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The locker room was a mausoleum.
A chill hung in the air, though the AC whirred faintly in the corner, its hum offering little solace against the dampness that seemed to seep into Goshiki Tsutomu’s very bones. Shoes kicked off littered the tiled floor, while the sharp tang of sweat clung to the wooden benches and cold metal lockers like an unwelcome spectre of regret. It was as if the entire room was holding its breath, trapped in a tense silence that reverberated around him.
Goshiki sat alone in the centre of it all, his broad shoulders hunched over with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced tight enough to blanch his knuckles, a white-knuckled grip tightening. His hair, normally a proud puff of volume and energy, lay plastered to his forehead in matted strands, slick with sweat that never quite dried. The fabric of his jersey—number eight—was drenched, clinging to him like a second skin, heavy and suffocating, the Shiratorizawa crest on his chest weighing on him like an anchor threatening to pull him under the surface.
He didn’t cry. Instead, he just stared at the floor, fixating on the way his shoes tapped softly against the cold tile—a rhythmic countdown that echoed the dread settling in his stomach.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The sound grew louder in his ears, drowning out every other thought, each beat a reminder of his failures.
In his mind, the match played on a cruel loop, each moment replaying like a relentless horror film. Karasuno, their colours, orange and black, like wildfire consuming everything in its path. Hinata soared above the net, defiant and free, like he had wings—an image of effortless grace that stung more than it inspired. Kageyama, with eyes as sharp as a hawk, set the ball with the precision of a sniper, each pass perfectly calculated. Every play they executed was like a spotlight turned mercilessly onto Goshiki’s flaws. His spikes had been too shallow, landing with a weak thud rather than the explosive impact he was known for. His blocks had arrived too late, while the ball sailed past him, mocking his every misstep.
He had talked big.
He always did.
The declarations he made were like shields he carried into battle. He was the next ace, destined to surpass Ushijima, his own teammate and rival. Everyone had heard him boast it during practice; those bold proclamations rang out like battle cries against the backdrop of sweat and effort. But now, in the aftermath of the harsh reality, he felt like a fraud, a jester in a court where everyone knew the truth.
The door creaked open, and footsteps padded in—heavy and measured. It wasn't Semi or Tendou.
No, it was Ushijima who entered, a towering presence that filled the space with an intense gravity.
"You are still here," he remarked, his voice stoic and devoid of any hint of emotion. It wasn't cold or warm, just factual. As always, Ushijima delivered truths with a blunt edge that could cut through any front.
Goshiki didn’t look up. He focused on the tiles beneath his shoes, willing the shame to dissolve with the layers of skin he pressed against the cold floor. "Yes," he replied, the word barely escaping his lips, heavy with the weight of defeat.
A pause stretched between them, thick and suffocating, stretching seconds into what felt like hours.
"You played poorly today," Ushijima stated, his tone unwavering.
Goshiki’s jaw clenched at the words that pierced through him like icy daggers. The truth of it stung—he knew it, felt it deep in his bones—but hearing it aloud felt like a public declaration of everything he feared.
“I know,” he murmured, barely loud enough to fill the silence that now enveloped them.
"You hesitated. Several times. You were too slow on your transitions and missed 11 spikes." Each observation from Ushijima was another brick laid upon the weight crushing down on Goshiki’s chest. He felt as if he were drowning, unable to catch his breath.
He couldn’t argue, couldn’t bristle against the truth that Ushijima laid bare. There was no point; Ushijima only spoke what he knew to be true.
“I... I tried," Goshiki whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession. He hated how small it sounded, how inadequate.
Ushijima’s unflinching gaze didn’t waver, his eyes like twin shards of ice locking onto Goshiki’s. "Trying is not enough. You want to be the ace. You say it often. But an ace does not falter in important matches."
The silence that followed was deafening, like a thick cloud that closed in on him. Ushijima didn’t soften his words; there was no comfort or false encouragement offered. He turned and left with the same heavy steps that had entered, the sound fading until Goshiki was once again alone, drowning in a sea of shame and regret. The door creaked shut behind him, leaving Goshiki alone with his thoughts.
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Goshiki didn’t go to dinner that night. Instead, he settled onto his bed, still wearing his uniform, the fabric stiff against his skin. The soft buzz of the desk lamp cast a warm glow in the dim room, filling the space with a sense of solitude. Around him, the walls were adorned with vibrant posters of volleyball legends, with Ushijima's fierce gaze watching over him like a silent guardian. On the desk, a framed photo of his middle school team lay facedown. Goshiki refused to look at it.
He closed his eyes in an attempt to find sleep, but visions of the ball striking the net invaded his thoughts.
By the next day, he was the first to arrive at practice, the sun just beginning to break through the morning haze. He ran drills alone, each spike and serve echoing in the empty gym until his lungs burned with exertion.
Stay late.
Arrive early.
Train until the floor beneath him blurred.
The others noticed.
At first, they thought it was admirable—maybe even a little annoying in that Goshiki way. However, when he started skipping meals, when the bags under his eyes darkened, and when his limbs trembled by the third hour of drills, concern began to grow.
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Tendou was the first to speak up. "Hey, Goshiki. Are you trying to kill yourself or something?"
Goshiki didn’t stop his spiking drills. "No. I’m just trying to improve."
Tendou frowned, looking more serious than usual. "You know, there’s a fine line between hard work and self-destruction. You’re using that line like a jump rope."
Goshiki forced a smile. "I have to catch up."
Later that week, Tendou tried again. "You keep saying you want to be the ace, but you’re looking more like a ghost, man. You look like you haven’t slept in days."
"I’m fine," Goshiki replied, brushing past him.
"You're not," Tendou muttered to no one in particular.
Shirabu began tossing him fewer balls, and Goshiki noticed. “Am I... doing something wrong?” he asked after practice, his voice small.
Shirabu looked at him as if he wanted to say a hundred things but settled on just one. "You’re not the same. You play like you’re scared."
Goshiki flinched. "I’m just trying not to make mistakes."
"That's the problem."
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A perfect toss.
His moment.
And he missed.
The ball slammed into the net.
Everyone froze.
Shirabu exhaled sharply and turned. “For the love of—are you even trying anymore?”
“I am!" Goshiki snapped. His voice cracked. "I'm trying so hard—"
“Then why are you falling apart every time something goes wrong?”
“I don’t know!”
Silence.
The gym echoed with it.
Goshiki stared at the floor, fists clenched, and without a word, walked off the court.
He didn’t stop walking until he reached his dorm. Then, he tore it apart.
He violently yanked the colourful posters from the walls, one by one, as they tore and crumpled in his grasp.
In a fit of rage, he seized his old volleyball trophies, the gleaming metal catching the light for a brief moment before he hurled them at the wall. The sharp sound of plastic cracking echoed through the room, while metal trophies clattered and rolled across the wooden floor.
As he stomped down in frustration, the framed photograph of his middle school team shattered under his heel, sending shards of glass scattering like memories lost. His jersey followed, thrown into the trash bin like it had betrayed him.
He sat down amidst the destruction, chest heaving, the silence roaring.
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It was Reon who discovered him, sitting in a desolate space littered with torn posters, shattered frames, and the remnants of dreams that once flickered with promise. Dust floated in the air, catching the dim light that struggled to penetrate the grim atmosphere.
“You done?” Reon asked softly, his voice a gentle anchor in the chaos surrounding them.
Goshiki nodded, though the movement was barely perceptible. He stared at the ground, lost in his thoughts.
Reon settled himself beside him, the weight of his presence providing a semblance of comfort. “We all fall, Goshiki. You’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.”
Goshiki let out a shaky breath and frowned, his brow furrowed. “But it feels like I’m the only one. Like I’ve let everyone down. I’m not him.”
“Who? Ushijima?” Reon asked, trying to catch his gaze, but Goshiki kept his eyes downcast.
Goshiki’s voice was filled with a heavy sadness. “I’m not Ushijima. I never will be.”
Reon’s tone turned gentle but firm. “And that’s okay. You know that, right? Good. We already have one Ushijima. What we truly need is you.”
Goshiki finally looked up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But what if I’m not enough? What if I can’t live up to expectations?”
Reon placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Stop thinking about everyone else for a moment. This is about you. You have your own strengths, your own style. Just because you don’t fit into someone else’s mould doesn’t mean you’re any less valuable.”
“What if my style isn’t good enough?” Goshiki whispered, vulnerability dripping from his every word.
“Then we work on it together,” Reon replied, his voice steady. “It’s not about perfection; it’s about growth. Everyone is a work in progress, including Ushijima. You can admire him, but don’t try to be him. You’ll wear yourself out.”
Goshiki chuckled softly, a sound that cracked through the heaviness in the air. “Easier said than done, right?”
“Sure, it is,” Reon admitted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But you have to start somewhere. What do you want to do? What makes you feel alive?”
“I just… I want to play without fear,” Goshiki said.“To give it my all without worrying about falling. It’s always there in the back of my mind. What if I mess up?”
“Then you mess up,” Reon replied simply. “And you keep playing. That's why we have teammates to lift you up. You won’t fall alone.”
Goshiki considered this, his heart racing in his chest. “So, you think I can actually do it?”
“I know you can. You have it in you, Goshiki. Just remember that you’re not a replica; you’re the original. And that’s more than enough.”
“But what if I fall and it hurts everyone? What if my mistakes cost us the game?” Goshiki’s voice trembled with doubt. “I mean, I’ve seen how they look at me when I mess up. It’s not just about me.”
Reon paused, the weight of Goshiki’s words settling between them. “I get that. But think about it—every player has fallen short at some point. You’re still part of the team, and they care about you, not just your performance.”
“I wish it felt that way,” Goshiki replied, shaking his head. “I’m terrified that I’ll never find my place, that I’ll always just be in Ushijima's shadow.”
Reon sighed, trying to keep his voice calm. “You’re not in his shadow. You have your own light, Goshiki. Just let it shine.”
“I want to believe that,” Goshiki admitted, uncertainty still clouding his expression. “But what if it’s not enough? What if I’m just… not meant to be anything more?”
Reon could see the doubt still lingering in Goshiki’s eyes. “You’re so much more than you think you are. You just have to decide to believe it, too.”
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That night, Tendou knocked softly, the sound almost lost in the stillness of the evening. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his usual energy replaced by a rare quietness.
After a beat, he spoke, his voice low but steady. “You know, you're not fooling anyone. We’ve all seen how hard you’re trying to become someone else.”
Goshiki looked up from his spot on the floor, eyes raw and glistening. “I just… I thought if I could be more like Ushijima, maybe… maybe it would help.”
Tendou shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not how it works, you know? Being an ace isn’t about copying someone else's playbook. It’s about surviving the worst days and still showing up for the next match.”
Goshiki frowned, feeling a lump forming in his throat. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I keep messing up? What if I’m just not good enough?”
Tendou pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped inside, entering Goshiki’s messy room filled with broken trophies and ripped-up posters. “Look,” he said, his tone becoming more earnest. “You fell. Big deal. We’ve all eaten dirt. Remember that time I completely fumbled that last serve in the finals?”
Goshiki chuckled slightly, despite himself. “I remember. You were so frustrated after that.”
“Exactly!” Tendou laughed. “But I didn’t give up. I didn’t stop playing. I just figured out where I went wrong, licked my wounds, and got back on the court. That’s what being an ace is about—learning from those stumbles and coming back stronger.”
Goshiki sighed, leaning back against the wall. “It just feels so heavy, you know? The pressure to perform, to be perfect… It’s like everyone’s watching and waiting for me to slip.”
Tendou took a step closer, lowering his voice. “And that’s when you need to remember why you started playing in the first place. Was it for the trophies? The glory? Or was it to push yourself, to enjoy the game?”
Goshiki pondered that for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the window where the moon hung brightly. “I think… I loved the thrill of the game. The teamwork. The feeling of hitting the ball just right. But now it’s just… fear.”
“Fear is a part of it,” Tendou agreed. “But hey, look at me, I use fear to get us points, you can too. Get back up little Ace.”
Goshiki looked up at him, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes but dying out slowly. “So, you really think I can get back up?”
Tendou grinned, ruffling Goshiki's hair affectionately. “I know you can. You just have to believe it yourself. So what do you say? Ready to get back out there and show everyone what you're really made of?”
Goshiki nodded, looking away.“Yeah. sure...”
“That's the spirit!” Tendou cheered, a triumphant smile illuminating his face. “But first, how about we grab some food? You need some fuel for your comeback.”
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It took time.
Slowly, the cracks in Goshiki’s armour began to mend. Not with steel, but with something more human. He laughed again at Tendou’s terrible jokes, the way they seemed to bounce off the gym walls, bringing a lighter air to their relentless practices.
“Did you hear about the volleyball that went to school?” Tendou quipped, a grin stretching across his face. “It wanted to get a little ‘set’ up for life!”
Goshiki rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. “You really need to work on your jokes, Tendou. But I appreciate the effort.”
He turned to Shirabu, who still shot him an unimpressed look. “Sorry about earlier,” Goshiki said, a nervous edge in his voice. “I know I messed up the spikes...”
Shirabu grunted in response, but then, unusually, his mouth quirked into a half-smile. “Just remember, even the best players have their off days. Just don’t make it a habit.”
With renewed determination, Shirabu began tossing balls to him again. Goshiki felt his confidence swell; he wasn’t perfect, but he was trying. He didn’t want to drown anymore in self-doubt—he wanted to rise.
One day, after an especially brutal practice, Ushijima approached him as he cooled down, wiping the sweat from his brow. Goshiki's heart raced; having Ushijima acknowledge him felt monumental.
“You’ve improved,” Ushijima said simply, his voice steady. “You are less afraid now.”
Goshiki opened his mouth, not sure how to respond, but Ushijima began to walk away, only to pause and turn back.
“If you wish to surpass me,” Ushijima added, “you will need to fail more. Allow it to challenge you, but do not let it define who you are.”
“Surpass you?” Goshiki whispered, feeling the weight of Ushijima’s expectations. “That seems impossible.”
Ushijima's expression softened slightly, a rare glimpse behind his stoic facade. “Nothing is impossible if you truly want it, Goshiki. And you’ve proven to me just how much you want it.”
Goshiki felt a shift inside him. He didn’t know what to say, but the words settled in his chest. It wasn't peace, and it wasn’t pride—it was purpose.
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Weeks later, under the dim and fading glow of the gym lights, Goshiki lingered yet again, the quiet hum of the world outside fading into a distant memory. He could still hear the echo of laughter and chatter as his teammates made their way out, the door creaking as it closed behind them. He found himself thankful for the solitude—for the space it created to think, to breathe.
This time, his hands were steady. With each spike, he felt more grounded; each step was measured, not frantic or desperate but fluid, almost elegant. He wasn’t seeking perfection anymore. What mattered now was the rhythm he was building—a rhythm that didn’t demand validation from anyone else. This was about him. It was about unlocking a side of himself he had kept hidden for far too long.
As he practised, Semi's voice broke through his concentration, playful and lighthearted. He tossed a ball toward Goshiki as he walked out, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Don’t wear the floor out with all that dramatic self-reflection.”
Goshiki caught the ball effortlessly, the grin that spread across his face genuine and wide. “No promises,” he called back, a hint of mischief dancing in his tone.
Tendou’s laughter rang out from the shadows of the exit. “He’s back, baby!”
In this moment, amidst the low echoes and the creaking floorboards, something within him shifted. It was a freeing sensation, one that filled him with warmth. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like an impostor wandering through the halls of his own life. No longer did the weight of comparison bear down on him. He felt undeniably like Goshiki Tsutomu—real, vibrant, and unapologetically himself.
And that feeling?
It was enough.
It was everything.