Haru's POV
The tennis team's chatter dies the moment Aoi steps onto the courts.
Not that she means to. She's just taking her usual shortcut to the art room, head down, sketchbook clutched to her chest like armor. But twenty pairs of eyes track her anyway. Tanaka stops mid-serve, the ball bouncing uselessly at his feet.
"Damn," he mutters. "Still walks like she's carrying something."
I know exactly what she's carrying.
Flashback - Osaka Tennis Camp, Three Years Earlier
The August heat pressed down like a physical weight as I wiped sweat from my eyes. My third straight loss to Mirai Saito today. She danced backward on the baseline, twirling her racket like a baton.
"Again!" she called, that infuriating grin lighting up her face.
I adjusted my grip, trying to mimic her perfect eastern hold. "Why do you even bother with me? I heard you're ranked number one in Kanto."
Mirai bounced on her toes, pigtails swinging. "Because you're left-handed like my partner!" She served before I was ready—that wicked slice serve of hers kicking up chalk.
I barely got my racket on it. The return flew wide.
"Ugh, again with the overthinking!" Mirai vaulted the net, landing lightly beside me. Up close, she smelled like sunscreen and strawberry gum. "Look, Haru—tennis isn't about perfect form." She grabbed my wrist, adjusting my follow-through. "It's about feeling the shot. Like this—"
Her hand guided mine through the motion. For a second, we were connected—her calluses scraping against my palm, the vibration of the racket traveling up both our arms.
Then she let go, and the moment broke.
"Your problem is you're trying to control everything." She tapped my forehead. "Stop playing up here." Then my chest. "Play from here."
I rubbed the spot she'd touched, suddenly thirteen again and tongue-tied. "You talk about your partner a lot."
Mirai's smile softened. She pulled something from her pocket—a creased photo of a tiny girl with serious gray eyes, frozen mid-backhand. "Aoi's the real genius. She feels the game like breathing." Her thumb traced the edge of the photo. "We're gonna go pro together. Just wait."
The camp director's whistle blew. Mirai shoved the photo at me. "Keep this. Remind me to show you her footwork tomorrow."
She never did.
Present Day
The sketchbook slips from Aoi's grip as she freezes mid-step, her whole body going rigid. Pages flutter open across the asphalt—dozens of Mirais staring up at us. Serving. Smiling. Alive.
On court, Tanaka's racket hits the ground with a clatter. "Holy shit. She's been drawing—"
"Enough." Coach Kubo's voice cuts through the tension like a backhand down the line. He hauls himself up from his usual napping spot against the equipment shed. For once, his eyes are sharp. "Minami."
Aoi doesn't move. Rain begins to patter against the asphalt, darkening the edges of her drawings.
I step forward, the photo from camp burning in my pocket. "She said you could feel the game like breathing."
Aoi's head snaps up. Her eyes—Mirai's exact shade of stormcloud gray—lock onto mine. For a heartbeat, I see it: the girl from the photo, the prodigy who played like her racket was part of her body.
Then the moment shatters.
Aoi runs.
The team erupts into chaos.
"—that was Saito's—"
"—thought she quit after—"
"—heard she hasn't touched a racket since—"
Coach Kubo silences them with a look. "Anyone got something to say about our former regional champion?" His gaze sweeps across the team. "Didn't think so."
Thunder rumbles in the distance. The rain comes harder now, washing the chalk lines from the courts.
I pick up one of Aoi's abandoned sketches—Mirai, mid-laugh, caught forever in pencil strokes.
Tanaka appears at my shoulder. "You knew her? Saito, I mean."
"Yeah." I tuck the drawing carefully into my pocket, next to the photo. "She was gonna be the best."
The lie tastes bitter.
Mirai was the best. And Aoi...
I watch her disappear into the rain, her silhouette blurring at the edges.
She still is.