Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Haneda Airport @ 16:36 , Tokyo Japan, 2020.

"Eu juro por Deus, essa cidade nem respira," one of the girls said, adjusting the strap of her duffel bag as she leaned against the wall just beside the arrival gate. Her dark hair, still damp with sweat from the flight, clung to the sides of her neck, and her fingers tugged it free in an impatient motion. "A gente saiu do avião e já parecia que alguém apertou um botão de acelerar."

Her friend let out a breath that was somewhere between agreement and defeat, eyes darting toward the digital clock overhead. "É, São Paulo é caótica, mas aqui parece que até o ar corre. Olha isso. Todo mundo esbarrando, gritando, correndo pra algum lugar."

Luggage wheels rattled across the tile floor in bursts, bouncing over the uneven gaps between tiles. Announcements rolled in overhead—boarding calls, last-minute gate changes, reminders about unattended baggage—in English, Japanese, Chinese, Thai, and something that might have been French. Every time the speakers crackled to life, the girls winced, as if the noise were being funneled directly into their eardrums.

The taller of the two glanced around again, rising onto the balls of her feet as if that would make a difference. "Será que elas já passaram pela imigração? A gente tá aqui faz o quê, quarenta minutos?"

"Quase uma hora já."

People milled around them in every direction, cutting through lanes of foot traffic like they had lives depending on it. Bags slapped against legs, children screamed about the heat or the hunger or the boredom, and parents hushed them with distracted gestures. 

A little boy cried in a language she didn't know, gripping the edge of his mother's jacket as though afraid the floor might open up and take her away from him.

You stand a few feet away from them, fingers clenched around the handle of your suitcase, staring at the conveyor belt in front of you. The metal hums beneath the weight of dozens of bags as it rotates, an endless circle of motion and noise. 

Luggage thumps against the rubber guards, tags fluttering, and someone nearby argues loudly in Japanese while a family squeezes past behind you, the wheels of their suitcases screeching across the floor. 

A toddler bursts into tears, and somewhere above your head, the intercom crackles with overlapping announcements you can't quite keep track of. Gate changes. Final calls. Security reminders. First in Japanese, then English, then something else entirely.

"It's like the city doesn't even stop to breathe," the taller girl says again, but this time it clicks differently. The Portuguese gets translated in your brain smoothly, layering meaning over sound the way it always has when you listen too long without consciously thinking.

"They really expect us to keep up with this pace?" her friend adds, tossing a glance toward the escalators. "I almost got elbowed just trying to find a cart."

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, your shoulder aching from the weight of your carry-on, neck stiff from the hours spent bent weirdly in the first-class airplane seat. It's not your first time in this country, but being here—back here—makes something in your chest tighten. Too many people. Too many overlapping conversations. 

The lights are too white, too unforgiving. Your reflection in the polished glass wall looks just as tired as you feel.

Someone taps your shoulder, light and quick.

Turning around, you find yourself face-to-face with a girl wearing the same yellow jacket and green sweats as you. Her grin is immediate and warm as it always is, like it's been waiting just for you. 

The sleeves of her jacket are pushed up to her elbows, and there's a faint ink stain on the back of her left hand, the kind that might have been a doodle drawn to kill time during the flight.

"Oi," she says, in that same familiar rhythm. "Como você tá se sentindo— How are you feeling?"

"I feel great," you answer, the Portuguese rolling off your tongue, and it's true. Or true enough. The moment you say it, your shoulders loosen a little.

Beatriz giggles, nudging your suitcase with her foot. "Bom. You didn't look it when I saw you from the other side of the belt. You had that 'don't talk to me' face going on."

"I was zoning out," you say, a small smile tugging at your lips before you motion a finger around you in a circle. "Trying to block out the noise."

Beatriz reached over and gently pulled the handle of the suitcase she was looking for away from the conveyor belt. "It's okay, I got it. We're heading out soon anyway. The rest of the girls are probably downstairs already. You coming with us to the hotel?"

You shake your head, adjusting your grip on your suitcase handle. "No, I'm not staying at the hotel."

Before she can ask why, another voice joins in. "Ela vai ver a família hoje."

You turn slightly and see one of the girls from earlier— Mariana, the one with two long braids and a lazy smile, now standing a little too close as she tucks her phone into the waistband of her pants.

"Ah, right. That makes sense. Wish I had family close by. I've got an aunt in Bahia, but she never picks up my texts. Or maybe she just doesn't know how to use the phone," Beatriz mumbles to herself in understanding, and from there, you only translate half of what they're saying.

"You should send her a voice message," Mariana added as she rolled her eyes. "She probably deleted your number that one time she got mad at you." Beatriz leans toward you, lowering her voice like she's letting you in on a secret. "Ela ainda tem um desses celulares de virar. Sabe? Que fecha com aquele estalinho?"

You blink, the image flashing in your head of an older version of Beatriz dramatically snapping shut one of those tiny plastic phones like they're finishing a soap opera call. The laugh escapes you before you can stop it, soft and a little tired from all the traveling.

Beatriz shakes her head with exaggerated disappointment, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Minha tia se recusa a comprar outro. Eu juro. Fala que enquanto esse funcionar, não precisa de novo." She gives you a look then, brow raised in faux accusation as she points at your phone now. "Mas falando sério, seu celular é tão velho. Eu fico surpresa que ele ainda liga."

That earns her a look, and you stick your tongue out at her with no hesitation, which only makes Mariana laugh harder, the kind of laugh that comes from your stomach, like she actually needed it.

"Ela tem razão, viu?" Beatriz says, swiping your phone from your hand before you can retreat. "Talvez esteja na hora de comprar um novo. Ou pelo menos uma capinha que não tá em pedaços."

You try to protest, but it's weak at best, and there's not much of a defense when you know she's right. Beatriz turns the phone over in her hands, frowning thoughtfully at the edge where the screen protector has peeled, and there's a deep scuff running across one corner.

"Meu Deus, esse telefone já sobreviveu o apocalipse?" she jokes, turning it so Mariana can get a better look, and Mariana just about chokes laughing.

"Certeza que caiu de um prédio," Mariana adds, eyes crinkled as she laughs so hard her shoulders shake. They flip the phone again to get a better look at the backside, and then they notice an old photo you've kept in there.

It's tucked inside the back of the clear case, faded with time but protected well enough to still be legible. It's one of those photobooth photos with the four-slice strips, except now only one image remains. The other three were torn off, the edges frayed and uneven, like they'd been ripped out in a rush, except they weren't.

Your face in it is almost unfamiliar now. You're holding up a peace sign, hair falling a little unkempt around your face, the strands curling from humidity. That giant black jacket swallows you whole, the zipper half undone and sleeves practically covering your hands, but you remember it. 

You remember how warm it was, how comforting. Your cheeks were flushed, whether from laughter or the weather you can't recall, and your smile—wide, toothy, so open—it makes something twist inside your chest when you see it again.

Beatriz tilts the phone closer to the light and coos, nudging Mariana. "Ai, que fofinha. Olha essa carinha. Ela parece tão feliz."

"Tão fofa. Parece bebê," Mariana agrees, nudging your elbow. "Essa jaqueta gigante. Meu Deus."

You say nothing. Just smiling faintly as you watch the two of them coo at that photo, rubbing your thumb along the seam of your sleeve. You hope that they soon give up, but they keep looking. 

Their eyes drift away from your face to the arm slung over your shoulders, the hand barely visible above your head, giving you bunny ears. The fingers are long and thin, with a scar just barely visible across the knuckle.

The boy in the picture leans into you, his cheek pressed against yours, his lips puckered into a kiss just brushing your skin. He's got that same black long sleeve he wore too often, the hem of it riding up just enough to show a sliver of his pale stomach, a flash of lean muscle that made your mouth go dry whenever you used to see it.

Mariana leans in, squinting. "Peraí... isso não parece com—"

"Eles são tão lindos juntos!" Beatriz interrupts before the sentence can end, clapping her hands together. "Sério. Olha isso! Tão casal."

You don't give them the chance to keep talking. Your hand darts out and snatches the phone back, tucking it against your chest like it's fragile. "Tá bom, tá bom. Chega. Me deixem em paz," you say, laughing under your breath even though your ears are burning at her words.

They both laugh too, not meanly, just caught up in the moment, but it feels louder than it should. Then Mariana's attention snaps to the conveyor belt, and she gasps, pointing over your shoulder. "Minha mala!"

She jogs off before you can say anything, weaving between two women in business suits and a father lifting a stroller.

You stay where you are, holding your phone close like it might fall apart if you loosen your grip. Beatriz stays with you, still grinning, still too close.

"Foi alguém importante?" she asks, gently this time, eyes flicking down toward your hand but not pushing.

"Era," you answer. It's not a lie, but you have nothing more to offer.

She doesn't press. Just nods once, lips pursed like she gtes it even if the details are missing.

"Parece uma boa lembrança." Your eyes drift down to the picture again. Maybe it is. Maybe it was. But you tuck the phone back into your pocket all the same, choosing to ignore it.

୨⎯ ♡ ⎯୧

The air outside the terminal feels heavier than inside, thick with leftover humidity and engine exhaust, but still cleaner somehow than the suffocating hum of the airport. Walkways curve around concrete islands filled with palm trees and ferns that wilt slightly under the weight of early evening heat. 

In the distance, somewhere beyond the parking structures and security gates, someone plays music from an open window—a faded samba tune that filters into the noise of tires and voices like a memory trying to reach you.

The four of you walk together toward the exit, weaving around people and carts, laughing as the automatic doors swing open ahead of you. Mariana had found the other girl—the one she was talking to earlier—near baggage claim, and somehow she was instantly folded into your orbit like she'd always belonged there.

Her name is Soraia, and she talks with her hands, expressive and animated, tossing her curly ponytail over her shoulder every time she makes a joke. She walks between Beatriz and Mariana, arm linked with one of them, while the other nudges her ribs playfully whenever she mispronounces something in Portuguese.

Fans still linger near the exit, even though the media event had ended over twenty minutes ago. Some of them wear your team colors—bold yellow jerseys with names on the back and little pins of the national crest clipped to their bags. 

Others are dressed more casually, but the excitement in their eyes is unmistakable. When they see the four of you approaching, phones lift in unison, some calling your names while others wave shyly, unsure if it's okay to approach.

"Oi! Boa sorte!" a teen girl shouts from behind a barricade, waving both arms so enthusiastically her sunglasses fall off her head. You smile and wave back instinctively, mouthing a thank-you. 

Beatriz blows a kiss at a group of boys holding a glitter poster with her nickname in huge letters, and they scream like someone lit fireworks behind them. Mariana holds up two fingers in a lazy peace sign while Soraia mimes a bow, earning laughter from a small cluster of girls who gasp in unison.

The four of you laugh as you keep walking, the wheels of your suitcases rattling softly behind you. Beatriz, distracted by the rows of painted signs on the columns, tugs at your sleeve.

"Ei, traduz pra mim, (Hey, translate for me)," she says, pointing at a sign with large blue letters. "Esse aí. O que significa 'passenger drop-off only'?" That one. What does 'passenger drop-off only' mean?

"Só pode parar pra deixar passageiro, (You can only stop to drop off passengers), you mumble, barely glancing up, though her bad Japanese catches you a bit off guard. You know she's been practicing recently, but she hasn't spoken it to anyone or you.

"Ahh, tipo, não pode estacionar, né?" Ahh, like, you can't park, right?

"Isso. Vai levar multa." That's it. You'll get a fine.

She snorts and keeps pointing at things like it's a game now. Street signs. Ad posters. A banner hanging near the ceiling that says WELCOME ATHLETES in three different languages. 

You translate most of them in a daze, half-listening, letting your voice do the work while your brain focuses on the familiar sensation of being on the outside of something you used to know so well.

By the time you reach the drop-off zone, the team bus is already waiting. The side doors are open, revealing the cushioned seats and air conditioning fogging the edges of the windows. One by one, the girls start loading their bags into the storage compartment while a few who had boarded earlier lean out of the open windows, waving and calling your name.

"Volta logo!" someone shouts.

"Senti sua falta, sua doida," another one adds, grinning.

You wave back, smiling despite yourself, lifting both arms when they form hearts with their fingers and blow exaggerated kisses toward you. The sound of their laughter carries into the wind, dancing over the low hum of the bus's engine.

Coach Regina steps down from the front of the bus just as the last duffel bag is hauled in. Her short hair is pulled into a no-nonsense bun, and her polo shirt is crisply tucked into her track pants, but she's already swapped her whistle for a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head. She doesn't say anything at first—just steps close and ruffles your hair with one hand.

"É bom estar de volta, né?" she says, voice rough like she's already been shouting instructions today. It's good to be back, right?

"É," you answer, nodding. "Muito."

Her eyes crinkle with the smile she tries to hide. "Vamos ter conferência do time na terça, viu? Dois dias. Então dorme. Come direito. Eu vou te mandar os detalhes depois." We're having a team conference on Tuesday, okay? Two days. So sleep. Eat properly. I'll send you the details later.

"Você pode só me falar agora," you offer, lifting an eyebrow. You can just tell me now.

She waves you off with a look. "Vai ficar com a família. Deixa o resto pra mim."

There's nothing to argue there. You nod again.

Before turning back to the bus, she leans forward and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, firm and parental, like it's something she's done since you were fourteen. "A gente se vê depois."

"Até, Coach."

She climbs back onto the bus without another word, taking her seat in the front as the doors fold shut behind her. The engine hums louder, the driver checks the mirrors, and the bus pulls out slowly, its wide wheels rumbling against the pavement.

Everyone inside is still waving through the windows. A few girls hold up goofy signs or throw peace signs, and one of them mimes crying dramatically against the glass. 

You wave until your arm hurts, until the sound of their voices fades under the noise of other engines, and the bus disappears beyond the curve of the terminal road.

When the last sliver of yellow vanishes behind a row of taxis, you're left standing at the curb with your bag, the heat pushing down against your shoulders, and the space beside you finally quiet. The silence doesn't feel empty, though.

 It's full of something else—something whole. Not just anticipation. Not just nerves. It's something more like peace. The kind you only get when something ends the way it's supposed to. Or when something is just about to begin.

The terminal grows quieter after the bus pulls away, the din replaced by the more rhythmic hum of rolling suitcases and the low murmur of travelers waiting for taxis or scanning screens for rideshare pickups. 

Heat from the pavement creeps up through your sneakers, and the sky glows orange near the edges, brushed with the early shades of dusk. Brightbillboards blink against the glass as you step back toward the wall of the terminal, your fingers curling around your phone out of habit more than intent.

You whip out your phone, opening Instagram to upload the photo that you promised Beatriz you'd post so she wouldn't lose her bet with Isadora, another one of your teammates. 

Your notifications have been going off like crazy since you've landed in Japan. But you ignore them all, selecting the photo you took and typing out a quick caption to satisfy your fans before posting it.

There's not an option to even put your phone down, as a faint buzz in your palm makes your thumb twitch, and then your screen lights up, crowding with notifications.

The first one is from Mrs. Mori. You don't even have to open it fully to read it—the preview bar already has your eyes stinging with warmth. すごくワクワクしてる！早く会いたい！

She's never been the type to text formally. Always exclamation marks, always a little too enthusiastic, like her fingers can't move fast enough to match how she speaks. The image of her smiling brightly from behind her front door flickers in your mind, her apron still on and her arms already out for a hug.

The next notification is from Minato. A string of texts, naturally.

→ お土産持ってきたでしょ？😏😏😏

持ってこなかったら、もうダメよ！！！

会えて嬉しい！やっと友達に自慢できるわ、私のカッコイイお姉ちゃん

Another buzz interrupts your translating process, this one from your volleyball group chat. The name at the top is just a row of volleyball emojis and a heart, and the icon is the team's mascot edited into a maid outfit from an inside joke you stopped trying to understand two months ago. You open the thread.

A blurry picture of you, caught just as you turned and waved to the girls on the bus, fills the screen. Your face is squished into a smile, your eyes squinting a little from the sun, and your hand is frozen mid-wave. 

You hadn't even realized someone had snapped it. Beatriz probably. Maybe Mariana. There's a lens smudge near your head, but the caption says: "A princesa voltou ❤️👑❤️"

Below it are dozen of replies from your teammates that just manage to make you smile a bit. "que fofa meu deus"

"essa jaqueta ficou tão bem nela"

"vou chorar q ela sorriu pra mim 😭😭😭"

"alguém tira essa mulher da minha frente eu tô apaixonada"

You feel your cheeks heat up, half embarrassed and half touched, and quickly drop a reply with a laughing emoji and a single "vocês são tontas." You already know they'll eat that up and spam you with more compliments.

Just as you lock the screen to stop yourself from smiling too much, it buzzes again.

my wife (actual)

The name alone makes your heart jump a little.

my wife (actual)

[17:13]

今向かっています！準備しておいてください

列が長すぎる！妻に会えないんだ。

見上げる — Look up, pretty girl.

Your head jerks up instinctively, eyes scanning the terminal entrance, heart kicking once, maybe twice in your chest. A familiar car sits at the curb, its windows tinted and inviting. 

A broad smile spreads across your face as a sense of relief mingles with excitement. Every detail around you seems to glow with the brightness of new beginnings.

Approaching the car, the world narrows to the sound of your footsteps and the hum of engines idling softly nearby. When the door pushes open, Yumi flings it wide with an exuberance that makes your heart flutter. 

She flies out of the car like a burst of energy, her arms open in a welcoming embrace. Her eyes shine with the warmth of long-missed friendship, and before you know it, she lifts you up as though you were weightless, pressing playful kisses all over your face.

"It's been so long!" her voice exclaims in Japanese, slightly throwing you off from the Portuguese from earlier, vibrant and sincere. Every word feels like a gentle echo from a time when distances could be bridged in moments of unbridled joy.

A booming laugh follows from behind her. Aran, sitting in the driver's seat, watches the scene with a fond smile. The sound of his laughter carries a note of affection as he leans back and lets the moment between the two of you linger. The car door opens again, and he steps out, clearly waiting patiently for Yumi's hug to reach its conclusion.

"You look soooo amazing and hot and sexy– ugh! The tan!! I finally get to see the tan in person!" Yumi screeches directly in your ear, practically drooling over you.

Caught up in the delightful reunion, you find yourself enveloped in their contagious enthusiasm. "I saw you last summer, remember?" you tease gently, your voice brimming with a mixture of nostalgia and that playful admiration you always have for Yumi.

There's not much you miss about Japan, but Nomura Yumi is definitely one of those that you miss.

The two of you played together in high school on the same team. She was your upperclassman who cared for you when needed, off and on the court. At the time, both of you were ranked high in your respective positions, her being a top setter while you were still the number high school spiker in the country.

 Due to that, your coach constantly put the two of you together, and somewhere in between, you both just clicked with one another, and it stuck.

She freed you from the chains that were dragging you down so long ago.

Sometimes she even jokes that if she hadn't met Aran or if things didn't work out, it would've been you.

And you would consider her to be your saving grace.

"I know, but it feels like it's been forever," she says breathlessly, cupping your cheeks like she's trying to memorize your face and how it looks now.

Before you can respond, Aran interjects with a light-hearted remark, asking in a teasing tone, "Can I get a hug too, with Mrs. Popular? Or is her time being taken up and reserved by my wife?" His tone is both affectionate and humorous, his eyes crinkling at the corners with delight. 

Yumi bursts into laughter, the sound like a cascade of musical notes filling the space between you and her husband. In response, she sets you down slightly and pats Aran's shoulder, her gaze warm as she peers into their SUV. "I actually booked her for the entire time she's here, sorry buddy."

"Damn it." Aran rolls his eyes in mock exasperation at his wife's antics and then opens his arms wide. "Welcome back home, you homewrecker," he says, the nickname coming out in a voice that blends affection with earnest pride. "I already told you to stop calling me that!" you hiss at him, pinching his shoulder before accepting his hug. 

His embrace is sincere and enveloping as you hug him tightly, a gesture that feels as if you're being welcomed back not just to a place you used to call home but to a cherished family.

As the embrace slowly loosens, Aran's eyes search yours, and he asks softly, "I hope you've been treated well while you were away?" His tone is gentle yet probing, and when you nod with a modest smile, he reaches out for your suitcases. 

With careful hands, he lifts them to load into the trunk of their vehicle, ensuring that none of your belongings are accidentally damaged along the way.

Yumi's voice rings out again, playful and practical as she reminds Aran not to crush any of the gifts that might be hidden among your possessions. "Remember, do not crush any of the gifts," she instructs, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. 

Aran chuckles at her insistence, promising in his calm way that he will handle everything with care. A spark of curiosity flares in you as you ask softly, "Gifts?"

Yumi nods, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "Of course. You think I'd show up empty-handed?" she replies, the confidence of her words leaving no room for doubt that she had planned this reunion with a thoughtful heart. 

A smile curves your lips as you mention that you had prepared something in return, and a shared laugh erupts between the three of you—a sound that resonates with the familiarity of inside jokes. "I brought some too."

That earns a pleased laugh from her. "Good. That's how we stay best friends."

After ensuring that your suitcases are safely nestled in the trunk, Aran gently closes it, his attention lingering on your face for a moment as he pats your head one more time. His touch is both gentle and reassuring, as if to affirm that despite the distances and the time spent apart, you have always been part of something larger.

The sound of the trunk closing echoes through the lot as Aran pats your head gently, palm warm against your hair. "Alright, everyone in," he announces. "Before the airport security starts yelling."

Yumi climbs in first, tossing her purse into the front. You reach for the back seat door and pull it open, completely unprepared for what comes next.

A cloud of confetti explodes into your face, paper bits fluttering through the air and catching in your hair, your mouth, your eyelashes. The pop of the spring-loaded tube echoes too loudly, and your first instinct is to recoil with a shout, stumbling a step back with your eyes squeezed shut.

"Welcome hoooooommmmmme!" a familiar voice yells from inside the car, high and bright and full of giddy energy. Through the blur of floating paper, your eyes lock onto the source, and something in your chest drops in the best way possible.

Minato grins up at you, now a full head taller than the last time you saw him. His hair is longer, his face a little leaner, but the mischievous spark in his eyes is exactly the same. He throws his hands in the air like he just won a game and laughs so hard he nearly doubles over in the backseat of the SUV.

"Hi, Minato," you say, laughing as you reach up to brush confetti from your face. He claps his hands like you just said something brilliant. "You fell for it! That was perfect!"

"I should've known you'd pull something like that."

"You're lucky it wasn't glitter," he says, still grinning as he scoots over to make room for you.

"Please tell me there's no glitter in here."

"I'm not a monster," he says, mock-offended, as if he doesn't remember the several times he's thrown confetti and glitter in your face and laughed as he watched you struggle to get it out later, then adds under his breath, "This time. Next time you won't be so lucky..."

Climbing into the car, you duck your head to avoid the hanging confetti still drifting down. Your hand finds Minato's in an instant, and he squeezes it before you get the opportunity to do so, firm and warm. "You really grew," you say as you buckle in.

"I know," he says, like he's been waiting all year to hear that. "I'm taller than Yumi now."

"She cries about it," Aran calls from the front, peeking at you through the rearview mirror.

"She does not," Yumi corrects, kicking his seat with no real threat.

"Yes, she does," Minato whispers gleefully. ​​As Aran pulls away from the curb, the sky outside glows with the last golden stretch of daylight, the city opening up in front of you like it remembers exactly who you are. 

The engine hums quietly beneath the easy rhythm of tires gliding over pavement, and the confetti from Minato's surprise still clings to your shirt, a few stray pieces trapped in the folds of your jacket. 

Warm air drifts from the vents as Aran adjusts the AC, rolling his shoulders back and glancing at the rearview mirror with a grin like he still hasn't gotten over the joy of having you back in the car.

Yumi shifts to face you better, one leg tucked under the other on the passenger seat. She leans her elbow against the door, resting her cheek on her knuckles as her eyes sweep over your face in that quiet, loving way she always has when she hasn't seen you for a while.

"So," she starts slowly, "how is everything? You know. Over there."

"It was good," you reply after a breath, nodding slowly as the words settle on your tongue. "Hard, but that's the best part about it. It's like a whole other level and I... I really love it over there."

Yumi smiles, a small one, like she's proud of you without needing to say it out loud. "You looked so happy in the last photo you sent me at the beach. When we'd talk, I could totally tell."

"I was–I am." You glance out the window, watching a train snake its way across a bridge in the distance. "It's different there. The pace. The people. Even the games. Everything feels more alive now."

Aran hums thoughtfully. "That sounds super duper poetic," he says, his voice rich with amusement. Yumi gives him a look, smacking his arm gently, not caring that he was driving the car. "She's being serious."

"Really, really serious, Aran. Thanks for ruining the moment," you say, fighting a laugh. Aran chuckles, then glances at you again through the rearview mirror. "Okay, okay. Let me try to be supportive for a second." He clears his throat like he's preparing to make a speech, then says carefully, "Tem al— algum... macho gostoso aí?"

The moment those words hit the air, your whole face scrunches. Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. "Aran. No. Absolutely not."

He makes a wounded sound. "What? That was good. That was basically fluent."

"That was basically a crime," you reply, covering your face with one hand.

"That was really bad," Minato chimes in, looking up from his phone that he had been preoccupied with— and when you say preoccupied– he was preoccupied with taking photos of you.

"I thought it was cute," Yumi says, laughing into her sleeve. "He's been practicing."

"I have been," Aran insists. "Every week. I even tried watching a movie with subtitles."

"Except he turned them off after ten minutes because he said he was distracted by the colors," Yumi deadpans.

Minato giggles quietly beside you and then leans his head on your shoulder like he's been waiting to do it all day. His hair smells like mint shampoo and sunshine. "I take it back. I think it sounded okay," he whispers.

"You're sweet, but don't encourage him," you whisper back.

The car winds past an intersection and turns left under a blinking yellow light. On the corner, a man in a sun hat sells flowers from plastic buckets, and the petals blur in and out of sight as you pass. Yumi taps her phone, then angles it toward Aran so he can glance at the navigation.

"Mrs. Mori's house is in the same neighborhood, but we're taking the back road," she explains, swiping to zoom in. "There's construction near the school, so we'll loop around the hill. It's faster this time of day."

Aran nods without looking back. "Got it. I'll follow you. Just don't change your mind halfway."

Yumi waves him off, then turns in her seat again, twisting so she can face you fully. Her eyes glint with excitement. "We have so much planned. You don't even know. I made a whole list, like a real list with bullet points that I wrote on paper and had to hide from the kids so that they wouldn't destroy it.

 I want to go to that café you used to love, and I already booked the museum for Saturday morning, and there's a festival coming up. Do you think we'll have time to do everything with your schedule? Because I'll make the time in mine."

A low laugh bubbles up from your chest. "I hope so. I mean, I'll try."

"Do you know where your team is practicing yet?" she asks, brushing her hair behind one ear, watching your face carefully. You shake your head. "No idea. I'm supposed to get a text about it, but I haven't yet. Maybe tomorrow. Or at the conference."

Yumi frowns like that answer personally offends her. "They should have told you already. What if you needed to go buy a pass, or it's far away? Then you'll need to go buy a train pass and–"

Aran reaches for his water bottle and sips slowly. "It's fine, she'll make it work. She always does."

"That's not the point," Yumi mutters, folding her arms. "She shouldn't have to make it work. She should know. She just got back. They should have everything ready for her."

"I think Coach is still working it out," you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "It's weird since I'm not staying with the team for the first week. I check into the hotel later. She said she'd message me later."

Minato snorts without lifting his head. "Don't you always say that she always says that? And then she forgets half the time."

"I know," you sigh, gently nudging his arm. "But she means well."

"I think she's dramatic," Minato says, recalling an old memory you had told him about.

"So are you," Yumi replies, reaching back to pinch him.

"I learned from the best," he shoots you a look with a sneaky smile, and you wink at him.

Aran slows at a light, the SUV gliding to a smooth stop. His hand reaches for the gear shift, but then hovers as he glances at you through the mirror again. "Seriously though," he says, his voice lower, more sincere. "It's good to have you back. Things are never the same without you around."

Yumi nods beside him, her hand resting gently on the center console. "We really missed you. Actually, forget everyone else– I missed you."

Your throat tightens, but not in a painful way. It's the kind of feeling that comes when warmth fills places you didn't know were cold.

"I missed you guys, too," you say quietly, looking at all three of them one by one. "A lot."

Minato grins up at you without saying anything, his cheek still pressed against your shoulder. His hand rests on your sleeve, small fingers curled into the fabric like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. You reach up and ruffle his hair gently, brushing the fringe from his forehead. His eyes flutter closed like it's the most relaxing thing in the world.

The light turns green, and Aran pulls forward, the road stretching ahead in smooth, familiar turns. "Soooo, how's school going?" You ask Minato, tilting your head toward him slightly as Yumi starts to laugh in Aran's face as he misses a turn.

A long groan rumbles from his chest like you just asked him to recite a math textbook from the back of his mind– but knowing Minato, he could do it easily. "Ugh. High school sucks. It's the worst thing I've ever had to do in my life. There's so much work, and everyone keeps saying it's gonna get worse."

 His voice carries all the frustration of someone who just discovered homework doesn't stop after middle school. " Is that how it was for you? I just wanna play soccer. All day. Every day. That's it. Is that so wrong?"

A laugh escapes from you, catching on the last word, and your palm gently taps his leg in mock scolding. "Minato, high school is the last thing you're going to worry about as you grow up. Besides, the years will fly by fast– I promise," you say under your breath, tone lower now, "though, if I hear your grades drop, I'm coming back just to haunt you."

"Hey, hey," he says quickly, lifting a hand in surrender without lifting his head. "I promise. Swear. They're good. They're really good, actually."

"Better be," you murmur, giving his arm a small squeeze. He shifts closer, eyes are half-closed, lips pulled into the smallest smile, like he's letting himself relax just because you're here. There's something in the way he leans into you now that makes the world slow down for a second.

The silence stretches comfortably between the two of you, the car humming softly as Aran turns onto a quieter road, tree branches passing overhead in a blur of green shadow and gold-tinted sky. Your hand stays still against Minato's arm, and in that stillness, you finally let yourself take a better look at him.

Fifteen. It doesn't even sound real. Fifteen years old and so far from the boy who used to trail behind you with mismatched socks, scraped knees, and spaghetti all over his uniform. 

Back then, his cheeks were always flushed from running, his backpack always half-zipped, stuffed with crumpled notebooks and snack wrappers he tried to hide from you. That boy had gaps between his teeth and laughed so hard he would fall backward on purpose.

Now he looks almost nothing like that.

His face has changed. Most of the baby fat is gone, leaving sharper lines in his jaw, a more defined shape around his cheekbones. His skin is smooth but no longer childlike, and his lashes cast longer shadows when he blinks slowly. His hair has grown out, styled in a way that actually looks intentional now, and his profile from this angle makes you blink twice because he looks so much like someone else.

"What?" Minato mumbles, not bothering to lift his head.

"Nothing," you say, trying not to sound too entertained. "Just thinking. You're looking kinda buff lately. Who would've thought?"

That gets a noise out of him. "Yah. I've been working out. We do weight training now. And I'm not buff. I'm just stronger."

"Oh, excuse me," you say, raising an eyebrow. "Stronger."

"Yeah. Buff sounds weird. Like, cartoon muscles." He opens one eye and grins. "My muscles are real, and I run faster than all of them."

Your eyes linger on the line of his shoulder, the curve of muscle that wasn't there the last time you hugged him like this. It's subtle, but it's there. You press your fingers into the side of his arm, testing the muscle there with a skeptical hum. He doesn't flinch, just smirks.

"Guess you're not scrawny anymore," you admit. "You're still baby-faced, though."

"Not true," he protests, sitting up a little straighter now, mock offended. "I'm rugged and mature."

You roll your eyes. "Keep telling yourself that."

Minato adjusts his posture, still angled toward you but now fully awake, his head no longer resting on your shoulder. He squints as if trying to remember where he left off before the teasing started. "Okay, but listen. About soccer. You know the league I was playing in?"

You nod.

"Well, I got scouted again. Another coach came to talk to me and Dad after our last match. They want me to train with this club from Kanagawa. One of the big ones. Like, actually serious level. Not just weekend or high school games. They said they've been watching me since last fall."

His words start to tumble out faster now, like his mouth can't keep up with the excitement brewing in his chest. His eyes are brighter than they've been all day. That spark you recognize in him—comes back full force, glowing behind every syllable.

"They said I'm on the list for their U16 or even the U17 lineup," he continues, voice climbing with pride. "If I keep doing well, they might let me try for the regional tournament this winter. And their program feeds straight into the pro circuit. They even mentioned a scout from Germany was visiting next season. Like, real international stuff— like what you did."

"Minato," you say, your voice quieter now but full of something steady and certain. "That's amazing."

He grins, wide and toothy. "I know. Isn't it?"

Pride fills your chest so quickly it almost stings. He doesn't say it out loud, but there's that look in his eyes—the one that says he remembers what it was like to watch you chase something big, to stand in the crowd and scream your name. He wants that now. Maybe he always did. But this time, it's his own name echoing back at him.

"You've always had it," you say, reaching up to ruffle his hair, even though he swats at your hand with a fake glare. "I knew you would get here. I'm really proud of you."

"Thanks," he mumbles, voice catching for a second before he brushes it off with a casual shrug. "Don't get emotional on me now."

"I'm not," you lie.

"Liar."

"Shut up."

Aran pulls into the driveway like it's his own home, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against the side of the door in rhythm with the music still faintly playing from the speakers. 

The gates had already been open when the car turned the corner, and the wide stretch of gravel curling through the perfectly manicured front lawn is still as dramatic as ever. 

The sun casts warm streaks across the property, lighting up the white stone like something out of a catalog. The house—no, mansion—comes into view slowly, each polished window and delicate balcony revealing itself piece by piece as the car climbs to a stop at the front steps.

The place has changed; that much is obvious. New shutters painted a shade darker than you remember, tall hedges carved into cleaner lines, and the fountain at the center of the circular driveway now features an elaborate sculpture of cranes in flight where there had once just been a simple stream of water. 

But even with the upgrades and newness, it still feels like it did all those years ago. Still holds that warmth in the stone. Still smells faintly of lemon blossoms from the trees lining the walkway. Still pulls at the center of your chest like home.

Aran puts the car in park and shuts off the engine with a casual flick of the key. "We're here," he announces over his shoulder. His voice is calm but carries that same soft smile it always has when he talks about places that matter.

Minato is already half out of his seat before the last syllable finishes, pushing open the door with a squeak and stepping out into the warm afternoon air. Aran follows with his usual quiet energy, stepping around to the back of the car, ready to grab your suitcases.

In the front seat, Yumi twists around and looks back at you, her face already pulled into a grin. "Come on, babe," she says, voice teasing. Then she's out of the car too, jogging around to your side before you can even touch the handle. She opens the door with a little flourish, one hand against the roof of the car, the other offering you a dramatic bow like she's welcoming royalty.

You raise your eyebrows at her, suppressing a laugh. "Do I get princess treatment now?"

"Obviously," Yumi says without missing a beat. "If I don't treat you right, you might disappear again."

Rolling your eyes at her, you step out, and she helps you as though you were wearing a ball gown instead of a pair of old sweats. "Ridiculous," you mutter, even as your smile grows.

"I'm very serious," she says, walking backward a few paces as you both head to the back. "I've got a checklist. Be nice to you. Feed you. Brag about you to everyone we meet and or see again. Keep you from running off to another country again."

"Good luck with that last one."

Behind the SUV, Aran and Minato are already pulling your luggage from the trunk. You slow your steps just long enough to catch sight of the two of them standing side by side—and that's when it hits you. 

They're the same height. Practically identical from shoulder to head. Minato, still technically a kid, barely fifteen, stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Aran, who hasn't stopped growing since he was seventeen.

Something swells in your chest, caught between pride and pure disbelief.

"He's gotten tall, huh?" Yumi says quietly, linking her arm through yours like she had read your mind.

"Too tall," you say. "What is she feeding him? Fucking super growth?"

Yumi laughs, pressing her head gently against yours for a second as you both start toward the front steps. "Secret growth powder, I'm telling you. I swear I saw her put it in his rice."

"That explains it," you say, and the two of you break into a fit of laughter, your voices carrying through the open air. The door to the house opens before either of you reaches it.

Mrs. Mori steps outside like she's been waiting at the window this entire time. The sunlight catches her just right, and for a second, it's hard to remember that it's been years since you last stood on this exact path. She looks radiant. 

Not a single wrinkle, her skin glowing with that same youthful energy she always seemed to carry. Her hair is pulled back in a loose bun, strands soft around her face, and her makeup is flawless in that casual, barely-there way that takes actual talent. 

If someone told you she was in her early thirties, you'd believe them without question.

"Move it, Aran," she says as she steps outside, lightly swatting his shoulder with the back of her hand. "You and Minato can put the suitcases in the usual room."

"Yes, ma'am," Aran says with a salute, lips twitching with a smile as he and Minato start toward the side entrance.

Mrs. Mori turns her attention back toward the path, and the moment her eyes find you, she stops completely. Her breath catches. Hands come up to her chest like she's steadying herself. She fans her face with her palm as her eyes well up with tears that haven't even fallen yet.

You barely make it up the last step before her arms are around you.

"Welcome back home," she whispers, her voice trembling as she wraps you up tight in her embrace. Her arms are strong, pulling you close in a way that makes it feel like no time has passed at all. She smells like jasmine and sugar, and the hug is the kind that holds years in it. Years of waiting. Of missing. Of wondering.

The last time you saw her was at the Rio Games. 2016. She cried then, too, held onto you like she didn't want to let go. You remember how her foundation stained your jersey and how she said she was proud of you a hundred times over and more.

Yumi slips in a second later, flinging her arms around both of you, nearly sending the three of you stumbling backward. Mrs. Mori laughs through her tears, one hand steadying her as she pulls away just enough to hold your arms and look you over.

"Oh, look at you," she says, eyes scanning your face. "You look beautiful. Absolutely radiant. Healthy. Strong. You've always been stunning, but now—now you glow, my darling."

Yumi hums in agreement and tilts her head as if inspecting you. "Yeah. She's got that post-volleyball glow. And look at that ass."

"Yumi," you groan, dragging a hand over your face.

"What?" she says, lifting her hands in mock innocence. "It's a compliment. You worked hard for it."

Mrs. Mori doesn't let go of your wrist the entire time she pulls you through the front door, her energy bouncing off the walls like it's been building for weeks and finally has somewhere to go. 

Her heels click across the marble floor with confidence, every step echoing through the entrance hall that gleams beneath the warm lighting. The second the door closes behind you, the scent of roasted garlic, fresh herbs, and something sweet and buttery washes over your senses. It smells like family dinners and birthdays and every celebration she's ever insisted on throwing.

The interior of the house hits you like a dream where everything is familiar and new all at once. Banners line the hallway—gold letters across crisp white fabric that read Welcome Home! in big swooping fonts. 

Balloons float just beneath the high ceilings, gold and cream and pastel yellow, tied with silk ribbons to ornate vases and chairs. Streamers sparkle near the staircase, and the long dining table visible from the entrance is already set with fine china, neatly folded cloth napkins, and name cards in calligraphy ink. 

It's all arranged like a magazine layout, only warmer, lived in, like it was made not just for pictures but for people.

Your mouth drops open just a little. "Wait. What's all this?"

Mrs. Mori stops, letting you take it in with the kind of pride only someone who planned the whole thing by hand could wear. She places a hand on her hip and gestures broadly with the other like she's presenting a prize on a game show. "A party, of course."

"A party?" you echo, blinking. "For what?"

"For you, silly!" she laughs, like that should've been obvious.

A startled laugh slips out of your throat. "I don't need a party."

Mrs. Mori tuts and waves a hand at you dismissively, like you've insulted her just by saying it. "Don't be ridiculous. Everyone needs to know you're here. Everyone's been asking about you. I've had this planned for a week and a half. Do you know how hard it is to schedule anything around these groups of idiots I'm surrounded with all day?"

"But–I just got here... so maybe it's best if—," you protest, laughing despite yourself.

"Nonsense," Yumi says with a wink. "What better way to celebrate than alcohol and people you like? Besides, we have so much to catch up on, so literally make yourself at home in your home."

The house has changed, that's for sure. The entryway still holds the same oversized chandelier that you used to gaze at, but the furniture has been updated with sleek lines and muted earth tones. 

The walls are warmer now, soft creams and floral wallpaper replacing the older, darker tones. A smart panel glows faintly by the staircase, controlling the lights, music, and even the climate, probably. Mrs. Mori always loved having the newest tech on the market, but she had a strict no-ugly-gadgets policy. 

She wanted her home to look like a modern gallery but feel like a place you could curl up in with a blanket and fall asleep.

And she's done it. Somehow, she's achieved that balance perfectly.

Before you can say anything more, footsteps sound from the second floor, the measured rhythm of leather soles against hardwood. Turning your head, your eyes catch a glimpse of two figures descending the grand staircase.

Minato is prancing down the stairs, tugging on the arm of an older man who looks like he could command a whole room with just a look. Tailored charcoal-gray suit. 

A pocket square that matches the subtle blue of his tie. Salt-and-pepper hair combed back neatly. Eyes are kind and focused even from a distance. "Look! Look who's here!" Minato shouts in excitement as he continues to yank.

Mr. Mori's smile arrives before he does, wide and unmistakably genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes like folded paper. "Well, look who it is," he says, voice deep and warm. "My girl's home."

He makes it to the bottom of the stairs with steady strides, nodding to Aran as he passes and kissing Mrs. Mori on the lips without a second thought. "Hi, darling," he murmurs, and she just beams back at him like she's been waiting all day for that.

Then his attention shifts to you.

Arms wide, he wraps you up in a hug before you can even brace yourself. "Hi, honeybee. How are you?" he says with so much affection in his tone that it wraps around your ribs. You giggle, caught off guard but happy, your feet lifting a little off the floor as he hugs you tight. "I'm great," you say into his shoulder, half-laughing as he presses a kiss to your cheek and gently sets you down again.

As soon as your feet touch the ground, he reaches up and ruffles your hair like he used to do when you were small enough to spin in his arms. "Haven't changed a bit," he says, eyes twinkling.

"Neither have you," you reply, pushing your hair back into place.

"Good," he says, dusting imaginary lint from his blazer. "That's how I stay young."

Mrs. Mori laughs again, her smile fond as she rests her chin on his shoulder for a moment. "He refuses to age just so I have to keep up."

"And I'll keep refusing," he says. "As long as this one keeps coming back home."

Warmth pools in your chest again, deeper now. Not just nostalgia, but gratitude. Because they haven't just opened their home to you, they've opened their hearts, their schedules, their lives. Always have.

From behind you, Minato snorts softly, so unimpressed with Mr. Mori's nonchalant attitude that he was putting on. "He cried when we found out you were coming."

Mr. Mori waves him off. "I did not cry. I got misty. Big difference."

Yumi, already poking around the dining room, calls out, "You cried, sir. I saw it. You wiped your eyes with your napkin."

"Napkin was there for convenience," Mr. Mori says, standing tall, face stiffer than a board.

Mrs. Mori loops her arm around your waist and points you toward the table, leading you further into the house. "Come on, let's sit you down. There are snacks and drinks already out, and dinner's almost ready–" 

Mr. Mori steps in gently, resting a hand on his wife's back as she excitedly rattles off which neighbors are stopping by and how she even called that one hair stylist from down the street who used to give you almond cookies. His voice cuts in smoothly, low and warm. "Darling, maybe let her shower and change first before we throw her into the party spotlight."

Mrs. Mori pauses mid-sentence, blinking like the thought had genuinely escaped her mind. "Oh! Yes, yes, of course," she says, waving her hands like she's brushing the air clear. "Go upstairs, sweetheart. Everything you need is already laid out on the bed in case you didn't pack anything for tonight. You know how I get."

She kisses your cheek quickly and spins around, immediately distracted by Minato and Aran, who are caught red-handed dipping pieces of bread into one of the copper pots simmering on the stove. "That is for the guests!" she scolds, voice sharp but without any bite. "Honestly. You two eat like you're twelve."

"I feel like I'm twelve," Minato mumbles around a mouthful of baguette.

"You're fifteen and officially grounded from butter," she fires back, chasing him off with a spatula in hand.

Aran raises his hands in surrender, already halfway to the living room. "I was just helping him taste-test. For safety."

"You're going to be tasting nothing but this spoon if I catch you again," she calls after them.

Mr. Mori turns back to you with a wink. "Take your time. The party's in an hour and a half. Realistically, none of it can start without the guest of honor."

Yumi hums from beside you. "Exactly. You are the entertainment. No pressure or anything."

A small laugh escapes as she reaches for the bag slung over your shoulder, pulling it off in one smooth motion. "Come on," she says, already making her way to the stairs. "Let's get you cleaned up before they start dragging in neighbors you most likely don't remember."

The two of you head up the staircase together, your footsteps light against the polished wood. 

The second floor opens into the upper deck, a grand mezzanine-like space that Mrs. Mori always called the "third living room," complete with long velvet couches, a glass coffee table with untouched fashion books stacked in perfect symmetry, and vases that looked too expensive to breathe around. Sunlight spills in through arched windows, warming the soft carpet beneath your toes.

Yumi walks ahead of you, passing the tall glass display cabinet that still holds the porcelain ballerina figurines she helped you arrange when you were both younger. She turns right at the end of the hall without needing to be told, and her hand falls easily to the fourth door on the left.

The knob turns with a familiar click, and you step inside together.

The room hasn't changed in the ways that matter. The wallpaper still carries that soft antique rose print, petals climbing over pale cream like vines across a storybook. 

The four-poster bed still sits beneath the window, but the bedding has been updated—layers of gauzy fabric in blush and ivory draped over pillows embroidered with florals, trimmed in lace and satin. A chandelier sparkles gently above, catching the sunlight in its crystal drops. 

Curtains of sheer white hang loosely from the canopy, threaded with twinkling fairy lights. Everything smells faintly of vanilla and fresh linen.

To the left sits your old vanity, now adorned with the old bottles of perfume and a fresh arrangement of pink peonies in a soft white vase decorated with a pink floral design. The mirror reflects the warmth of the room perfectly, capturing the movement of Yumi as she walks in and immediately drops your bag onto the perfectly made bed.

"Oh my god," she groans, flopping down on her stomach. "It's still just as soft. How is it still this soft?"

"Mrs. Mori changes the mattress topper every year," you murmur, stepping in fully. "And the sheets are imported. She told me once they were made from something like Japanese silk, and I always thought she was exaggerating."

Yumi buries her face in a pillow and screams quietly. "Now that you're back, I'm going to move in here and never leave. This bed will be my final resting place."

Your laughter bubbles up before you can stop it. "We can have sleepovers again, just like old times."

She peeks up from the pillow. "Only if you promise not to make me watch those awful classical movies you used to be obsessed with."

"I make no promises."

Your eyes drift over to the outfit laid out at the foot of the bed. It's clearly Mrs. Mori's doing. 

A creamy lace dress with delicate ribbon straps, fitted at the waist with a satin bow, soft pleats that fall to your knees, and a pale pink shawl to match. Beside it is your old jewelry box, already opened, with a delicate rose-gold necklace resting inside, the pendant shaped like a crescent moon. 

Next to that, a small card in her handwriting reads Just in case you didn't bring something nice. Can't have our girl looking anything less than divine tonight.

"You have to wear it," Yumi says without looking. "You'll break her heart if you don't, and it looks like it costs a fortune."

"I was planning to," you say, lifting the fabric gently between your fingers. The lace is cool and soft against your skin, stitched with tiny details that catch the light. From the hallway, a distant shout from Mr. Mori reaches your ears. Something about Aran being caught trying to sneak a deviled egg for the second tim,e and following i,t you hear a smack and a loud owwwww.

Yumi rolls onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "This whole place feels like a dream. Like it's never really moved forward without you, you know? It kinda feels like we've all been waiting."

The edge of the bed dips under your weight as you ease down beside Yumi, the fabric of your sweatpants wrinkling awkwardly beneath your fingertips.

 Fingers rub slowly against the thighs of the material, the soft cotton now feeling strange and out of place in this room full of lace, tulle, and golden finishes. The fabric clings in ways that feel unfamiliar, almost foreign, like it wasn't made to exist in this space, like it never quite belonged here the same way everything else does.

The room has been touched by gentle care and thoughtful updates, curated in soft colors and candlelight, yet you sit there in an airport sweatsuit with plane creases in the knees and the faint scent of recirculated cabin air still clinging to the hem of your hoodie. It feels like standing barefoot in a ballroom.

Yumi pushes herself upright beside you, arms wrapping loosely around her knees as she watches you from the corner of her eye. The overhead chandelier makes her skin glow a little golden, and she leans in just a bit, not too close, but close enough that the warmth of her attention starts to settle in.

"So," she says, "how are you actually feeling?"

Shoulders lift in a shrug. Not because you want to avoid the question, but because there's no clear answer. The knot in your stomach has been sitting there since the plane started descending, tight and slow-burning. It hasn't gone away. But it hasn't gotten worse either.

"I don't know," you say after a second, eyes still on your lap. "I feel like I'm just... here."

Yumi nods like she understands, and she probably does. "Does it feel weird?"

"Yeah," you admit. "It does."

Yumi smiles a little, more to herself than anything. "I still think about that time we duct-taped your window shut because it wouldn't close all the way, and you swore a bird was gonna fly in."

"You mean the window you broke trying to get a volleyball unstuck from the gutter?"

She raises both hands in surrender. "Allegedly. That has never been proven."

That pulls a laugh out of you— small but more natural in your throat than it did ten minutes ago. "I forgot how quiet it is here," you say. "Like really quiet."

"Yeah," Yumi agrees. "That's my favorite part about your room. How quiet it is."

There's a pause before she adds, "I still sleep here sometimes. When I miss you. Or when the kids get annoying."

That one gets you. It sneaks up fast, and suddenly your throat feels far too tight for no good reason. You blink and look away, hoping it passes. It's been a while since someone just said something like that without trying to cushion it or make it sound casual.

"I missed you too," you say, voice low. "All of you."

Yumi bumps her leg against yours like she always used to. "Good. I'd be pissed if I left and you just forgot I existed."

You huff out a short laugh. "Not possible. Your voice is stuck in my head like an annoying little narrator, and you act like you don't come visit me all the time."

"It could always be worse." She groans and drops back onto the bed dramatically. "Okay, go shower before I start crying for real. This mascara is not waterproof, and I put too much effort into looking hot for one night."

The door clicks shut behind Yumi with a soft thud, and her footsteps fade down the hallway, disappearing into the ambient quiet of the house. Silence takes up the space where her voice had been just moments before, filling every corner with something both comforting and a little hollow. 

The air feels still, like the entire room is waiting for a cue that hasn't come yet. Instead of moving, you just sit there, the dress still untouched at the foot of the bed, your hands resting against your thighs. The scent of the sheets, the faint flicker of the fairy lights, even the way the shadows land against the carpet—it all feels unchanged. Like a time capsule. 

Like if you looked hard enough, you might find your younger self sitting in the corner with her knees pulled up, scribbling in the margins of a school planner.

Eyes travel around the room, slowly, taking in each familiar detail. Nothing looks out of place. The bookshelf still leans slightly to the left like it always did. The mirror still has that faint crack near the bottom corner from the time Minato tried to sword fight his own reflection with a curtain rod. 

Even the pinboard above the desk is untouched—faded photos, ticket stubs, a few dried flower petals stuck between pushpins. It's as if someone pressed pause right after you left. The rest of the house has grown and changed, reshaped by time and new habits, new things.

 But this room, this one little corner of your life, has stayed almost exactly where you left it.

The weight of that starts to settle in your chest, and it feels weird. 

You don't think you've ever regretted your decisions, ever in your life, but somehow in this room, it makes you rethink. 

Feet finally move across the floor, steps quiet as you cross toward the closet. The white wooden doors creak open with that same sound they've always had, a soft protest from old hinges that never got oiled. And there it is. Just as expected. Just as you remembered.

On the rack, your old school uniform hangs in perfect condition. The skirt is pressed, the blazer spotless, the fabric preserved so neatly it feels like someone had been waiting for you to come back and put it on. Next to it hangs your school jersey, the sleeves still cuffed from the last time you wore it. You'd forgotten how small it looked. How small you were when you left.

The rest of the closet holds the clothes that didn't make it with you. Pieces that never fit into your suitcase, outfits you'd planned to come back for but never did. A stack of T-shirts with faded logos. 

A jacket with a ripped cuff. The beautiful blue dress you wore for that one festival back in high school. That dress you bought with Yumi at the outlet mall because she dared you to try on something with sequins, and you both nearly cried laughing in the dressing room mirror.

The corners of your mouth pull into a smirk, something dry and amused and a little sad. Fingers curl around the closet door and pull it closed.

Pacing takes over before your thoughts settle. A slow rhythm, step by step, just enough to keep the restlessness from crawling up your back. Each step across the carpeted floor brings another flicker of something—memories, versions of yourself, pieces you forgot you left behind. 

There's a comfort in it, buried somewhere between the familiarity and the tension. Because as much as this room stayed the same, you didn't.

That girl who lived in here isn't the same person who stood on the beach three weeks ago, who stood on court four years ago, who stood in an airport earlier this morning pretending not to feel like she was coming undone. 

The growth feels good. Necessary. But it doesn't make the missing go away. If anything, it makes it sharper. You miss people you're not even sure you'd recognize anymore. People who were part of you in ways you didn't realize until they weren't there.

The clock ticks quietly on the wall, the hands inching forward just enough to remind you that the party is coming. Not much time left. That dress isn't going to wear itself.

Turning back toward the bed, you catch the edge of the dresser with your hip. A sharp sting flares through your side, and a hiss slips through your teeth. The glare you shoot at the dresser is short-lived, though, because something else grabs your attention before the annoyance can take root.

The drawer isn't fully shut. It had been left slightly ajar, just enough for something to peek through. A hint of pink catches your eye.

That pink binder.

Heart stirs in a strange, uneven rhythm as your breath slows down. The sight of it pulls something tight in your stomach, something quiet and uneasy that creeps in before your thoughts can catch up. Slowly, fingers reach out, curling around the drawer's edge, pulling it open with a gentle tug.

The binder is heavier than expected, the weight of it solid in your hands. Dust clings to the cover in a thin layer, disturbed now by the movement of your fingers as you brush it clean. Black sharpie ink bleeds across the front, back, and spine of the plastic cover. Names written in all kinds of handwriting, signatures stuffed into every corner. Some scribbled, some carefully printed. All of them are familiar.

The discomfort tightens again in your chest.

You know what's inside.

Thumb rests against the edge of the cover, unmoving for a long beat. A small part of you wants to put it back. Pretend you didn't see it. Leave it where it's been hiding. But another part—curious, unresolved—pulls stronger.

Fingers press against the front cover, flipping it open.

The first thing to greet you is a bundle of folded letters. Neatly stacked, tied together with a soft ribbon you don't remember adding. Pages that carry stories, apologies, updates, and confessions. All pressed between the plastic, like they've been waiting for you.

Fingers linger over the ribbon holding the letters together, but they don't untie it. They hover for a few seconds longer, tracing the worn edges of folded pages that feel too heavy to hold right now. 

Something about the way they sit—undisturbed for so long, sealed shut like they're keeping something alive—makes your chest tighten. The binder shifts in your lap as your thumb moves to the corner of the plastic sleeve instead, turning past the first divider.

The familiar sheen of photo paper stares back at you.

Pages and pages fill your vision, each photograph carefully tucked into its sleeve, though time has left them slightly faded behind plastic sheets. Each picture holds more than just the captured moment; it's filled with scribbled notes, date stamps, and little arrows pointing out goofy faces or moments someone didn't want forgotten. 

Tiny, messy handwriting fills the margins, each caption its own small, precious memory that sends a deep pang through your chest.

The first image draws your gaze immediately. It's from the courtyard on a bright afternoon, the sun high enough to cast shadows beneath everyone's eyes. Uniforms are a mess—shirts untucked, collars popped, sleeves rolled carelessly up, damp with sweat. 

Faces beam toward the camera without a care. Laughter practically radiates from the glossy surface of the photo, palpable even through the quiet air of the room. A blurry figure is captured mid-tumble in the background, hands reaching out to catch a thrown water bottle that's forever suspended in midair. 

Underneath, someone scribbled hastily in blue ink: last day before hell. Why do we look happy about it?

Your fingers brush the edges softly as if handling something breakable. There's a hollowness that swells deep in your chest, not dramatic but more like a gentle ache you can't quite name. Flipping the page feels harder now. It's like the past clings to you, begging not to be let go again.

The next picture makes your chest tighten just a bit more. It's from the summer training camp, with you squished between a cluster of tall bodies on that tiny bench you remember. 

Your expression borders between unsure and panic, arms awkwardly twisted, head tilted back against someone's shoulder, someone pressed into your chest, eyes wide as if pleading for rescue. Someone wrote beneath it: our first ever picture together!!

Another flip of the page, and there's a photo of you and a familiar bed-headed friend standing side by side at the grill during a team barbecue. His expression is half panic, half laughter as he holds your wrist gingerly. Your face is bright red, your eyes watery, glaring comically at your burned hand.

 The caption underneath, penned in messy handwriting, says simply: Never let her near the grill again. Even years later, your hand flexes at the memory of that quick sting, the embarrassment turning to a fond warmth as you recall his frantic attempts at first aid and the way he felt so bad about it.

The next page is heavier with taped-down snapshots, the kind that instantly pull you back into days so vivid you can almost hear the laughter echoing through the paper.

The photo catches your breath for a second. Both of you are dressed up as the prince and princess outfits from the festival. Your gown is as perfect as you remember and is still in good shape in your closet, and the crown sits awkwardly tilted on his head, but your smile beams at the camera with a kind of unguarded brightness that startles you even now. 

Beside you, a familiar face hasn't even looked at the lens, his sharp profile turned your way instead. His expression is unreadable at first glance, but the longer you stare at it, the clearer the subtle curve of his mouth becomes, the faintest pull of something almost tender caught in that frozen moment.

 Across the bottom, in surprisingly neat handwriting, someone had written: She actually smiled. Worth it. The words are underlined once, and someone else had scrawled in smaller letters just beneath: Look at the way he's staring. Grrrrrroooooooss. You find yourself smiling despite the heat creeping up your neck.

Another photo is wedged at the corner of the page, half-bent from being stuffed into the plastic. It's from that road trip in someone's car, the one where the air conditioner broke halfway through and you had all rolled down the windows until your hair whipped around like tangled banners. 

A familiar gray and white haired friend is leaning across the backseat, his grin wide and wild, while you're pressed shoulder to shoulder with pudding head, whose half-lidded gaze is directed at the camera like he's seconds away from demanding silence. 

The quiet one sits in the front seat, turned just enough to give the camera one of his dry, unimpressed looks, while the blur of someone's arm stretches into the corner, clearly the one who had taken the photo. Your own face is squished against your head's shoulder, cheeks puffed from laughing too hard to breathe. 

Beneath it, in ... unmistakably bold scrawl, the caption reads: Best squad ever!!! Road trips with us >>> In smaller, cramped letters below, ... had added: Never again. Too loud. Someone else had later added your name and drawn a tiny heart next to it.

The following page makes your lips twitch. A fellow orange-haired and his black haired duo, and you are crammed together with flushed cheeks, sun glaring behind you, faces glistening with sweat from hours of drills. 

Orange's arm is thrown over your shoulders, grin so big it threatens to split his face, while grumpy pants actually looks directly at the camera with something almost resembling a smile. Your own grin is softer, a little tired but glowing, eyes squinting in the sunlight. 

The caption at the bottom, written in uneven block letters that can only belong to the Orange himself, says: Team Japan future legends!! Don't forget us!!! Beside it, in darker ink, written: Stop writing dumb things. But neither of them had crossed it out.

A single photo is tucked between the next two plastic sleeves, not even taped down, as if someone meant to add it later and never did. It's you and another friend, both of you caught in one of those candid moments rather than posing. 

You're sitting across from him at some café table, head thrown back in laughter, while his chin rests lazily on one hand, sharp golden eyes half-lidded but unmistakably fixed on you. He doesn't even bother looking at the camera. 

The caption underneath is short, written in his looping, lazy handwriting: She thinks I'm funny. Nothing else, just that. The simplicity of it makes your stomach tighten, though you can't decide if it's with fondness or something heavier.

A glossy print catches the light differently from the others, taped in just slightly crooked. The aquarium glow paints the photo in blues and greens, glass towering above as schools of fish shimmer in the background. 

You and the tall captain you got to see in Miyagi are standing side by side, both gazing into the tank as though the world outside didn't exist. His broad hand rests on your back in quiet steadiness, your posture leaning almost imperceptibly closer. 

The intimacy of the moment isn't broken by the camera; if anything, it feels too private. Written in small, neat handwriting at the bottom: Didn't know whales had to breathe air too. She taught me that. Also, the first time she went to an aquarium. Across the corner, in jagged orange letters, another line is squeezed in: Why's HIS hand there?! Unfair!! followed by a tiny doodle of a pufferfish with angry eyebrows.

 You can almost hear the indignant voice behind it.

The next page reveals a scene from the library. Stacks of textbooks and loose papers sprawl across the table, but none of that matters compared to the focus frozen in the frame. 

You're leaning forward, pointing at a phrase in the workbook, lips half parted mid-explanation. Across from you, the masked boy's pen hovers forgotten above the paper, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your face rather than the assignment. 

The caption, written in rounded handwriting you recognize instantly, says: She's not even teaching the right tense lol. Someone else had added beneath it in sharp block letters: Yes, she was. That rebuttal is underlined three times. Was he even listening? Another message was written, and someone drew a middle finger next to it.

Wedged into a corner sleeve is a photo that doesn't belong with the others, yet someone made sure it stayed. It's the very first time you met that cocky setter who turned out not to really be that cocky at all from another school.

 His arm is slung around your shoulder with the kind of casual familiarity only he could pull off, his grin dazzling, while you stand stiffly at his side, faintly amused. The caption below, bold and dramatic, says: Future partners in crime. 

Right beneath it, two furious scribbles in messy handwriting cut across the plastic: Delete this immediately and Worst picture in the whole binder. Each of those angry lines is signed with initials only the boys themselves would bother to recognize.

The following page makes your stomach twist with both fondness and embarrassment. There you are, fast asleep in a bed that isn't yours, curled up under the blanket, cheek pressed into the soft black hoodie of the boy next to you. 

His eyes are open, gazing straight at the camera with a flat, unimpressed look that only makes the scene more incriminating, rather than looking at the PS device in his hand. The photo is taken from a slightly elevated angle, clearly someone leaning over to snap it. 

The caption, in familiar bold handwriting: She likes me better than you. A smaller note beside it: She drooled on my pillow. The indignity of it makes you cover your face, though a quiet warmth lingers in your chest.

Another flip brings you face-to-face with something heavier. A photo snapped just before nationals, the stadium lights glaring in the background. 

You and Yumi are standing side by side on the polished court, uniforms crisp, sweat already glinting on your skin. She's smiling widely, arm hooked through yours, while your own smile is small but deeply genuine. 

The caption at the bottom, penned in careful strokes, says: No matter what happens, we made it here together. A heart is drawn at the end, along with your and her initials, together with a heart around it.

Tucked next to it is a bright, chaotic snapshot from the arcade. You're bent over the air hockey table, paddle in hand, laughter frozen in your wide grin as you lean in for a hit. One boy is mid-shout, finger pointing as the puck sails past him, while the taller figure beside him stands with arms crossed, glaring in restrained frustration that almost looks staged. 

The caption underneath, written in messy block letters: She cheats!!!! I don't care what anyone says. Directly beneath it, in smaller, tidier script: She doesn't cheat. You just suck. The whole bottom corner has doodles of hockey pucks, one scribbled with an angry face.

The next sleeve holds a surprisingly calm photo. You and the same masked boy are standing on a city street, waiting at the crosswalk. The light above is red, and the traffic blurred behind you. Your hands are linked between you, not even posed, just natural. 

You're looking straight ahead, but he's glancing sideways, the faintest curve to his lips that the camera nearly missed. The caption was written neatly across the bottom: Don't let go next time. A smaller scrawl beneath adds: Gross. And GET HIS HANDS OFF HER!!!

Further in, a pair of pictures sits side by side, clearly taken on the same day. In the first, you're in the arms of a certain scheming captain, carried princess-style. Your arms are thrown around his neck more out of balance than romance, but his grin stretches wide enough to tell the story himself. 

The caption in his looping handwriting: She said I wouldn't be able to carry her. Someone else had scratched out the word begged and replaced it with threatened. In the second shot, the angle dips lower, capturing the same captain carrying you in a deliberately ridiculous hold, one hand gripping your thigh far too low while his other arm dangles you halfway upside down. 

Your shriek is frozen mid-laugh, face buried in his shoulder, while the caption scrawled beneath says: Best seat in the house. A flurry of outraged side comments surrounds it: Delete this right now and Pervert!! Someone even drew a big red X across his hand.

Moving further into the binder, you flip through a couple of pages, and you pause at a blurry, poorly lit photo from the ice rink. You're clutching someone's arm tightly, feet splayed awkwardly on the ice, your mouth wide open in surprise or laughter—it's hard to tell. 

Not her natural habitat, someone wrote jokingly amongst other comments. A quick rush of embarrassment resurfaces, accompanied by a bittersweet ache. You never learned how to skate properly, but it never mattered. 

You'd always had someone to cling to, someone patient enough to guide you, laughing with you even when you stumbled over your own feet.

And all of it hurts in a way you weren't ready for.

There's something hollow about the ache in your chest as you flip another page. A kind of longing that wraps itself around your ribs and makes it hard to breathe properly.

 The more you see their faces, frozen in time, the more the ache turns into something deeper. Because you can remember how that felt. Not just being there. But belonging there. Being known, down to the smallest detail. Being loved in the kind of way that didn't need to be spoken.

Further pages capture beach volleyball matches, sandy limbs tangled mid-action, sweaty smiles, hair stuck to foreheads. Then the cultural festival—decorated stalls, bright costumes, exaggerated expressions. Your chest twists again, because in every snapshot, there's a clear sense of unity.

 Even photos from the Interhigh, when tension ran high and competition consumed you all. Your thumb grazes a photo of you in the backseat of a crowded car, sandwiched between friends, head tilted back laughing, the wind tossing your hair.

But the further you go, the heavier it feels, each image pulling you deeper into regret. You thought you'd always stay connected, that these bonds were unbreakable, but life had different plans. It was a slow unraveling, you think, nothing dramatic or easily pinpointed. 

Replies grew shorter, responses came later. Calls were rescheduled, birthdays forgotten, promises made to meet soon went unfulfilled. Everyone moved forward—new cities, new priorities, new friends—and though attempts were made at first, the gaps gradually widened.

But maybe the worst part was knowing it hadn't been one-sided.

The more pages turn, the more a weight settles in your chest. It isn't just nostalgia anymore; it's the quiet ache of distance, the kind that sneaks up on you until you realize how far apart you've drifted. 

Faces that once filled every corner of your world now exist only in still frames, sealed behind plastic. It didn't happen overnight. There was no single fight, no sharp ending you could point to. It was smaller than that, quieter. 

A message left unanswered for too long. A call you meant to return but never did. New routines replacing old ones, until the days blurred and the people who used to know every detail of your life no longer knew how to ask the right questions.

Sometimes you wonder if you could have fought harder against it, if maybe a stronger grip would have stopped the unraveling. But deep down, you know they felt it too. 

They were busy building new lives, just as you were. And maybe that's what hurts most—realizing that everyone tried in their own way, and it still wasn't enough. The bonds didn't shatter or so you think, they just loosened, slipping little by little until one day you looked around and found yourself standing alone in a space that used to be crowded.

There's a cruel comfort in the thought that maybe it was inevitable. People change, paths split, and not every connection is built to last forever. Still, it's hard not to glance at those frozen smiles and wish you could step back inside them, if only for a moment. 

To hear the laughter again, to live in that moment again, and feel the closeness before time carried it away. Maybe that's what these photos are now. Not just memories, but proof that once, it was real. That once, you all belonged to the same moment, before the world pulled you in different directions.

The ache is sharpest when flipping back to the very first page. There you are again, younger, freer, laughing so hard there's a smear of marker across your cheek. Bold red handwriting shouts from the margin: Our favorite troublemaker. Your throat constricts tightly, eyes burning with unshed tears.

And then the bonfire. Everyone huddled close, legs pressed into each other, arms slung over shoulders, heads tipped back in laughter. The flames are blurred orange behind you. You're turned toward someone just out of frame, hand frozen in a gesture mid-story, eyes bright with something like peace.

You tell yourself it was just life. People went to college. Schedules got filled up. Messages came later and later. Calls got postponed, sometimes for weeks. You were busy too. Training, traveling, figuring out what the future looked like. 

Everyone said they'd stay in touch, and they did. For a while. Group chats buzzed with inside jokes, late-night phone calls stretched until your eyelids ached, and plans to visit were tossed around like they were inevitable.

The pages begin to blur a little as your eyes skim over a group photo at the beach. Sand stuck to your legs, hair damp with saltwater. 

You're standing near the edge of the group, one hand on your hip, the other reaching out toward the person who snapped the photo if you were telling them to hurry up. A breeze caught your shirt just enough to make you look mid-motion. The caption is messy: She never stops moving.

And when I'm back in Chicago, I feel it.

There had been a version of you that existed in those years. That laughed had a hard time trusting people. That held onto guilt that had built in the hollows of your chest. That person had no idea what your place in the world was. That version is in the binder. In these photos. But you're not her anymore.

Another version of me. I was in it.

Was it selfish? To go without saying goodbye properly? To disappear into a new world and not leave a thread tied back to the old one?

Maybe.

But growing up felt like being torn in half sometimes. Like you could only carry so many people forward with you before your arms got too full to hold yourself upright.

Fingers trail the edge of the page.

I wave goodbye to the end of the beginning.

But there was once a time.

And once, those days felt endless. 

Once, you thought the faces beside you would always stay. 

Once, you believed that if you tried hard enough, you could freeze the world in place and never let it change.

 But time was moving even when you weren't looking. It was slipping through your hands in tiny moments.

Moments you didn't realize were final until they were already gone.

Oh.

How you wished

You had hung onto your

high school days a little more.