13 A Slight Tingling Ache

Over the next week, I went about organizing activities as usual, competing, and leading the second-year Class C to win the volleyball team competition; I took part in a lively entertainment gathering hosted by students; handled the mundane affairs of the class, helped the teacher maintain order after activities, and finally settled back into the routine of the three daily points—school, club, and home.

In truth, my life hadn’t changed much.

My classmates were unaware of the dramatic shift that had occurred one noon, and the members of the “Nishigawei Guard” I knew hadn’t decreased; in fact, they had grown in number.

Hoshisa hadn’t returned to the volleyball club either.

At first, in the early days of club activities, I occasionally noticed senior Makino holding a volleyball, seemingly distractedly gazing out the door.

On the third day of this behavior, I asked, “Aren’t you going to call her to class?”

Makino immediately gave me a look that said, “How did you notice? It’s that obvious?” She then glanced at me and sighed.

Someone took the initiative to ask if she needed help, which gave her a natural opening to confide. Makino said, “Why bother? If she wanted to come back, she would.”

I bounced the ball she casually tossed me with both wrists: “Maybe Hoshisa needs someone to give her a good push.”

“I already pushed her,” she shot the ball back over.

“Not enough,” I set it up again.

“You’re in the same year. You go find her in Class A,” she replied, spiking the ball.

The volleyball spun in midair, landing securely in my palms.

I stared at the ball for a moment, deliberately wearing a mock-serious expression full of sarcasm. “Senior Makino, people like us who represent the class image can’t just go around grabbing people at other classrooms’ doors.”

Makino was calm: “I’m not going to humor your complaints. Give up.”

In truth, I agreed with her.

Hoshisa’s speech was awkward, but she was clear about what she liked and disliked; she wouldn’t spend time on things she deemed a waste. Perhaps she still felt some affection for volleyball, but that might simply reflect a tendency to favor things she was somewhat good at.

Sometimes, liking and being good at something are cruelly separated by fate.

The atmosphere in club training was mediocre; it was hardly surprising that she didn’t return.

Therefore, if there was one variable in my life, it would have to be a certain male classmate also in second-year Class A. But ever since that night when he apologized and I decisively severed ties, I’ve hardly encountered him again.

First, my route home was in the opposite direction of Take Sushi.

Second, outside of class, I was often surrounded by a crowd.

Also, even during gym class, Classes A and C were rarely arranged in the same session. Even if we accidentally crossed paths somewhere on campus, I usually had a few students accompanying me, chatting away, eyes forward as we passed each other.

Lastly, the old saying: everyone is very busy.

Time may blur memories, but busy days can temporarily cast them aside. I believed that persistence in keeping away would be effective. When time flew by and we graduated, forgetting each other in the vast world, that would be the most dignified end to that absurd farce.

The sushi was delicious. But I was determined never to set foot in that restaurant again.

Though before sleep, I would sometimes recall those embarrassing memories and occasionally suffer a bout of insomnia... but after passing through a moment I once thought would ruin my life, the sky still hadn’t fallen.

—Until this morning, I had always thought so.

Around 5:30 a.m. by the riverbank, reed bamboo drooped, and dawn was breaking.

The neighborhood was bathed in faint, fragile light before sunrise. Though temperatures had begun rising recently, the air still carried a chill unique to the shadowed sides of buildings. I wore a black long-sleeved tracksuit with pants, zipped my jacket up to a stand-up collar, and stood alone beneath an empty underpass.

In front of me was a hard gray wall, and the embankment above was lush with greenery.

I looked up, stretching my hands above my head as I balanced a yellow-and-blue volleyball steadily, letting it drop and catch it again. My fingertips were just becoming familiar with the ball’s feel. Then, as the ball hung suspended, my ears picked up a voice from the distant embankment:

“Nishiga?”

My heart skipped a beat, and I instinctively glanced toward the sound.

Yamamoto Takeshi, clearly in morning training attire, stood on the pedestrian path atop the embankment, one hand tugging at the strap of his baseball bag, looking surprised in my direction.

But soon his expression turned urgent.

When the boy called my surname again with a sharper tone, a sudden ache struck my nose, almost making me think tears would fall again.

***

“...Are you okay? Does it hurt?” Yamamoto squatted by the stone bench near the underpass, tilting his head up to look at me. I didn’t want to admit I could hear his tone softer and more cautious than usual. “Did it hit your face or your nose?”

I covered the lower half of my face with both hands, frowning sadly, sitting silently on the bench.

Yamamoto looked left: “Face?”

I stared at my shoes.

He looked right: “Nose?”

My brows knit tightly, speechless.

He seemed to have a sudden realization, quickly rummaging through his bag on the ground, pulling out a pack of tissues and a small jar of ointment.

A tall boy of about 1.8 meters, even squatting at my feet, his broad shoulders and long legs were obvious. Without looking directly at him, I could see the corner of his deep blue tracksuit, the shadow his sleeve made as he stretched his arm. It was like a large dog approaching—his presence so strong it seemed to split the air in half.

“Is there any bleeding?” His tone was concerned yet steady, as if he’d experienced many such accidents and spoke professionally. “Let me see. Sorry, this is my fault…”

“It’s your fault to begin with.” I kept staring at my shoes, my voice sinking into my palms.

“Yes, yes,” he sincerely agreed. “I’m really sorry.”

I said, “Put the tissues and ointment down.”

He immediately placed the items on the ground.

“Put them next to me.”

So the supplies were moved onto the bench.

“Did you bring a mirror?”

“Huh? No.”

“Give me your bag.”

Still looking down, I muttered.

The person beside me quickly stood, his footsteps fast as he went away and then returned with my brown shoulder bag. He squatted down within my view, holding it.

I glanced to confirm, then instructed, “Put it next to me. Turn your back.”

Rustling sounds as the bag was carefully placed next to the ointment. Yamamoto cooperated fully, but squatting long was uncomfortable, so he sat cross-legged on the ground, back to me.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

The young man sat on the ground, slightly hunched.

I slowly looked up, seeing the fuzzy back of his head and the ear exposed beneath his closely shaved sides.

Relieved, I dropped my hands from my face and rummaged through my bag. Though I didn’t carry a mirror on my morning run, I had a watch. The back of the dial reflected a blurry circular shape—not a mirror, but good enough to reveal a rough outline.

I examined myself from different angles and felt my nose.

Fortunately, no swelling. Just a slight soreness from the impact and a bit of pain on the skin to the left side of my face.

Luckily, I hadn’t tossed the ball too high; gravity’s pull was gentler than a direct hit. Anyone who’s played volleyball has been hit in the face at least a few times—volleyballs are prone to such strikes. When I first started, I often got hit, catching the ball with my face countless times.

I just hadn’t expected to make such a basic mistake now.

“...” I was so angry. But since it was early morning, I mostly felt speechless with no strength to complain.

I coldly stared at the indirect culprit sitting on the ground. He was very perceptive and suddenly straightened up as if feeling a prickly unease, then slumped back down after two seconds. Like a chill ran down his neck, he raised a hand to touch it.

As if wanting to retaliate, I pulled out a tissue.

I wiped—no abnormality. I held it against my nostrils for a few seconds—no trace of blood.

I folded the tissue, feeling reassured, and put it in my pocket.

Maybe it was psychological, but after rubbing my nose and face, the initial soreness seemed to fade.

***

The watch’s minute hand slowly approached six o’clock.

Beyond the railing, the little river meandered eastward, rippling gently. The sun must have risen already, though thick clouds made the grass, boardwalk, and stone wall beneath the bridge all look as though under a gloomy sky. I grabbed another soft tissue, pinching it over my nose and mouth.

Sitting still, the breeze felt a bit chilly, and I quietly sneezed once.

That slight sound seemed to trigger something in Yamamoto. He immediately turned: “You’re not dressed warmly—”

“I didn’t say you could turn around.”

“Ah, okay then.”

He sulked but kept facing forward, his tone tinged with a hint of grievance.

I grumbled, “Do you have a problem with that?”

Yamamoto looked toward the distant river, realizing he was at fault: “No, of course not! I just don’t want you to catch a cold, especially right after exercising.”

I stared at the dark brown ground without replying.

Then, the next moment, someone swiftly pulled down their jacket zipper and tried to take off their own tracksuit top to give to me. I muttered, “No, I’m not cold. Put it back on.”

The boy reluctantly zipped his jacket back up.

...Forget it. I withdrew my gaze and sniffled.

When he first called my name, his voice wasn’t loud—just a puzzled mumble. I could hear it clearly only because the area was empty and my hearing was sharp.

If I had to blame anyone for getting hit by the ball, it was myself for not paying attention.

I cleaned my face carefully, rolled up the tissue, and put it back in my pocket. Feeling no major issues, I picked up the nearly full pack of tissues and untouched ointment and bent to put them back in Yamamoto’s open bag.

Then I grabbed my shoulder bag, stood, and headed toward the underpass.

Soon, the sounds of someone else standing and zipping a bag followed closely behind.

“Are you okay now?” Yamamoto’s concerned voice caught up to me. “Are you going to keep training? I can toss the ball for you.”

I grabbed the volleyball leaning against the wall.

“No need.” I didn’t look back. Out of habit, I added, “Thank you.”

Perhaps my polite attitude was taken as courtesy by Yamamoto. Smiling, he urged, “Don’t refuse so quickly. Think about it. Even if I’m not that skilled, as a practice partner, I’m confident I can do well.”

I hugged the ball, slung my bag over my shoulder, and walked home without a word.

Yet even such a clear and face-brushing rejection didn’t deter him. Showing no notion of quitting in his vocabulary, he matched my pace, walking just behind and to my right.

“Why so quiet? Still mad at me?” he asked as he followed. “Are you really done training today? It just started. Don’t you usually practice over an hour?”

I suddenly stopped.

Yamamoto had been pacing with me but now misstepped ahead and, clutching his baseball bag strap, instinctively fell back beside me.

His expression was normal, eyes filled with friendly goodwill. But in the chilly morning breeze, I felt an absurd clarity and looked up at him: “How do you know?”

“Hm?”

“How do you know how long I usually train in the morning?”

“Oh, that.” Yamamoto’s face showed complete innocence to the wary implication in my tone, as if this was obvious. “Because I often run around these streets early in the morning, I’ve seen you a lot. Sometimes after my run, I’d see you still going, and I’d push myself to train more too... You appeared a bit earlier today than usual, so I was surprised.”

He saw my expression and smiled: “Could it be, Nishiga, you never even noticed me? I feel a little hurt by that.”

...What?

I quickly realized he wasn’t lying. The sudden flood of information was hard to process.

When? A few weeks ago? Months? I rarely paid attention to others during morning runs before... It couldn’t have started after I moved in and joined the club, right? By the way, that wasn’t a hurt tone at all!

  —End—