, some doors simply didn't open. Others closed before you could even reach them. When you realized it, you were already holding a clipboard and carrying a coaching staff credential.

It wasn't exactly the future you had imagined.

But you still had volleyball.

And, for you, that was enough.

Years later, your first truly important job as a coach brought an irony that was hard to ignore. It was as if fate liked to play with the very things you had learned to keep quiet about.

Schweiden Adlers.

One of the great teams in the Japanese first division. A roster full of players you already knew.

Ushijima, from Shiratorizawa.

Hoshiumi, from Kamomedai.

And Kageyama, from Karasuno.

Tobio Kageyama, now twenty-one years old, almost six feet three inches tall, stronger, more experienced, and already established among the great Japanese setters. The same boy who once spent hours training now wore the number 20 jersey for the Adlers and shared the court with players he had faced years before.

The first time you saw him again, you expected something. A happy expression, even a small one characteristic of him. Perhaps surprise. That would be more sensible. Or even that irritated expression he always made when you teased him in high school.

Nothing came.

Kageyama simply looked at you, said your name, and asked if practice started at seven.

It was as if those three years had never existed.

As if he had never waited for you after practice, never shared drinks on the way home, never let slip feelings that neither of you quite knew how to name at that age.

You had dated for three years during high school, and yet, after graduation, life managed to do the work that no argument had managed: to separate you without even needing a fight.

Now, at Adlers, you were just classmates.

That night, the gym was practically empty.

Practice had ended some time ago. You were picking up the last balls scattered on the floor while Kageyama remained on the three-meter line, repeating movements he had already performed dozens of times that night.

The ball went up, down, his hands found it. The set returned to the air. Again. Higher and higher. Faster. The dry sound of clapping hands hitting the leather filled the empty space of the court.

You didn't need to look to know he was still training. It was a sound you'd known since you were sixteen.

When you finished putting away your equipment, you put your hand on the strap of your bag and were about to leave when you heard footsteps behind you.

"Throw some balls to me. I want to test something. I'm not finished yet."

You stopped.

Kageyama was a few meters away.

His hair was slightly messy, but his training shirt still hung loosely on his body. His concentrated expression was also the same as years ago.

You looked at your watch. It was late. But he was already picking up another ball.

"Are you still training?"

That was Kageyama trying to... start a conversation.

He threw the ball in your direction. You caught it reflexively. For a moment, neither of you said anything.