Rio's POV
There's a saying at Seta Club:
If a match starts warm, you're too late.
I've never believed in slow introductions. You step onto a court, you serve hard, you take up space. That's how I was taught. That's how Mirai played.
So when I find Aoi in the hallway outside the storage room—alone, headphones in, sketchbook clutched like a shield—I treat it like any other approach. Direct. No warning.
"You're mad."
Not a question. Just a truth.
Aoi stops walking but doesn't look at me. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and adjusts her grip on the sketchbook.
"I'm not talking to you," she says.
I smile. "Yeah. I figured."
No reaction.
"I didn't mean to blindside you," I add, softer. "About Mirai. About the serve."
She flinches at her name. Like it still has edges.
"She taught me that twist. Said it was her emergency weapon—told me I'd probably never hit it like she could, but…" I shrug. "Guess I got lucky."
Aoi turns her head just slightly, just enough for me to catch her eyes.
"You didn't get lucky," she says. "You got her."
And just like that, it burns.
Because I want to ask—Do you think I wanted her to choose me over you?
I want to say—I didn't take her. She gave that piece to me.
I want to scream—You're not the only one who lost her.
But instead, I say the wrong thing.
"She thought you'd come back sooner."
Aoi freezes.
Her fingers tighten on the sketchbook, knuckles whitening like they're trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.
She takes one slow step forward, and when she speaks, her voice is low. Controlled.
"Don't talk like you knew her better than I did."
"I didn't," I say quickly. "I just—"
"Don't," she cuts in. "You don't get to finish that sentence."
And then she walks past me. Not fast. Not angry.
Just done.
I stay rooted to the spot, something bitter clawing its way up my throat. That felt like a loss. Not a match loss—worse. The kind where the score doesn't matter because you know you'll never get a rematch.
I lean back against the wall.
From down the hall, I hear a ball machine start up. Someone's serving into empty air.
Probably Haru.
Probably trying to fix what I just shattered.
Haru's POV
I don't blame Rio.
Not really.
But I know what it looks like—to walk in with a smile and rip open someone's scar without meaning to.
I watch Aoi return to the court like it's enemy territory. She doesn't stretch. Doesn't warm up.
Just walks straight to the baseline and starts serving.
Hard. Sharp. Each one louder than the last.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Like she's trying to drill through the surface of the court. Like if she hits hard enough, maybe she'll break through to wherever Mirai is.
I walk to the opposite side, grab a racket, and catch her next ball on the rise.
She doesn't speak. Neither do I.
We rally in silence.
Each shot between us is fast, precise. The kind of rally we used to only manage on good days. But there's no joy in it. Just anger. Guilt. Echoes.
The spark's there.
It just hasn't caught fire yet.