you’ve pulled apart every interaction both by yourself and with yaku, who has been nothing if not kind and patient and supportive and so simply unlike himself… and so like himself at the same time because yaku morisuke is nothing if not the best friend you will ever have. far too many evenings have been spent starfished on his too-big bed with his beloved weighted penguin plush on top of you, while the guy himself paces around alternating between sitting beside you or at his tiny desk-chair. he’d never been good at sitting still, less so when the topic of conversation upset him just as deeply as it did you. 

you wish feelings made sense. even the mere thought brought a fresh wave of pain, because it had never been you who had wanted the logical side of things. it has always been him, while you had laughed and patted his elbow placatingly. you wish a lot of things made sense, actually, but they didn’t and there was also nothing you could do about any of them. so you wallow in your heartbreak and let the voice at the back of your mind call you pathetic until it goes hoarse.

there’s no space for recovery. you’re in close proximity to tetsurou at almost all times- if not physically, then in the framed photograph on your nightstand you can’t bring yourself to throw away, or in the matching phone wallpapers that all the volleyball team bar two (yaku, out of consideration for you, and kenma out of sheer stubbornness) have, or in the group chat that still floods your phone every night. in kenma’s not-so-secret private instagram, in kai’s shared google photo album, in lev’s clumsy little wannabe vlogs, in yaku pretending he isn’t in the same room as you when tetsurou calls. most of all, he’s in your own head- you hold so many memories of him you might just burst. 

you wish the world would stop. stop reminding you of him, stop existing with him in it, stop existing with the both of you in it- anything would be preferable. but the earth refuses to stop spinning because you’re sad, and you wish that the earth didn’t have quite so much of kuroo tetsurou in it. 

(funnily enough, that isn’t the only impossible thing you wish for.)

the earth will not stop spinning, and your friends will not let you stay rooted in the muck of feelings he left you in. you continue to eat lunch with the second-years (on all five days of the week instead of just two now), you continue to walk the first-years home when they stay back late for practice (you do it alone now), you continue to poke fun at taketora and lev over the post-game bowls of ramen and you continue to treat inuoka like your long-lost son. you continue to crack a smile at fukunaga's puns and you continue to beg kai for homework answers over text mere hours before the deadlines. you continue to smile at tetsurou in greeting, continue to stay back when he asks you to discuss their prospects at nationals with coach nekomata, continue to offer to clean up the gyms every other day so he can head home to take care of his grandmother. the heavy knot of heartbreak still hangs like dead weight inside your rib cage, but as long as you continue complaining about kenma’s god awful sleep schedule and continue nodding energetically at snippets of songs that play when yaku slips you his earbuds, you can gloss over the way tetsurou hurt you. 

you get used to the weight with time. it doesn’t fade, but your friends seem to notice a difference even though they say nothing about it. kenma stops hiding his instagram stories from you when he posts another tetsurou grandpa moment. yaku stops sending you cautious glances during practices. taketora finally stops treating you like you’re about to break and starts clamouring for you to join the team bonding sessions once again. 

you aren’t fooled, though. your pain isn’t the kind of scar that heals up cleanly and quickly. you’re fighting to pretend you’re fine, existing this close to kuroo tetsurou and ignoring every instinct that screams at you to quit your post as nekoma’s volleyball manager and beg your parents to let you transfer to itachiyama.

the only thing that makes it hard to stick to the track, unsurprisingly, tetsurou is himself. 

he isn’t even trying. he’s normal again, and you know him well enough to tell that he (unlike you) is not faking a thing. there’s no internal conflict behind the large honest eyes every time he nods at you in greeting, no hesitation or pain echoing across his mind when he casually throws himself onto the couch between you and kenma on movie night and slings an arm across the back of the sofa inches from your head and shoulders. 

that , at least, makes sense, you think to yourself, walking home alone after a night out at the arcade with the team. he was the one who broke up with you so why should he feel any of the pain? why should he feel the ghosts of your touch on the sides of his face and the insides of his wrists every time he absentmindedly brushes against you in a crowded hallway? why should he lie awake at night trying not to think about the feeling of your arms curled around his waist when you used to nap together during free periods? 

he has no reason to agonize over something he chose to end, you know. rationalizing it doesn’t make it better.

the messy cannonball of emotions tucked neatly between your ribcage’s left walls wouldn’t hurt half as bad if it was another thing you shared with tetsurou, you think bitterly, wrapping your scarf tighter around your face. but life is unfair and this is the one thing you don’t share. you’re unbalanced. kuroo is fine and you are not.