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The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, casting a cold glow on the locker room tiles. Goshiki's breath still comes too fast, too shallow, like he can't quite get enough air. His jersey clings to his back, heavy with sweat and disappointment.
He drags his fingers through his hair, the strands damp and trembling against his palm. In the mirror, his reflection stares back—a face tight with frustration, eyes burning with unshed tears. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.
The ace is supposed to carry the team.
A bitter laugh scrapes his throat.
Ace.
He isn’t worthy of that title.
Not after today.
The cheers of the opposing team still echo faintly in his ears, a cruel reminder of his failure. No matter how hard he tried, how much he pushed himself, it wasn’t enough.
He wasn't enough.
His fists clench at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He had promised himself he wouldn’t cry—not again. But the weight of it presses down, suffocating and sharp. What was the point of all those extra hours? All those endless spikes, all those drills, if he couldn’t prove it when it mattered?
He squeezes his eyes shut, but it doesn’t block out the image of the final point slipping past his outstretched fingers. It doesn’t silence the phantom sound of the whistle, sharp and final.
The memory replays in his mind—too vivid, too raw. The crowd’s roar swelled as the ball hit the floor, cutting through the stunned silence on his side of the court. He could still feel the sting of sweat in his eyes, the ache in his legs from diving too late. His teammates had reached out to him afterward—patting his back, murmuring words of comfort—but they felt distant, like voices through a thick fog. None of it could erase the crushing certainty curling tight in his chest: he had let them down.
A knock on the door startles him. He knows who it is before he hears the voice.
"Goshiki?" Shirabu's voice is quieter than usual, softer. "Hey, you okay?"
For a moment, Goshiki can't answer. His throat is too tight. He wants to tell Shirabu to leave, to stop pretending like words could patch over everything that broke tonight. But the warmth in his teammate's voice keeps him from speaking the harsh words.
"I'm fine," he lies instead, his voice rough and low.
The silence stretches between them before Shirabu sighs. "You don’t have to be dumbass, not when I’m here..."
The door clicked shut, leaving Goshiki alone again.
He exhaled shakily, turning back to the mirror.
The boy staring back at him doesn’t look like an ace.
He looks lost.
Memories tug at the edges of his mind—early mornings on the court, chasing the image of the player he wanted to become. He remembers watching Ushijima, studying every movement, yearning to carry the same unshakable presence. He thought if he worked hard enough, he could bridge the gap between them. But tonight laid bare the truth he tried so hard to ignore: he wasn’t Ushijima. Maybe he never would be.
His shoulders sag beneath the weight of it. How many times had he promised himself that this year would be different? That he would stand on his own, not just as a successor, but as someone worthy of the title? Yet here he was—alone in the locker room, drowning in the same doubts that had haunted him since his first year.
He presses his palms against the cold edge of the sink, willing himself to breathe. Maybe tomorrow, he could pretend again. Maybe tomorrow, he could find that stubborn hope that had always pushed him forward. But tonight—tonight, all he could do was face the truth in the mirror.
The boy staring back at him doesn’t look like an ace. He looks lost.
And for the first time in a long while, Goshiki wonders if he ever really left that scared, fragile kid behind at all.
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The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the hospital room, a soft but persistent reminder of his weakness. Goshiki was young and small—too small to feel the weight of so much helplessness—but it was there anyway, a heavy knot twisting deep in his chest.
Outside the window, the world moved on without him.
Players played.
Seasons changed.
And he stayed behind.
He hated it.
A volleyball game flickered on the tiny television across his bed. He watched with wide, hungry eyes as players leapt, soared, and struck the ball with unyielding strength. They never hesitated. They never looked weak.
He wanted to be like them.
"One day," he whispered into the sterile air, his voice thin but fierce. "One day, I'll be strong enough that no one will think I'm weak again."
His hands, small and pale against the blanket, curled into fists.
But the hospital room was cold, and no amount of resolve could warm the ache of being left behind.
The days blurred together—monotonous and pale. Visits grew infrequent. Friends moved on. And Goshiki remained, trapped by a body too fragile to keep up. He spent hours staring at the ceiling, clinging to the memory of those soaring players on the screen. That dream became his lifeline—the promise he repeated to himself like a prayer.
One day, his parents had promised to visit. He counted the hours until they arrived—until their familiar voices would break the sterile silence. But evening fell, and the door never opened.
The nurses tried to soften the blow, offering him extra dessert or a new magazine.
It didn’t matter.
They weren’t his parents. They didn’t see the way his heart clenched with hope every time footsteps echoed down the hall, only to sag with disappointment when they passed his door.
When the lights dimmed for the night, Goshiki lay awake, staring at the ceiling. If he were stronger—if he weren’t stuck in this bed—maybe they wouldn’t have forgotten him.
And when he was finally discharged, that promise burned in his chest like fire.
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The gym feels heavier than usual, the air thick with the scent of sweat and exertion. Goshiki pushes himself harder, faster, ignoring the tremor in his limbs and the sharp pain blooming in his chest. The world narrows to the rhythm of his feet against the polished floor and the sting of the ball meeting his palm. He doesn’t notice the way his vision blurs—or maybe he chooses not to.
The last thing he remembers is the ball slipping from his grasp before the ground rushes up to meet him.
When he wakes, everything is too bright. The smell of antiseptic hangs thick in the air. The rhythmic beeping of machines fills his ears, each sound pulling him further into reality.
A doctor stands at the foot of the bed, their face a mask of quiet solemnity. "Your Cardiomyopathy has returned," they say softly. "I’m sorry…you have six months… there’s nothing more we can do."
The words echo in his skull, a cold and crushing finality.
Six months.
That’s all he has left.
Days pass in a blur of sterile walls and endless, empty hours. Goshiki spirals beneath the weight of inevitability. All his effort, all his pain—what was it for if this was how it ended?
Weak.
Fragile.
Forgotten.
He thought if he pushed hard enough, he could outrun his past. But it’s caught up to him now, dragging him down into a darkness he can’t escape.
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It takes several days before he finds the courage to tell Shirabu. Late at night, the hospital room is dim, shadows creeping along the walls, amplifying the weight of his words.
“Shirabu,” he begins, his voice quivering. “I…I need to talk to you about something important.”
Shirabu looks up, his brow furrowed with concern. “What is it? You can share anything with me.”
Taking a deep breath, he feels the lump in his throat. “I’ve been diagnosed with Cardiomyopathy, again,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. “The doctors say I only have about six months left.”
Shirabu's face turns pale, disbelief washing over him. “No. There has to be some kind of mistake.”
“It’s true,” he replies, forcing himself to hold Shirabu’s gaze. “I didn’t want to burden you…I’m sorry…”
Tears well up in Shirabu’s eyes as he shakes his head, struggling to process the news. “You should have told me sooner. We’re in this together, remember?”
A sad smile dances on his lips, heartened by Shirabu’s words. “You’re right. Together.”
Shirabu reached out, taking his hand in both of his, warmth and strength flowing between them. “Let’s make a promise. We’ll take each day as it comes and cherish every single moment we have left, no matter how few.”
He nods.
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The nights are the hardest—when the hospital hum quiets, and the weight of reality sinks in. One evening, Shirabu finds Goshiki sitting by the window, staring out at the city lights like they hold an answer he’ll never find.
"You should sleep, idiot. You need rest," Shirabu says softly, stepping closer.
"I’m scared," Goshiki admits, the words trembling on his lips. "I don't want to disappear."
Shirabu swallows against the ache in his throat and kneels beside him, taking Goshiki’s cold hand in his own. "I’m here. I’m not going anywhere."
The promise lingers in the air, fragile but fierce. When Goshiki finally turns to face him, Shirabu lifts a hand to cup his cheek. Their kiss is slow—salted by tears neither of them acknowledges—and when they part, Shirabu rests his forehead against Goshiki’s.
"You’re not alone," he whispers. "Not ever."
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In his final weeks, Goshiki grows weaker, but Shirabu stays by his side—reading to him, brushing his hair, holding his hand through sleepless nights. The hospital becomes a second home, the sterile walls softened by shared laughter and quiet moments. Goshiki no longer tries to be strong all the time—he doesn’t have to, not with Shirabu there.
Sometimes, they talk about the past.
Sometimes, they plan futures they know they’ll never get to live.
A future that would never be.
Pets that would never exist
A family that couldn’t be.
A child’s life that would never be theirs.
But more often, they just sit together in silence, the kind that speaks volumes.
One night, as the first leaf of autumn falls outside the window, the hum of the machines slows. Goshiki’s fragile now, as he whispered, “I think… I’d like to be with you in the next life…” Goshiki smiled, eyes glazing over as the heart monitor beeped one, long, final beep.
Shirabu’s hand in his, lips brushing his ear with a final, trembling whisper.
"I love you."
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Months later, Shirabu visits the court where they first met—tracing the lines where Goshiki once stood. The echoes of old matches still seem to hum beneath his feet. He stands at the center of the court, eyes closed, breathing in the silence.
In his bag, carefully folded, is Goshiki’s old jersey.
He carries Goshiki’s legacy forward—not just in volleyball but in the fierce, unyielding love they shared. He studies longer and lives more fully.
Because Goshiki can’t.
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Later that night, Shirabu sits on the rooftop of their old school and unfolds a letter—creased at the edges, ink slightly smudged.
Goshiki’s handwriting is messy but unmistakable.
“If you're reading this, it means I’m not there anymore. But I need you to know—I never regretted loving you. Not for a second. Not even at the end. Thank you for being my light.”
Tears fall freely as Shirabu clutches the letter to his chest, the stars above a quiet witness.
To the boy who loved too fiercely
And
The one left behind to remember.