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On a rainy day in his second year of college, Kuroo Tetsurou’s heart came to a stop.
The day pretty much began like any other. He’d awoken with dread in his chest at the thought of taking a test that made up 50% of his grade for the semester, only to find out later that he’d aced it. That afternoon, he celebrated the only way he knew how—by dragging his teammates into a scrimmage and winning it 5–3.
They were seconds away from the ninth round when the rain came down out of nowhere, chasing everyone off the court. Laughing, Kuroo and his teammates raced to get out of the drizzle, pushing each other as they went. Good thing he had an umbrella in his bag; Vicki always nagged him about carrying one everywhere.
“I’ll kick your ass next time—just wait!” Kouji called at him.
“We’ll see about that.” He grinned. Opening his umbrella and hefting his bag from the bench, he glanced at his phone and found that it was nearly 6PM. Perfect timing—all her classes must have finished for the day. Despite the cold, he felt warm at the thought of getting to hear Vicki’s voice.
She picked up after the second ring. “Hey.”
Kuroo’s heart ached at the sound of it. He used to think the pain would get easier to bear with each passing day, but it’s been almost two years since they last saw each other, and the longing for her touch didn’t seem to have any plans of ceasing soon. “Hi,” he said. “How’s your day?”
“It’s alright,” she said. In the background, he could hear the whirring of the air conditioner, as well as some shuffling. “I just got back home.”
The thrumming in his chest only worsened. These days, her Japanese sounded more awkward than usual, especially when her tongue hadn’t had the chance to warm up yet. It was to be expected, of course. He knew that. But all the same, the inevitability of it only hurt more.
“You planning on sleeping early?” he asked, adjusting his grip on the umbrella handle. She never turned on the AC at this hour unless she wanted to go to bed early. Kuroo saw the puddle a second too late, and it was only thanks to his reflexes that he was able to sidestep it at the last moment, though some of the muddy rainwater still got onto his socks. “Ah, crap.”
She yawned, the sound distant over the phone. “Yeah, I’m taking an early night. Tomorrow’s 7:30 canceled on us, so I’m gonna go biking with my dad before sunrise.”
“Ooh, sounds fun.”
“Yeah. What happened to you?”
“Almost stepped on a puddle.”
“It’s raining over there, huh? Did you bring an umbrella?”
Kuroo smirked at that. Even when she’s no longer as accustomed to the language as she once was, she still managed to nag him. “Of course,” he said proudly. “Otherwise, you’d never let me hear the end of it.”
She laughed, the sound music to his ears. “And how did your exam go?” she asked. “You were really nervous about it.”
“Aced it, of course,” he said, bouncing on the soles of his feat, eager to hear her praise.
“Hmm,” she hummed. “I’m not surprised. What did I tell you? You worked hard.”
He pouted. “Can’t you at least tell me I’m the best and smartest man you know?”
“You’re the best and smartest man I know.”
“Right?” He beamed, even though she can’t see him.
“Anyway, where are you?” she asked. “Are you back at your dorm?”
“I played volleyball with my friends, but it rained all of a sudden so we had to wrap it up.” At the crossing, he waited for the light to turn green, adjusting his umbrella over his head.
“Ah, I see,” came Vicki’s reply. “I’ll wait for you to arrive, then. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
A tight band pulled around Kuroo’s lungs, and his next breath stalled halfway in. He had to consciously pull the air inside, but it still felt thin and lacking of oxygen.
He knew what this was about, knew what she wanted to say even before she said it. He’d seen this coming, though part of him had wished, desperately, that he was wrong.
“No,” he said, staring at the red light. “Tell me.”
Vicki took a deep breath, and he heard it shake. “I think we should break up.”
And there it was: the thing they had both been trying not to say. It lingered in the pauses between their conversations, in the way their calls sometimes drift into silence they no longer know how to fill. The strange thing is that a part of him felt almost relieved to hear it. Not because he wanted it—God knows he didn’t—but because the waiting had been its own kind of slow torture.
Now, at last, the breaking point had arrived, and all the dread that had been gathering inside him finally had a tangible form.
The light turned green, and when he didn't move, people started walking around him, throwing him a sideways glance in confusion. Dimly, he felt someone push past him impatiently, making him stumble lightly—but his head was spinning too wildly for him to care much.
The light turned red again.
“It’s been… really difficult for me,” she continued after a long period of silence, “the same way I know it’s been for you, too. I tried my best to make this work; I really did. I wanted this to work, it’s just…”
In the movies, when long distance relationships don’t work out, Kuroo would often see the boyfriends ask their now-ex-girlfriends whether there was someone else they were seeing—and he used to think that was the normal path one’s mind would take.
But now that those movie scenes have become his reality… he realizes that it’s an entirely different pain altogether.
He had no doubt that the only villain in their story was the circumstances which they have been given. The path they once walked side by side simply no longer run in the same direction—two lovers in separate worlds, the space between them growing wider than love alone could cross.
“I understand,” he said, letting out a shaky laugh, forcing himself upright. ”I…” he trailed off, because what do you even say to this? How could he possibly encapsulate the depth of his feelings with just a few words? How could he tell her that he knows she’s been struggling, and that he knows she’s not built for long distance, yet for his sake she’s been trying and trying—and it still isn’t enough in the end?
“Can I just…” he finally summoned his voice. “Can I ask you a favor, at least?”
“Tetsu, are you okay?” she asked, and he could tell that she was not. “I know this is too sudden—”
“No, I…” he breathed out. “Of course, I’m not okay, but I know this isn’t easy for you either.” The light turned green again for the second time since he stood here waiting, but still he didn't move. “I just… can we still be friends at least?” I don’t want to let you go just yet.
“Tetsu, that’s a bad idea,” she warns.
𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. “Please, Vick, I—” An uncontrolled sob escaped him, and he had to press a hand to his mouth to drown the sound. When he was calmer, he continued, “I still want to be friends. Please.”
“Okay,” she said.
And the pain followed him all throughout his third and fourth years. In his darkest hours, he would feel anger flaring up all of a sudden. Anger at the distance, anger at the timing.
Anger at the stupid, stubborn way life had rearranged itself so that loving her and keeping her had somehow become two different things.
Sometimes the anger turns toward her, unfairly. He would replay old conversations in his head, picking apart words, wondering if she had given up too easily.
But it never lasted.
Because the truth always came back: she hadn’t stopped loving him. He knew this the same way he knew the sound of her laugh, or the way she either hums to herself or bursts into song to concentrate on her notes.
They simply have just… run out of ways to make it work.
And when the anger faded, all that’s left was the dull ache that makes itself a familiar constant into the background of his days. It was there when he walked between classes, when he sat in the back of lecture halls, when he saw couples leaning into each other on campus benches.
Life kept moving forward, anyway, and two months later, it was Kuroo that finally broke and asked for no contact. At the time, asking to remain friends felt like the brave thing to do—after all, they had been friends first before they were lovers, and what they had was bigger than a relationship status.
Losing her completely felt impossible, unimaginable, and friendship was the one small piece of her he could still keep.
But it was only the wishful thinking of a naive man who hadn’t yet learned that some distances hurt more when you pretend they aren’t there.
So one night he typed the message he had been avoiding for weeks, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a long time.
Asking for no contact feels like he was losing her for the second time—except now it’s a decision he had to make himself.
