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Two months.
Shoyo counted the days. Not out loud. Never out loud. But every time he passed by the now-empty spot on the bathroom sink, or felt his hand instinctively reaching out to his right in bed, only to meet cold sheets—he counted.
It was easier when he was training. When he was jumping, running, screaming at the top of his lungs for the set. But even then, the ache crept in between the beats of the ball hitting the floor. Even then, Kenma's voice echoed— “Where was I?”
Where was he?
Shoyo rubbed his palms together, knuckles raw from pushing too hard in training, from needing to feel anything other than this deep, dragging weight in his chest. The weight that hadn’t left since that night. Since he’d knelt with a ring in his hand, heart stupidly hopeful, only to watch Kenma, his Kenma, step back.
He didn’t take the ring. Didn’t take him. Not now. Not after 11 years. Shoyo wanted to scream. Instead, he just… folded.
It was a quiet Thursday night when the photo dropped. A repost. A blurry shot from a fan who had no idea their little update would detonate Shoyo’s entire world. Kenma, in a tailored coat, standing outside of his company’s new flagship building, his hand held— held —by someone else.
The caption was ridiculous. “Power couple vibes 😭💍”. Shoyo’s throat closed up. His phone almost slipped from his hand.
The comments were flooded with approval. “KENMA?? SLAY???”, “Y’all, they look GOOD together.”, some tries to throw hates too but drowned out. No one cared. Kenma was Kenma. He always walked like the rules didn’t apply to him—and people just let him.
So this was it? Kenma wasn’t hiding anymore.
Atsumu found him two hours later, sitting in the dark locker room long after everyone else had left practice.
“Dude,” he said, tossing a towel onto the bench. “You look like you just lost the World Championship.”
Shoyo didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Just muttered, “Worse.”
Atsumu blinked. His voice dropped. “Shoyo… you saw it?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Instead, he finally exhaled—shaky, hollow—and whispered, “He’s okay without me.”
“Hey,” Atsumu knelt down, his voice almost gentle. “That’s not true. Just ‘cause he’s—dating someone doesn’t mean he’s over it. It’s been two months, man, people do dumb shit when they’re hurting.”
Shoyo laughed. It was dry. Empty. Ugly. “You didn’t see him that night.”
The tears came fast after that. Ugly, gasping sobs that he tried to muffle against his forearm, like if he made himself small enough, the pain wouldn’t notice. Atsumu sat beside him, awkwardly rubbing his back.
Shoyo clutched his chest. “It didn’t take me 11 years to propose because I didn’t love him enough,” he choked out. “I—God, Atsumu—I just needed time. I needed to prove myself. I needed to prove I could take care of him, of me, of my family.”
Atsumu was silent.
“I owed it to Mama, to Natsu,” Shoyo went on, voice cracking with every word. “They spent years sacrificing everything so I could play volleyball. I couldn’t just run off and play house. I needed to become someone first. Be worth something.”
A beat.
“And Kenma?” Atsumu asked, carefully. “He wasn’t worth showing that to sooner?”
Shoyo’s eyes snapped toward him.
“What the hell does that mean?” he hissed.
“I’m just saying,” Atsumu leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “you say you were doing it for your family, for him. But did you ever ask him what he needed from you? Or were you just deciding that for yourself?”
Shoyo stood. His fists clenched.
“I was doing my best! ” he shouted, voice raw. “I was breaking my body just to stay in this game! I sent money back home every month. I called when I could. I went to Kenma’s launches when no one else did. I chose him, every damn time.”
“But not publicly,” Atsumu said, quiet.
Not cruel. Just honest. And somehow, that was worse.
Shoyo’s hands trembled as he grabbed his bag. He couldn’t breathe.
“It’s not that I didn’t love him,” he whispered, like trying to explain it to someone who never lived it. “It’s just… I needed to build something before I gave myself away. I needed to be enough. Not just some high school love story he outgrew.”
“You were enough, Shoyo,” Atsumu said, standing too. “You always were. You just didn’t believe it.”
That night, Shoyo lay on his apartment floor, the lights off, the unopened ring box still on his desk. He hadn't returned it. Couldn’t.
He hadn’t even looked at it since Kenma walked away. But now, in the dark, it called to him like a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding.
He crawled toward it. Hands shaking, he opened it.
The ring sat there. Simple. Gold. Perfect. And useless .
Shoyo pressed his forehead to the edge of the desk, shoulders shaking.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
For not saying it sooner. For not fighting harder. For letting the boy who loved him turn into a man who walked away.
He thought he was doing it for Kenma. But maybe all Kenma ever wanted was him.
He didn’t sleep. How could he? The walls of his apartment echoed with silence too loud to ignore. It was supposed to be peaceful—his own space, his own quiet—but without Kenma breathing on the other end of the bed, without the soft clicking of a mechanical keyboard in the background, it felt like a vacuum.
He lay on the floor, sprawled out like a forgotten ragdoll. Eyes wide open. Muscles locked from stillness. The light from the moon slid across the tiles, shifting slowly with time he didn’t track. By sunrise, the floor was cold under his back, but not as cold as the absence of warmth he once took for granted.
And then he stood. Dressed. Hoodie. Mask. Cap.
He didn’t know where he was going, until his feet took him there– Back to the café around the corner from Kenma’s office. The one they used to sneak into during Kenma’s breaks. Kenma hated the coffee but loved the view, loved watching people.
He stepped in and sat at the table near the glass window— their spot. He used to sit there when he waited for Kenma to wrap up a meeting. Sometimes Kenma would sit across him, head tilted, eyes blank with exhaustion, and say, “Can I just stare at you for five minutes and pretend the world’s quiet?”
Shoyo would laugh, and let him. He wondered who gets that silence now.
His hand trembled slightly as he sipped his drink. Bitter. Too bitter.
And then there he was— Kenma. Across the street. Phone in hand. Laughing. Not at him, not near him, not because of him; He wasn’t alone.
Shoyo's breath caught. His heart thudded once, painfully, like it remembered how to feel again all at once.
Kenma was on the phone, his expression neutral, his stride slow and composed. He wore a long coat—probably that sleek black one Shoyo had helped pick out last winter. He looked... calm. Steady. Like nothing had been shaken at all.
And he wasn’t alone. The man beside him was tall. Well-dressed. Familiar in that corporate, polished way. He held Kenma’s bag. Said something that made Kenma laugh—an actual laugh. That soft huff where his eyes crinkle just slightly, barely.
The sight knocked the air from Shoyo's lungs. He blinked. Tried to look away. Couldn't.
Kenma reached for the man's hand. Not shy, not afraid. Their fingers interlaced, casually, as if they'd done it a thousand times.
As if it meant nothing, rr everything.
And then they crossed the street. Closer. Still unaware of the boy curled into himself behind the glass.
Shoyo pressed his back into the booth, panicking. He didn’t want to be seen—not like this. Not like he hadn't eaten. Not like he hadn't slept. Not like he was still in love with someone who had clearly moved on.
He lowered his cap. Shrunk into his hoodie.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. He peeked anyway.
Kenma was still smiling. Shoyo’s eyes burned.
His fingers clutched the coffee cup too tightly. It shook, tiny ripples breaking the surface. He blinked hard, forcing himself not to cry—not here, not now, not when Kenma looked so—
Happy.
Something cracked, somewhere inside. Something he didn’t know was still fragile. Something inside Shoyo that he didn’t know was still whole.
He never smiled like that when I tried to hold his hand in public.
No—wait—I never really tried, did I?
I was always checking for cameras, or fans, or teammates.
I was always scared. Always hiding.
And now… he gets to be held in the daylight, like love doesn’t cost anything.
Shoyo stood up too fast. The chair scraped loudly across the floor. A few heads turned. He didn’t care. He dropped a crumpled bill on the table and stumbled out, head low, breath shallow.
He walked in the opposite direction. Didn’t even know where he was going.
But he couldn’t watch Kenma fall in love again—especially not this time, when the world was finally clapping instead of pointing fingers.
That night, Shoyo didn’t go home. He ended up in a quiet bar, eyes on his untouched drink, playing voicemail drafts he never sent. One of them: “I still wear your hoodie sometimes. The one you left. It smells like dust now. I tried to wash it, but I was scared the scent would be gone forever.”
He didn’t send any of them. What would be the point?
When he got home, his key jammed in the lock. The door wouldn’t open—not because it was broken. Because he had tried to open Kenma’s door.
Muscle memory.
That place wasn’t his anymore.
Two nights later, Atsumu knocked. Atsumu showed up at Shoyo’s apartment uninvited. He didn’t need to knock. The door was barely closed—like Shoyo had no energy left to care if someone came in, or if no one ever did again.
The place was a disaster. Dishes untouched. Curtains drawn. Air stale.
And there was Shoyo. Sitting on the floor, back against the couch, hoodie wrapped around him like armor. His knees were tucked to his chest, head bowed. A bowl of uneaten instant ramen sat beside him. Cold.
“Jesus,” Atsumu muttered, stepping over a pile of crumpled shirts. “Y’might as well change your name to rock, ‘cause that’s what you’ve turned into.”
No answer. Atsumu dropped onto the floor in front of him, crossing his legs.
“Y’know, people have been askin’. ‘Where’s Shoyo? Is he okay? Did he quit? Is he—’” He mimicked a slash across the throat.
Still nothing.
Then Shoyo whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. “He held someone else’s hand.”
Atsumu blinked. “Huh?”
Shoyo finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, skin pale. He laughed under his breath, but it sounded more like a choke. “Kenma. Yesterday. Outside his office. He looked... happy.”
Atsumu’s lips parted, but nothing came out.
Shoyo continued, his voice trembling. “He smiled like the world was finally kind to him. Like... he was safe. I’ve never seen him look that free.” He gripped the fabric of his hoodie like he could hide inside it. “I spent years protecting a future that didn’t even come true. I spent so long thinking—if I just waited, if I just succeeded, if I just— became enough —then maybe I could finally love him in the open. Maybe then, he’d be proud to have me.”
“He was already proud of ya,” Atsumu said softly.
Shoyo’s breath hitched. “Then why didn’t I say it sooner? Why did it take me eleven years to finally tell him I wanted forever?”
Atsumu’s jaw tensed. “You tell me.”
Shoyo pressed his forehead to his knees. “Because I was scared.”
“Of what?” He didn’t answer. So Atsumu pushed harder. “Of people? The media? Of losin’ fans? Of gettin’ benched?”
“Of everything!” Shoyo shouted suddenly, voice raw. “Of losing everything I worked for, everything my family counted on me for!”
He was breathing hard now. Like his own guilt was too heavy to exhale.
“I had to take care of them, ‘Tsumu. I had to make sure Mama never had to scrub another floor, or Natsu never had to hide her lunch in school ‘cause it wasn’t as fancy as the others’. I needed to win, to be someone, before I could be—” his voice cracked, “—before I could be his. ”
Atsumu’s brows drew together. “And he knew that, didn’t he?”
Shoyo’s silence was louder than a scream.
“No,” Atsumu realized. “You never told him. You just kept makin’ him wait in the dark while you chased this invisible finish line.”
Shoyo slammed his fist into the floor, pain blooming across his knuckles. “Because I thought he understood! I thought he knew me well enough to see what I was trying to do—for both of us!”
Atsumu narrowed his eyes. “Did you see him? All those times he waited? All the nights he curled into that big-ass blanket, holdin’ on to scraps of you ‘cause you were too busy bein’ someone else’s hero?”
Shoyo flinched like he’d been slapped. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I never wanted him to feel like a secret,” Shoyo whispered. “I was just... waiting for the right time. For the right win. For the right—” his voice broke, “—version of me.”
Atsumu leaned back, exhaling deeply. “That’s the thing, Sho. Sometimes while you’re busy becomin’ the perfect version, the real one—the one who already had someone who loved him—gets left behind.”
Shoyo stared at the ceiling. His vision blurred. His heart felt like it was unraveling.
“I watched him walk away,” he said, voice barely audible. “And I didn’t stop him. Because I thought I still had time to explain. That maybe after the next championship, or after Natsu graduates, or after my new contract—then I’d kneel, I’d ask, and it would all make sense.”
He looked at Atsumu now, eyes glassy. “But he didn’t want the future I was building. He wanted the me from all those years. And I... I never let him have that.”
Atsumu stood. “So go tell him now.”
“I can’t.”. Shoyo answered, voice trembling, almost as if doesn’t want to take this chance to answer the possible the question.
“Why not?”
Shoyo looked down at his hands—calloused, trembling, empty. “Because someone else is already holding him like he’s the whole world. And I’m just the idiot who made him feel like a secret.”