The morning light spilled through the thin curtains, but it did nothing to chase away the heaviness coiled in your chest. Sleep had been shallow at best, broken by echoes of voices Oikawa's playful teasing, Kuroo's cracked whisper of your name. Even now, tangled in your sheets, you weren't sure which haunted you more.
By the time you pulled yourself together and made your way toward the gym, the quiet buzz of unease followed close behind. Every step felt like walking a tightrope balancing between what you wanted to feel, and what you actually did.
And then the gym doors opened.
Kuroo was already there, running through drills with a sharpness that felt less like focus and more like frustration. Every spike, every block, carried an edge, like he was trying to burn something out of himself. His jaw was tight, his movements clipped powerful, but without their usual effortless rhythm. He didn't even glance your way, but you felt the weight of his presence anyway. Heavy. Unavoidable.
Oikawa, on the other hand, spotted you instantly. His grin was like sunlight after rain, wide and warm as he jogged over. "There you are," he said, his hand brushing yours in a way that was both casual and intentional. "I was beginning to think you forgot about me."
You laughed softly, but the sound wavered under the tension you couldn't shake. Because even as Oikawa leaned closer, filling the space with his charm, your eyes strayed drawn to the figure across the court who still refused to look at you.
Oikawa noticed. Of course he did. His smirk tilted, just enough to let you know he'd caught the shift. "Don't bother," he teased lightly, his voice pitched for only you to hear. "He's not half as fun as I am, anyway."
You shoved his shoulder playfully, trying to match his mood, but your chest tightened at the truth beneath his words. Fun. Lighthearted. Easy. That's what Oikawa was. That's what being with him felt like. And yet, even with his hand brushing against yours again, you couldn't chase away the shadow tugging at you from across the court.
Kuroo.
Practice started soon after, drills running one after the other, the squeak of sneakers and the smack of volleyballs filling the air. The energy should have been routine, comforting even, but it wasn't. Kuroo was everywhere cutting Oikawa off in rotations, stepping between you without so much as a word, blocking glances you hadn't even realized you were giving. His presence was suffocating, sharp enough to make even the others uneasy.
"Man, what's with you today?" one of the players muttered after Kuroo spiked a ball with unnecessary force, nearly taking someone's head off.
Kuroo didn't answer. He just set himself again, shoulders stiff, like the only way he could keep himself together was by focusing on the game. But it wasn't just the game. You saw it. The cracks in his mask, the frustration bleeding into every movement. The way his eyes finally, briefly, flickered your way then snapped back like the sight of you hurt.
And you couldn't shake the ache in your chest that whispered you were the reason why.
Still, Oikawa stayed close. Too close. Offering you water between drills, cracking jokes that pulled little smiles out of you despite yourself. He was relentless in his effort to keep you looking at him instead of across the court. And maybe, for a few moments, it worked. Maybe, for a few moments, you even let yourself believe that this was enough.
But the more Oikawa pressed, the more Kuroo's play fell apart. Sets mistimed. Passes sharp and impatient. His leadership the thing that usually grounded everyone wasn't there. Instead, the team was unraveling under the weight of whatever storm he was carrying.
It all came to a head when the coach's whistle cut through the noise, shrill and final. "Stop. Everyone stop."
The gym went still. The sound of your heartbeat was suddenly deafening in your ears.
The coach's eyes swept the team, then landed squarely on Kuroo. "If you can't get your head straight, you're no use out here. Figure it out, or sit out."
Silence. Heavy. Oppressive.
And when Kuroo's gaze finally lifted, it wasn't toward the coach. It was toward you.
Your breath caught.
Because in that single glance dark, pained, and unspoken you realized this wasn't about practice at all.
This was about you.
The realization struck harder than the echo of the whistle still ringing in the gym. Your stomach twisted, heat rising in your chest as Kuroo's eyes held yours for one raw, unguarded second before he looked away, dragging a hand down his face.
He muttered something low to the coach, words you couldn't catch, then grabbed his water bottle and stalked toward the exit. The slam of the gym door behind him reverberated through the air, shaking you harder than any spike could.
The team stood frozen for a moment, whispers breaking out like cracks in ice. Oikawa leaned closer, his hand brushing yours as he murmured, "Don't let him get to you. He's always been dramatic."
But you barely heard him. Your feet were already moving.
You didn't even think your body just followed the pull, chasing after Kuroo into the blinding afternoon sun. The air outside was thick and hot, buzzing with cicadas, but the sight of him hit harder than the heat ever could.
He was leaning against the wall just outside, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was trying to breathe through something unbearable. His knuckles were white around his water bottle, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.
"Kuroo," you called softly.
His eyes snapped open, golden-brown and blazing even in the shadow of the overhang. "Don't," he said sharply, too quickly. His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. "Don't come out here to whatever it is you're trying to do." You froze, but the sting in his tone only pushed you forward. "I just… I wanted to know what's going on with you. You're not yourself, and—"
"And what?" His laugh was humorless, a broken thing. "You're worried about me now? Funny. You didn't look too worried when you were out there holding his hand."
Your breath caught. Heat flooded your face. "Kuroo, it's not—it's not like that."
"Then what is it, huh?" His voice rose, not loud enough to draw attention inside, but sharp enough to cut straight through you. "Because I can't figure it out. One minute, you're—" He broke off, teeth gritting like the words cost too much. "You're with me. And the next, you're laughing with him like I don't even exist."
The weight of his confession hung between you, fragile and dangerous.
Your chest ached. "Kuroo…"
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, and for the first time, his mask cracked completely. His eyes burned with something raw, unguarded, terrifyingly honest. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this, Y/n. Pretending it doesn't bother me. Pretending I don't—"
He stopped himself, the words choking off like they were too big to be spoken aloud. His jaw tightened, shoulders tense, as if holding them back was the only way to keep himself from shattering completely.
The silence that followed was deafening.
And for the first time, you realized this was bigger than rivalry. Bigger than volleyball. Bigger than anything you'd let yourself believe.
This was Kuroo laid bare in a way you'd never seen before. And somehow, he'd let you in.
Your chest tightened, your throat working around words that didn't feel strong enough to hold the storm between you. The image of him on the court smirking, confident, untouchable felt miles away from the boy standing here now, gripping at his own armor like it was crumbling in his hands.
"Kuroo…" you whispered again, softer this time.
He shook his head, staring at the ground, like even hearing his name from your lips was too much. "Don't—don't look at me like that. Like I'm… falling apart."
Your feet carried you closer before you thought better of it. The sunlight caught in his hair, shadows falling sharp across his cheekbones, and you wondered if he realized how impossible it was not to look at him. Not like this.
"I don't think you're falling apart," you said carefully. "I think… you've just been holding too much in."
His jaw flexed, his eyes flicking toward you, guarded but breaking. "You don't get it."
"Then explain it," you urged, your voice trembling. "Because I—I want to understand."
For a second, you swore he might. The distance between you thinned, heavy with everything unsaid. His lips parted like he was on the edge of spilling it all—the truth you could feel pressing against your skin, begging to be named. But then he laughed, low and bitter, shaking his head. "You really have no idea what you're asking for."
Your heart lurched. "Kuroo…"
He dragged his hand down his face, then dropped it, letting his eyes lock on yours. No smirk. No shield. Just raw, unguarded ache. "If I told you, Y/n—if I really said it—you wouldn't be able to un-hear it."
The words struck deep, curling around your ribs until your breath caught. Because maybe—just maybe—you already knew what he wasn't saying.
Your fingers twitched at your sides, aching to reach for him, to close the distance he kept fighting against. But fear pinned you in place, the silence stretching long enough that the cicadas outside drowned out your heartbeat. And then, before you could decide if you were brave enough to ask him to finish, he pushed off the wall and stepped back.
"I can't do this right now," he muttered, his voice tight, strangled, like the words themselves were splintering him.
The space between you grew again, vast and unbearable.
And you were left standing there, the echo of his almost-confession lodged in your chest like a secret you weren't ready to carry yet couldn't let go of, no matter how hard you tried.
The walls of the camp felt closer than ever as you made your way back to your room, each step slower than the last. The halls were quiet, save for the muffled laughter of teammates further down, but none of it touched you. Not when your ears were still ringing with his voice, rough and raw, trembling in ways Kuroo never let anyone hear.
You shut the door softly behind you, the silence that followed deafening. His side of the room was empty bed still unmade, book left open on the desk like he'd abandoned it in a rush. You stood there for a moment, staring at the proof that he had been here, had stood in front of you, had almost—almost let you see all of him.
The weight of it pressed down until your knees gave, and you sank onto your mattress, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might steady you. But nothing could. Because no matter how much you tried to breathe, tried to remind yourself that you didn't know what he was going to say, your mind wouldn't stop finishing the sentence he'd left undone.
If I told you, Y/n if I really said it—
You pressed your hands to your face, heat crawling up your neck. God, why couldn't you stop replaying it? His voice. His eyes. The way his walls had cracked just enough for you to glimpse what he was holding back.
And worse, why did some reckless, foolish part of you wish he had gone through with it?
The hours stretched long, the sky outside darkening, until the room was bathed in the pale glow of moonlight. You lay back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling, your heart thudding unevenly as the words replayed over and over.
If I told you—
Would you be able to handle it?
Would you even want to?
You rolled onto your side, facing the empty half of the bed that should have been his. And for the first time, you hated the distance. The silence. Because it wasn't just volleyball anymore. It wasn't rivalry. It wasn't games.
It was him.
And the terrifying truth was you weren't sure how much longer you could pretend you didn't feel it too