Haru's POV
There's something about the way Aoi walks off the court that reminds me of the first day I met her.
Back then, she moved like she was underwater—quiet, heavy, like gravity was always set a little higher just for her.
Today, it's the same.
Except now she's angry too.
Not the sharp, explosive kind of anger that throws rackets or curses opponents. No, this is the kind that coils deep in the chest. The kind that doesn't make a sound.
And I know exactly what lit the fuse.
I turn back toward Rio, who's still practicing serves like she didn't just detonate a memory bomb in the middle of the team.
Twist serve. Same rhythm. Same arc. Same spin. I'd recognize it anywhere.
It's her serve.
Mirai's.
"Where'd you learn that?" I ask, loud enough to carry across the court.
Rio glances at me between tosses. "I was trained at Seta Club in Osaka," she says casually. "You know—where Mirai Saito used to play in the off-season."
A silence rolls across the court like a passing storm cloud. Even Tanaka doesn't have a joke this time.
Seta Club.
The place she went the summer she started skipping practices with Aoi.
I walk up slowly, careful not to crowd her. "So… you and Mirai—?"
"We trained together for one summer," Rio cuts in, a flicker of something—bitterness? pain?—passing over her face. "She taught me the twist serve. Said it was her 'back-pocket move' for high-pressure games."
Back-pocket move. Yeah, that sounds like Mirai. Showy, cocky, brilliant.
And exactly the kind of thing Aoi wasn't supposed to find out like this.
I exhale. "You should've told her."
"I didn't think it'd be this soon," Rio mutters, finally catching one of the balls mid-air. "Didn't think she'd look like… that."
"Like Mirai grew up?" I say it before I can stop myself.
Rio flinches.
That's the thing no one talks about—how much Aoi and Mirai resembled each other. Not just in looks, but in presence. Mirai lit up a court. Aoi owns it when she's in the zone. Different kinds of gravity, same pull.
I glance back toward the fence, where Aoi's shadow disappears around the corner of the school building.
"You want to be part of this team," I say quietly, "you're going to have to do more than serve like a ghost."
Rio looks at me—really looks, this time. "You think I don't know that?"
I don't answer.
Because part of me isn't sure she does.
Aoi's POV
I make it to the art room before the dam breaks.
It's empty this early—too early for clubs, too late for morning prep. The perfect in-between. I close the door behind me and don't bother turning on the lights. The soft glow from the hallway is enough to see the empty easels. The paint-stained floor. The stillness.
I collapse onto the nearest stool.
My sketchbook is still on the bench outside, left behind like it doesn't matter.
But I couldn't carry it. Not after that.
My hands are still shaking.
That serve—it wasn't just similar. It was exact. The same toss angle. The same twist in the wrist. The same sound off the strings that used to mean she's got it.
Mirai's serve. Coming off someone else's racket. Like a ghost trying to wear someone else's skin.
I close my eyes.
And there it is.
Mirai, bouncing the ball twice, smiling through her teeth. "One more point, partner!"
My chest tightens. I press my hand over my heart like that'll help, like I can keep it in.
But I can't.
Because Rio Kurosawa didn't just bring her game.
She brought her back. Without permission.
And Haru… he knew. Of course he did. He always knows more than he says.
"Why," I whisper to the empty room, "does everyone get to have a piece of her but me?"
The silence doesn't answer.
I look around the room and grab the nearest sheet of paper—cheap, too-thin canvas stock used for warmups. My pencil is still in my pocket, graphite dull from overuse.
I draw the curve of that serve. The impossible spin. The shape of Rio's silhouette mid-swing.
I don't draw Mirai's face.
I don't dare.
Instead, I sketch Rio's wrist. The wrap. The tension. The imitation.
The pencil gouges through the page before I even notice. I tear it off, crumple it, throw it at the wall. It bounces once and lands on the floor like a broken point.
I stare at it for a long time.
And when I finally look away, I realize I'm not angry because Rio copied her.
I'm angry because she did it perfectly.
Natsuki's POV
The art room door is cracked open.
I don't knock. I never knock with Aoi. She's like a wild animal when she's hurting—cornered, tense, liable to bolt if you come in too fast.
So I step inside quietly, letting the door close behind me with a soft click.
She's sitting on a stool in the middle of the room, her back to me. Shoulders hunched. Head down. A single sheet of paper is crumpled on the floor nearby, the pencil next to it snapped in two.
Her right hand trembles. Her left clutches the edge of the desk like she's holding on to the planet.
I don't say anything.
Just walk over, slow and even, and lower myself onto the floor beside her—close enough to be noticed, far enough to be safe.
Aoi doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak. But she doesn't tell me to leave either.
So I stay.
The light from the hallway makes long shadows across the paint stains. Outside, I can hear the faint thud of tennis balls being hit, Coach yelling about footwork, someone laughing too loudly.
Inside, there's only the two of us and the sound of Aoi's breathing.
Eventually, she lifts her head. Just a little.
Her voice is hoarse.
"It was her serve."
I nod once. Quietly.
Aoi's hand drifts to her pocket, pulling out something small and soft. A yellow scrunchie. Faded now. A little frayed at the edge.
She doesn't put it on. Just holds it in her lap.
I don't take a photo.
Some moments don't belong in albums.