A few weeks slipped by after the badminton match, the video, and the brief chaos of everyone suddenly knowing Yuto's name. Just as quickly as the attention had flared up, it faded. People moved on to new topics, new jokes, new rumors. The short-lived spark of interest around a first-year who challenged the King dissolved into ordinary school noise.
Tsukiko and Masaru never confronted Yuto about joining the badminton club. They never asked, never hinted, never even looked disappointed in front of him. They just trained like always. But Tsukiko felt a small sting every time she passed the gym doors and saw no tall first-year lingering there. Masaru, usually loud and annoyingly confident, grew oddly quiet on the subject. They both understood he had his own priorities. Accepting it didn't make it any easier.
Yuto, meanwhile, drifted deeper into his quiet habits. His attendance became a running joke among teachers, who scolded him with increasing frustration. Every time he was lectured, he bowed sincerely, apologized, and then proceeded to be absent two days later. He wasn't skipping to waste time. He studied at home, completed his assignments on his own schedule, and only came to school reliably for soccer practice. His classmates stopped expecting him to show up. Stop calling his name. He sat at his desk like part of the classroom furniture, noticed only by Shouta who insisted on poking him out of sheer stubborn friendship.
"Kimura, I swear your attendance is evolving into a villain arc," Shouta muttered one morning.
Yuto blinked. "I'm here today."
"Yeah, miraculous."
Yuto gave an "hm" which, for him, was basically conversation.
If the classroom forgot he existed, the soccer club did the opposite. They absorbed him before he had the chance to slip away. Shoto Hashimoto, the captain, noticed first. He was a tall third-year with a blunt way of speaking and a leadership style that could be called "gentle dictatorship." After one practice, Shoto told Yuto, "You're steady. Not many first-years are." Yuto nearly malfunctioned at the compliment.
Keita Sakuma, a second-year winger who had the energy level of a faulty firecracker, immediately declared himself Yuto's friend and never let him escape.
"Kimura, teach me that silent walking thing you do," Keita demanded while stretching.
"I don't do it on purpose."
"That's what makes it cool!"
Yuto sighed in defeat.
Then there was Naoki Ishida, a first-year defender built like he'd been carved from a storage cabinet. He barely spoke, but for some reason, he and Yuto communicated through quiet nods like monks in training. Naoki often shadowed anyone who fouled Yuto too hard during scrimmages, correcting the mistake with silent intimidation.
Reina Tanabe, the club manager, found Yuto endlessly amusing. Not because he tried to be, but because every time she approached him with a clipboard, he fled like she was swinging a chainsaw.
"Kimura, can you sign your—"
"I have to… refill my bottle."
"It's full."
"I… need to check something."
She laughed every single time, and Yuto burned with embarrassment every single time.
Small moments built a foundation around him without him noticing. When Keita twisted his ankle lightly, Yuto was the first to steady him before Reina even arrived. Naoki always ended up silently carrying gear beside him. Seniors tossed him small kindnesses here and there, treating him less like a newcomer and more like a quiet teammate who belonged. Reina started leaving an extra sports drink labeled with his name on the bench, pretending it was purely coincidence.
Even if he disappeared from the classroom's awareness, he had a place here. The club didn't make a fuss about it. They just accepted him.
Still, Yuto kept thinking back to the match with Masaru. Not because he wanted to join badminton or chase the fading hype, but because he wanted to understand what he did wrong. His brain kept replaying his steps, his stance, his positioning, his unnecessary movements. Being decent at everything wasn't some philosophy. It was just… him. Whatever he touched, he wanted to at least reach a respectable level. So he trained harder, ran longer, and sometimes during late nights, he watched short clips online about positioning and footwork in badminton. Not to switch sports, but because learning made him better.
Meanwhile, Tsukiko and Masaru trained through the weeks, but whenever Yuto crossed their minds, there was a quiet heaviness. The video that once made people whisper "Who is that first-year?" now sat buried beneath newer gossip. Neither of them said anything aloud, and neither admitted they missed the idea of him joining.
Yuto didn't care about being visible. He didn't care about the fading whispers or the hype dying down. He preferred the quieter routine anyway. He studied. He trained. He disappeared between classes. And whether he realized it or not, the soccer club watched out for him, laughed with him, accepted him.
He wasn't a ghost there.
He was theirs, even if he never said it out loud.