âThings They Didnât Meanâ
They didnât mean to hurt you â but they did.
And you started changing because of it.
Now they notice⌠and itâs already different.
âWatch what you eat,â Ushijima says, voice low, neutral. Heâs looking at your tray like itâs offended him.
You smileâa practiced, automatic thingâand laugh it off.
âOh, right. Yeah. Just hungry, I guess.â
He nods. Just once.
And thatâs the end of it. To him, anyway.
The next day, you bring a salad. You poke at the lettuce with your plastic fork, chew each bite like penance. He glances at your lunch, says nothing.
The day after, itâs just fruit. You peel a clementine slowly, fingers sticky with juice, and avoid his eyes.
Then you stop bringing your usual snack. The one he used to reach over and steal a bite of without asking. The one that always made him smileâsubtly, but still. Now your bag is empty. So are you.
By the fourth day, Tendou corners him by the gym doors.
âHey, Wakatoshi,â he says, voice too light. âYou realize sheâs barely eating, right?â
Ushijima blinks. Still, silent. His gaze drifts toward youâsitting against the wall, water bottle untouched, your eyes vacant in a way he canât quite name.
That evening, practice ends. The sun is low, gym almost empty. You sit alone on the bleachers, staring at nothing, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve.
He approaches without a word, sits beside you like it's instinct. In his hands: two onigiri, wrapped carefully.
âI didnât mean it that way,â he says, eyes on the rice, not you. âI just⌠I care if you're healthy. Not thinner.â
You donât respond. Your fingers twitch toward your bag, but fall short. He places one onigiri in your lap, the other in his own hands.
You pick at the rice. Slowly. Cautiously. Like youâve forgotten how to be hungry.
He doesnât speak. Just sits with you, quiet, steady. Watching.
Thereâs guilt in the way his shoulders slope. In the way his chopsticks pause every few bites, waiting to see if youâll keep going.
You finish half. Itâs the most youâve eaten all week.
He nudges the second one a little closer. Not pushingâjust offering.
âPlease eat,â he says, barely louder than a whisper. âWith me.â
For a long time, he says nothing else. But his silence is kind now. Careful.
And when he finally looks at you, itâs with eyes that say heâs sorry in all the ways words canât.
The words slipped out of Shirabuâs mouth like a diagnosisâclinical, cold, final.
And the worst part?
You werenât even fighting.
You had just spilled tea on your notesâweeks of lectures and scribbled diagrams now soaked through and curling at the edges. You laughed, a little sheepishly, brushing at the mess with your sleeve. âWell. Thatâs my sign to take a break, I guessââ
He stared at the papers like theyâd personally offended him.
âYouâre not cut out for the kind of future I want.â
You blinked.
ââŚFuture?â
He nodded once, distracted, eyes already flicking back to his laptop. âMedicineâs not for people who lose focus. Who make little mistakes.â
You smiled, like it didnât sting.
Laughed, like you hadnât heard that same voice in your own head on bad days.
âRight. Of course.â
That night, you stayed up redoing your notes from scratch.
And the night after that.
And the one after that.
You started waking up before him.
Stopped doodling in the margins of your med books.
Stopped humming when you cooked, because every second needed to be productive.
Coffee became a meal. Sleep became a luxury.
You didnât complain. Didnât cry.
Just⌠shifted. Quietly. Carefully. Willfully.
The version of you Shirabu fell forâthe one who teased him while quizzing him on anatomy terms, who wore fuzzy socks to study groups, who once made him a human heart out of Jello just to prove a jokeâshe was slowly fading.
At first, he liked the change.
The silence. The discipline.
The way your pens were always aligned now.
The way you never interrupted him mid-sentence anymore.
You never touched him just because anymore.
Never made dumb puns over dinner.
Your shoulders stayed tense even in your sleep.
The music in your world had gone quietâand he hadnât realized how much he loved its sound until it disappeared.
One night, he came home late from the library and found you at your desk, fast asleep.
Your glasses were still on.
Your hand was stained with blue ink, fingertips trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little rest.
There was a cut on your thumb from a broken pen.
Your lips were dry.
You looked paleâdrained, like all your color had been slowly siphoned away.
He didnât say anything. Just stood there, heart sinking.
And when he touched your hand, you didnât even stir.
He sat down beside you, swallowing guilt like poison.
âI didnât mean for you to become someone else,â he whispered, the words raw and foreign in his mouth. âI just wanted you with me. I didnât realize I was asking you to lose yourself.â
His voice cracked.
For the first time in years, he cried.
Because you were still there. Breathing. Trying.
But something in you had cracked.
And he had been the one to make the first fracture.
That was the last thing he said to you that day.
You had just finished gushing about your favorite showâsomething about parallel universes and time loops and a sad, smiley villain who reminded you of him (your words, not his).
You were laughing, hands moving, eyes bright.
And he had sighed, leaned back in his chair, and muttered:
âAre you done yet?â
You blinked.
Laughed it off. âRight. Sorry. Got carried away.â
He didnât respond. Just went back to scrolling.
After that, you didnât talk about your favorite shows anymore.
Stopped sending him memes.
Stopped rambling in long voice notes that always ended with you laughing at your own jokes.
He noticed, of course. But didnât say anything.
âShe doesnât text you stuff anymore, huh?â
Tsukishima scoffed. âDidnât realize you were tracking my notifications.â
But later that night, alone in his room, he opened your chat.
Scrolled through the silence.
Past the last thing you sentâa meme, three weeks ago. A stupid one, about dinosaurs and headphones. He hadnât even reacted to it.
The empty space beneath it felt louder than any rant you used to send.
The next day, he walked past a store on the way home and froze.
In the window: a little keychain of your favorite character.
The one you wouldnât shut up about for two whole weeks.
The one he pretended not to care about but secretly knew the name of.
He didnât even think. Just⌠did.
The next morning, he dropped it on your desk before class. No warning. No note.
You blinked, staring at the tiny figure in your hand.
âWhatâs this for?â
He adjusted his glasses, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
âSo youâll annoy me again.â
You stared at him for a beat, stunned. Then your lips twitched.
You didnât say anything.
But that night, he got a message.
[you]: i just rewatched episode 8 again and i need you to understand how emotionally devastating that scene was. also this keychain is SO cute i might cry.
He read it three times.
Smiled. Just a little.
(Translation: I forgive you. I missed you too.)
He had said it offhandedly. Barely looking up from his phone.
You had just sent him a selfieâyour hair a little messy, eyes a little dull, but your smile was there. Honest. Tired, maybe. But still you.
And he said:
âYou look tired.â
You blinked at the screen, lips twitching in a way that didnât quite reach your eyes.
Then replied,
âYeah. Been a long day.â
After that, you stopped sending selfies.
Started fixing your hair more before calls.
Wore cooler tones. More neutrals. Nothing bright. Nothing bold.
Started double-checking the lighting. Your angles. Yourself.
One day you joked,
âBetter not look tired again, right?â
But your voice was too quiet. The kind that curls at the edge of something fragile.
âShe doesnât send you stuff anymore, huh?â
Suna didnât answer.
âYou told her she looked tired, didnât you?â
He shrugged. But his thumb froze over your chat.
Unread messages: none.
The last picture you sent had disappeared after twenty-four hours. You didnât save it.
And you hadnât sent another since.
The silence in the thread felt heavier than words.
So he stared at his camera for a long second, then sighed and snapped a picture.
No filters. No angles. Just himâmessy hair, hoodie hood half-on, eyes barely open.
He sent it with a message:
âThis is how I look when I actually look tired.â
âYou always look like someone I wanna keep looking at.â
You stared at the screen. Chest aching.
Then, finally:
[you]: you're still bad at words.
[suna]: yeah. but iâm trying.
And he was.
In his own wayâawkward, quiet, a little late.
(And somehow, that was what mattered most.)
You didnât mean to bother him.
You had only sent three messages.
Short ones. Thoughtful, even.
[you]: hey, u free later?
[you]: you okay? youâve been quiet today.
[you]: let me know if you need anything. iâll leave you be. promise.
And then it came.
His reply.
Flat. Dismissive.
Laced with exhaustion and that familiar edge he gets when heâs overwhelmed.
[oikawa]: youâre really needy sometimes.
You stared at the screen for a moment too long.
Then you smiled. The kind of smile you force when people are watching.
âlol sorry. my bad.â
One last message. That was all.
You stopped texting first.
Stopped sending him memes you knew would make him laugh.
Stopped double-texting, triple-texting.
Stopped reaching out at all.
You gave him what he seemed to want.
By the time the team wrapped up practice, Oikawa was already scrolling through your messages, rereading old ones like a lifeline.
There were no new ones.
No âI miss you.â
No âGoodnight.â
Just⌠nothing.
He opened your chat three times that night.
Typed. Deleted.
Typed. Deleted again.
What was he even supposed to say?
Iwaizumi noticed the silence too.
âSheâs not needy,â he said while they packed up. âYouâre just used to being worshipped.â
Oikawa Tooru had always been admiredâon the court, online, in every room he walked into.
He thought love looked like attention.
He hadnât realized until now that heâd treated your warmth like a reflex, not a choice.
Until you took it away.
Until your silence said everything.
So three nights later, he was standing in front of your door.
A hoodie pulled over his head. Hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He looked small. Not in heightâbut in guilt.
Your eyes were tired. Guarded. The space between you filled with things unsaid.
Oikawaâs voice was low. He didnât even try to smile.
ââŚI miss your âneedy,ââ he said.
You blinked, lips parting slightly.
Still, you said nothing. Just looked at him like you werenât sure if this was another performance or the real thing.
âI donât want space,â he continued. âI want your clingy texts. I want the memes. The constant check-ins. The way you send me random thoughts at midnight.â
He looked down at his shoes.
âI want everything. Even the parts I didnât appreciate.â
Then he looked up, eyes raw.
âI only push away the people I care too much about,â he whispered. âAnd thatâs you.â
It wasnât poetic.
It wasnât dramatic.
It was just honest.
For a long moment, you stood there. Then, slowlyâquietlyâyou stepped aside.
He didnât wait for permission.
He just walked in, shoulders trembling slightly.
You closed the door behind him.
And neither of you said another word.
Because this time, he would show you through presence what he failed to express in words.
He was frustrated. Quiet. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.
You knew how he got.
You didnât say anything.
You just reached outâsoftly, gentlyâfor his hand.
Not to fix him. Just to say Iâm here.
But he pulled back like your touch burned him.
âDonât touch me right now.â
The words werenât loud.
They didnât need to be.
You blinked, hand frozen mid-air. Then you let it drop, your voice a quiet crumble.
ââŚSorry.â
You stepped back. Gave him space.
And from that day on, you stayed there.
You stopped reaching for him.
Stopped brushing your fingers against his sleeve when you passed by.
Stopped fixing his hair when it curled over his forehead.
Stopped lacing your fingers through his on long walks.
You hesitated nowâevery time.
Your hands hovered near him, never landing.
And Kiyoomi⌠didnât notice.
He waited until the locker room was empty, then slammed his locker shut louder than necessary.
âYou told her not to touch you,â he said, arms crossed. âAnd now she doesnât. Happy?â
Kiyoomi blinked, confused.
âShe flinched when you brushed her arm, Omi. She flinched. That girl used to hold your hand like it was second nature.â
The words hit harder than they shouldâve.
Komori left. Kiyoomi sat down, heart unsettled, brain replaying every tiny momentâyour hands curled into your lap, your stiff shoulders, the way your gaze flicked to his fingers then away.
You were gone, somehow, even while still beside him.
That nightâno, early morningâhe couldnât sleep.
He stared at his phone screen in the dark, thumbs hovering. Then:
[sakusa]: iâm sorry. i didnât mean to make you feel unwanted.
No typing bubbles appeared.
He didnât expect them to.
But the next day, he found you outside the gym, hugging your arms to yourself, pretending not to see him.
He walked straight to you.
He didnât speak. Not yet.
He just reached forwardâand for once, it was him who was shakingâand took your hand. Both of his around yours, like anchoring something fragile.
You looked down at the connection.
Then back at him.
His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
âI want you close,â he said. âEven when Iâm upset. Especially then.â
He held your hand tighter.
And in that quiet moment, on the edge of hurt and healing, you let yourself believe him.
Because sometimes, people push away what they need most.
And sometimes, if theyâre lucky, they get the chance to hold it again.
You used to sit beside him.
No words. No noise.
Just quiet company while his fingers danced across the keyboard, headset snug over his ears.
You liked being close.
He never complainedâuntil one night, between matches, he muttered without looking at you:
âYouâre kind of distracting when Iâm streaming.â
It wasnât cruel.
It wasnât sharp.
And after that⌠you stopped.
You stopped bringing snacks and dropping soft kisses to his temple when he won.
Stopped curling up next to him.
Stopped humming under your breath or watching from the corner of his screen.
You stayed in your room more.
Kenma didnât notice at firstâtoo busy adjusting his settings, managing collabs, climbing ranks.
But Kuroo noticed.
Over Discord, mid-game, as Kenma sat in silence between rounds, Kuroo muttered:
âShe doesnât bug you anymore, huh?â
Kenma blinked.
âWhat?â
âYou look kinda lonely now.â
The words landed like a delayed hit.
Kenma glanced to the sideâout of instinctâat the space where you used to sit.
Empty.
Still.
He stared longer than he meant to.
His fingers paused over the keys.
The stream kept running. The chat wondered what happened. But Kenma didnât move.
Later that night, he found himself in front of your door.
A bag of your favorite snacks in hand. Slightly crumpled from how tightly heâd been holding it.
You opened the door, eyes tired.
Surprised.
He didnât speak at first. Just held out the bag.
ââŚWhatâs this?â you asked quietly.
Your brow arched. âYou said I was distracting.â
He looked down, fingers flexing.
âI know,â he murmured. âI was wrong.â
So he stepped forward, placed the snack gently beside his controller on his desk, then turned back to you.
âCome sit with me?â he asked.
Then, even softer:
âI miss your noise.â
And for the first time in days, your lips curvedâjust slightly.
He held his hand out toward you.
And this time, when you took it, he didnât let go.
Not even when the game started.
Not even when chat noticed.
Because he wasnât playing to win anymore.
He just wanted you back beside him.
Even if you distracted him.
Especially if you did.
You hadnât meant to cry.
You didnât even realize it was happeningâuntil your voice cracked mid-sentence, and you saw the way Atsumuâs expression tightened, not with concern, but irritation.
âIâm not in the mood for your drama right now.â
It hit like a slammed door.
"Sorry," you said, voice barely there.
And after thatâyou stopped.
You stopped venting.
Stopped opening up.
Started smiling too wide, laughing a little too quickly.
"Iâm fine."
"Just tired."
"Nothing big."
You said it so much, you almost believed it.
Not at firstâhe was too wrapped up in training, in pressure, in exhaustion and ego.
But Osamu noticed.
âYou broke something, yâknow,â he said one night, tossing a towel over Atsumuâs head.
âYou might wanna fix it before it stays broken.â
Thatâs what finally made him pause.
And thatâs what led him hereâ
To the empty gym hallway, where he found you sitting against the wall, knees to your chest, eyes blank.
You didnât notice him at first.
Didnât look up.
Didnât flinch.
He walked over, crouched down, and gently rested his forehead against your shoulder.
ââŚIâm the drama,â he whispered, voice raw. âNot you.â
He clenched his fists. Loosened them. Then tried again.
âPlease donât hide your feelings from me. Ever.â
You looked away, eyes burning, lip tremblingâbut still, you said nothing.
So Atsumu pulled you into his arms.
Held you there. Not asking for forgiveness, not rushing itâjust there.
âI was stupid,â he mumbled into your hair.
âI was tired and selfish and I made you feel like too much.â
âYouâre not too much. I was just too stupid to handle someone real.â
You didnât say anything right away.
But your hands slowlyâfinallyâgripped the back of his jersey.
Because this time, he wouldnât let go first.
You were tired.
Not just physically, but the kind of tired that settles in your chest and makes everything feel heavier.
You forgot to do something small â misplanted a row of seedlings in your shared garden, or maybe you overslept and missed breakfast with him.
He didnât yell.
He never did.
Just that calm, steady voice:
âThatâs not very disciplined of you.â
No anger. Just disappointment.
And somehow, that was worse.
It clung to you for days.
You started fixing your posture more, triple-checking tasks, waking up earlier than needed.
No more lazy mornings. No more spontaneous dancing in the rain or lying in the grass just to feel the sun.
You stopped being soft. You started being⌠correct.
And he noticed.
How your laugh faded.
How your hands trembled when you thought he was watching.
It was Aran who quietly pulled him aside one afternoon.
They were harvesting. The sun was warm. But Kita felt cold at the words:
âSheâs not blooming anymore. Sheâs surviving.â
âYouâre so focused on raising standards⌠you didnât see her lower herself.â
That night, he found you tending the garden.
The same bed you both built together.
The soil was dry. The petals curled inward. And so were you.
He knelt beside you silently, heart heavy.
âDiscipline matters,â he started. âBut so does grace. I shouldâve given you more of it.â
You didnât look at him.
Your fingers kept digging gently through the soil.
So he did something rare.
He placed his hand over yours.
Soft. Still. Sure.
âYou donât need to be perfect⌠to be precious to me.â
Your breath hitched.
And when you finally looked up â eyes glassy, dirt smudged on your cheek â
he smiled, just barely.
âLetâs grow softer things. Together.â
Youâd tried something new.
Maybe you curled your hair, tried eyeliner, wore that outfit you werenât sure about but finally had the courage to put on.
You didnât expect a grand reaction.
But you didnât expect that either.
He didnât laugh.
Didnât smirk.
Just said it like a volleyball stat: flat. Unthinking. Unfiltered.
You smiled like it didnât hurt.
Went to the bathroom that night and wiped it all off.
Told yourself it wasnât a big deal.
But the next day, you played it safe.
No more makeup.
Neutral clothes.
You toned it down, layer by layer, until it felt like youâd erased something.
And he didnât even seem to notice.
But others did.
Sugawara asked Kageyama during practice, teasing but genuine:
âWhat happened to all those selfies she used to send you? I kinda miss the glitter.â
Kageyama blinked.
Paused.
Scrolled through his phone that night.
Through bright lipstick, messy buns, silly filters, captioned doodles.
Gone, now.
Youâd stopped sending anything.
Stopped showing anything.
He found you that night, seated quietly on the porch or your shared bench near the gym.
You looked up. Tired. Dull.
He sat beside you, awkward fingers twitching on his knee.
âYouâre⌠not weird. I mean, you are, but like. Notâbad weird. Like⌠your kind of weird. And I liked that.â
You didnât respond. Just stared ahead.
So he added, softer this time:
âIâm stupid with words. But I didnât mean to make you feel like you had to disappear.â
You swallowed.
He turned slightly, desperate and clumsy:
âPlease donât change for something dumb I said. I didnât realize how much I loved⌠all of that. All of you.â
You turned to him.
Eyes glossy, voice small:
âThen why didnât you say that sooner?â
He didnât have an answer.
So instead, he reached into his pocket and held out the phone screen â a selfie of you from a month ago.
âI saved this one. I liked your smile here the most.â
It was something small.
You tripped on a stair and instinctively, he caught your wrist, pulling you close before you fell.
Someone whistled.
A teammate teased:Â âOoh, Daichi, playing knight in shining armor?â
He panicked. Embarrassed. Tried to play it cool.
So he shrugged and muttered,
âSheâs not my responsibility.â
But your smile didnât reach your eyes.
Youâd never expected him to take responsibility for you.
You werenât asking to be saved.
But youâd thought â maybe â it was okay to lean. To trust. To fall near him.
After that day, you stopped doing that.
You handled everything alone â even when your hands shook carrying too much, even when your emotions threatened to spill.
No more late-night texts.
No more spontaneous hangouts.
No more quiet moments walking beside him.
You avoided everyone for a while.
Until Suga found you missing again from another group outing and went straight to Daichi.
âShe knows sheâs not your responsibility, Daichi. She just thought⌠you gave a damn.â
That night, he went up to the school rooftop â the place you always went when you needed to breathe.
You were already there, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes on the sky.
He didnât speak.
Just sat beside you.
Let the silence ache between you both.
Then finally, barely audible:
âI wanted to protect you. Not push you away.â
You didnât look at him. You just said, hollowly:
âYou donât have to explain. I get it.â
But he shook his head gently.
âNo, you donât. I didnât say that because I didnât care. I said it because I was scared of how much I did.â
You blinked, eyes burning.
âYouâre not my responsibility,â he whispered again â but this time softer, reverent.
âYouâre my person. Thatâs⌠different.â
