Where Every Scroll is a New Adventure
The stadium lights burned like stars overhead, casting long shadows across the polished court. The roar of the crowd swelled in waves, a living, breathing force that surged and broke against the walls of the arena. Bokuto Koutarou stood still in the center of it all, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythmic beat of the game.
This was home. It always had been.
He bounced on his heels, palms slapping softly against his thighs, golden eyes flicking up and over the rows of fans packed into the stands. He always did this before a game—scanning. Searching.
Hoping.
You came to one of my games in college once. Said you wanted to support me even if you didn’t know all the rules. You sat in the front row with snacks and one of those handmade signs, grinning like it was the best thing you’d ever done. You were so proud of me. I couldn't stop staring.
It wasn't until the second set that he saw you.
Not in the front row this time. A little higher up, tucked into a row of seats that caught the golden light just right. You looked the same. Soft expression. That familiar warmth that never failed to center him, no matter how chaotic the world got.
But this time, you weren’t alone.
Your fingers were laced with someone else's—a man with kind eyes, a relaxed smile, and a wedding band that mirrored the one glinting faintly on your hand.
Something in Bokuto's chest twisted. An old, familiar ache he had kept buried deep down beneath years of laughter, late-night texts, and every moment you sat beside him without ever realizing what he wanted to say.
But his body knew what to do. The ball was set, high and perfect, and he soared to meet it. Muscles coiled, arms arched, and then—the strike. The ball slammed to the floor on the opposing side like thunder cracking through silence. The crowd erupted.
He didn't hear any of it.
We used to sit on the school rooftop and eat lunch together. I’d talk about volleyball like it was a religion. You’d talk about music, books, strange little thoughts that made no sense but always made me laugh. I think I fell for you the first time you passed me a rice ball and told me to stop overthinking my spikes.
He never told you.
Not once.
There had been chances—so many chances. Late-night calls that lasted too long. Moments when your eyes lingered. When your laughter felt like something he wanted to wrap both hands around and never let go.
But the words never made it past his throat.
He told himself he had time. That he didn’t want to ruin the beautiful, easy thing you had. That being near you was enough.
And now, watching you from across the arena, smiling at someone else the way he used to dream you’d smile at him, Bokuto felt the weight of every second he’d spent silent.
As long as you’re watching, I’m happy.
That’s what he told himself. And maybe, on some level, it was still true. Because you were watching. Eyes bright, expression soft, hands clapping politely after every point. You were here.
You came.
Just not for him.
Even so, he glanced up again, caught one more glimpse of you laughing at something your husband whispered in your ear. His chest ached, but his lips pulled into a quiet smile.
Because even if your heart belonged to someone else, even if he was just a fond memory in a long list of friendships—
He would still play his heart out.
Because if you’re watching, then that means some part of you still remembers. Still cares.
And maybe that was enough.
He wiped sweat from his brow, steadied his breath, and returned to the service line.
Eyes on the ball.
But just for a second longer, heart still caught in the stands—
Watching you.