The atmosphere of the school had changed after Sayaka's speech.
But the gym…
The gym hadn't caught up yet.
The moment the classes ended, the student body poured into the stands, buzzing with a new kind of energy — not chaotic, not mocking, but watchful.
Because now they wanted to see something more than performance.
They wanted to see character.
And today's basketball match was the perfect stage.
1. A Team Without a Center
The basketball club was in shambles long before Eadlyn arrived.
They had technique, discipline, and even talent—
But no heart.
And heart was the one thing you couldn't coach.
Their captain's sudden absence — "family issues" — spread confusion quietly, but Eadlyn could read it instantly:
It wasn't grief.
It was surrender.
And surrender spreads faster than fear.
Ken stood in the corner, tying and retying his shoelaces, fingers trembling.
He hadn't looked at the court once.
Eadlyn walked beside him.
"You're not afraid of the match," he said.
"You're afraid of repeating history."
Ken froze.
Slowly, painfully, he nodded.
Ken was made the captain, and Eadlyn was taken into the team , after coach decided to give me a chance since he had played miraculously against the absent captain.
It was a deliberate, but an desparate choice, not that it was favouritism to other benched candidates.
They wanted to argue, but coach silenced them saying to watch him on court before jumping on conclusions.
2. A Ghost Returns — And Stares Straight
Through Ken
The opposing team entered from the far corridor.
Tall. Clean uniforms. Easy confidence.
And leading them—
Kaito Ishida.
The boy who once led this team.
The boy who left when things got rough.
The boy who mocked them for falling apart.
He walked like someone who believed he was the only player who mattered.
His eyes swept through the home team…
and dismissed Ken without a blink.
Ken's breath hitched.
Eadlyn saw it. Sayaka, who had just stepped into the gym balcony, saw it too. Hiroto, leaning against the wall, recognized it instantly.
The look Kaito gave Ken wasn't insult.
It was erasure.
And erasure hurt worse than hate.
3. The First Quarter — Collapse Without Noise
The match began.
And immediately—
collapse.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… hollow.
The home team moved in stiff patterns.
Players hesitated on easy passes.
Ken froze on open shots.
Kaito intercepted with surgical precision.
11–0.
The stands murmured.
Not mockingly. Not rudely.
Just with the heaviness of watching someone try to outrun a shadow.
Sayaka watched silently from above, her fingers tightening around the railing.
Hiroto, beside her, muttered:
"He's breaking."
But Sayaka's eyes weren't on Ken.
They were on Eadlyn.
4. Eadlyn Reads the Court Like a Story He Already Knew
Eadlyn saw everything:
The way one senior glanced at the scoreboard too often
The way another avoided taking initiative
The way Ken reacted every time Kaito turned his head
The old fear patterns resurfacing
The lack of trust, the hesitation, the trauma of past losses
He didn't see a failing team.
He saw a team replaying an old wound.
And Eadlyn understood old wounds better than most people ever would.
5. Timeout — A Conversation Without Comfort
The whistle blew.
Timeout.
Everyone gathered around the bench in suffocating silence.
Some looked ashamed.
Some frustrated.
Some… defeated.
Eadlyn crouched in front of them.
Not as a savior. Not as a replacement captain. Not as a miracle worker.
As someone who had once watched two of his best friends drift apart, simply because no one told them they didn't have to drown alone.
"Look at me," he said softly.
They did.
And he didn't ask them to believe.
He didn't ask them to try harder.
He didn't ask them to be fearless.
He simply said:
"You're not losing to them.
You're losing to the memory of who you were before."
A senior swallowed hard.
Ken whispered:
"I keep seeing… the moment he left us."
Eadlyn nodded.
"So stop playing that moment on repeat."
Ken looked up in shock.
"You can't change what happened," Eadlyn continued softly.
"But you can rewrite the next chapter."
A silence spread— heavy at first, then strangely liberating.
"This match isn't about proving you're strong," Eadlyn said.
"It's about proving you're not the same people he walked away from."
And for the first time that day—
someone breathed easier.
6. Second Quarter — A Team Begins to Breathe Again
It didn't turn miraculous immediately.
But it turned human.
And that was enough.
They made small plays.
Found small openings.
Took small risks.
Ken intercepted a pass — barely.
A senior scored a layup.
Another blocked a shot.
The gap shrank.
Sayaka leaned closer to the railing, watching Eadlyn—not the score.
He wasn't shouting. He wasn't demanding anything. He wasn't performing.
He was calibrating.
Every gesture. Every expression. Every word.
All of it shaped the team's breathing until they moved like a single organism instead of scattered fear.
7. Halftime — 21 : 26
Still behind.
But awake.
Sayaka exhaled slowly. Hiroto murmured:
"He turned fear into rhythm."
Sayaka didn't answer.
Her gaze was fixed on Eadlyn, who was drinking water quietly, head lowered, posture steady.
That steadiness…
It wasn't normal.
Not for someone his age. Not for someone under pressure. Not for someone facing a ghost from someone else's past.
It frightened her.
In awe, not fear.
8. Third Quarter — Kaito Breaks First
Kaito's frustration cracked.
He forced plays. He fouled. He snapped at teammates.
Because he could feel it:
Authority slipping.
Control thinning.
Narrative changing.
But even as he shoved past Ken—
Ken didn't fall apart.
He staggered, yes.
But he stayed standing.
Eadlyn placed a hand on Ken's back.
"You're still here," he whispered.
Ken closed his eyes.
And re-centered.
9. Fourth Quarter — No Hero, Only a Choice
Score: 42 – 44.
Seconds left.
Everyone expected Eadlyn to take the last shot.
Except Eadlyn.
He saw the team.
He saw their history.
He saw the wound that needed closure.
And he understood—
The shot doesn't need a hero.
It needs meaning.
So he looked at Ken.
Not with encouragement.
Not with pressure.
Not with expectation.
With clarity.
"Do you want to rewrite it?" he asked.
Ken's breath trembled.
But he nodded.
The ball passed to him.
Kaito lunged.
Ken stepped back—
and shot.
Time froze.
Sayaka clutched the railing.
Hiroto whispered, "Please…"
Manami held Rin's hand.
Ichigo recorded everything without blinking.
The ball hit the rim.
Bounced once.
And fell in.
45 – 44.
The gym erupted.
But the loudest sound—
was Ken's sob, muffled in his hands.
Not from victory.
From release.
10. After the Match — A Quiet Kind of Triumph
Kaito walked past them without a word.
No insults. No smirks.
Just a quiet recognition that the team he left behind…
no longer needed him.
Sayaka descended the stairs slowly.
When she reached the court, she saw Eadlyn leaning against the bench, towel over his shoulders, eyes lowered in soft relief.
She stopped in front of him.
"You didn't take the last shot," she said.
"No."
"Why?"
He looked up, meeting her eyes.
"Because winning isn't the same as healing."
Something fluttered in her chest.
Not affection.
Not admiration.
Something deeper.
Respect layered with understanding.
The rarest form of intimacy.
11. Diary — Eadlyn
Today wasn't about talent.
Or strategy.
Or proving anything to anyone.
It was about helping someone breathe again after years of holding everything in.
Ken didn't just score.
He reclaimed a story that once broke him.
And maybe…
That's what love looks like in friendships too:
Not saving someone. Not carrying them.
Just standing steady beside them
until they can move again on their own.