5 A Thunderous Collapse

I lifted my eyes.

The tall boy was still standing where he was. Even though I had gained a few centimeters of height by standing on the step of the teacher’s podium, his 1.8-meter frame remained imposing, forcing him to bow his head slightly to look at me.

Yamamoto-kun was not a person skilled at hiding things.

There was no need for speculation; I could easily sense the subtle tension in his heart. Even though a smile remained on his face, the undisguised anticipation in his eyes could not be faked: he sincerely wanted me to watch his game, and it was not a casual inquiry.

It was the kind of "want" that meant if I said I couldn't, he would genuinely feel a bit sad.

It was an atmosphere at once obscure, bold, awkward, and frank. I had seen it in many people before. Seeing it now surrounding a guy like Takeshi Yamamoto, I couldn't help but take a closer look at him.

"...If there’s nothing else, I’ll go. After all, it’s an important game for the class."

The boy’s eyes lit up.

"Then—"

"However, if our women's volleyball team passes the preliminary round, the semi-finals are also tomorrow afternoon," I added with a guilty smile. "If it ends early, I might be able to make it. Sorry."

As expected, the vibrant look on Yamamoto-kun’s face dimmed slightly.

He raised an eyebrow. Even though he couldn't hide his regret, his expression looked more like he had simply taken in the information, and something else had caught his attention.

"You don't need to apologize," Yamamoto said, sounding serious. "Saijo’s game is in the afternoon today, right?"

"That’s right."

"Oh! I’ll be cheering for you."

"Then I’ll be sure to do my best... hmm?" Seeing the candid warmth in his smile, I couldn't help but feel a little puzzled. "Are you coming to watch our game, Yamamoto-kun?"

For class-versus-class matches, the loyal audience usually consists only of classmates from their own teams.

Unless the team features a so-called "campus celebrity"—like a baseball game with Yamamoto, a soccer game with Gokudera, a track meet with Class B’s representative Ueda, or a volleyball game with me—the crowd rarely includes extra fans.

I don't know where the underlying rule of "the kings shall not meet" came from, but one celebrity never privately attends the match of another.

The students even think it’s because we are rivals.

"Rivals"—a term I personally only use in manga involving romantic conflicts or factional disputes. For example, in *Shugo Chara!*, I prefer the pairing of the protagonist and a certain upperclassman, even if that’s not the canon ship.

Anyway, in this context, it probably implies something like artists from competing agencies fighting for resources... I suppose.

But in reality, it’s just that everyone is busy, and we aren't particularly close.

I knew very well that if Yamamoto-kun came to watch the game, it might cause a stir. Yet, looking at his expression, as one of the protagonists himself, he didn't seem to have considered that problem at all.

This baseball star confirmed my thoughts with his unwavering, breezy smile.

"Yeah!" He spoke as naturally as if he were saying he wanted water because he was thirsty. "Since I know about it, and I have the time, why wouldn't I go?"

*Sigh...*

*Sigh.*

I raised my hand, the pen resting against my lip, my eyes curving as if amused.

"Thank you, Yamamoto-kun."

"Eh? It’s nothing." The boy rubbed the back of his neck, stared at me intently for two seconds, and then said directly, "What’s the big deal? I really want to watch Saijo’s game anyway."

*Wow*, he actually followed up a polite thank-you with such a direct strike.

I gave him a short laugh. Then, lowering my gaze again, I continued to doodle on my sticky note. "Then you definitely have to come! But this is just the preliminary round; everyone is basically at a beginner level, so it might not be very exciting..."

"It’s not about the skill level, is it?" Yamamoto said.

My pen tip paused on the check-box. I looked at this boy with whom I had previously had almost no interaction.

Upon meeting my gaze, he leaned against the corner of the desk—his height even allowed him to sit comfortably on the edge, his long legs, encased in baseball pants, stretched out casually, heels still touching the floor—and continued with a firm, resonant conviction:

"No matter how well or poorly we play, as long as the players give it their all on the court, it’s an amazing game."

A breeze drifted in from outside, causing the leaves to rustle.

Is that so?

I vaguely heard a voice in the depths of my heart, its meaning unclear.

If we were closer, I might have said, that really doesn't sound like something you would have said back then.

From "might as well just die" to now "as long as you give it your all." Can the growing pains of youth really end in making peace with that version of oneself who once stood on the rooftop?

...No, I thought again.

Compared to a draw, it should be the person standing in front of me now who has won.

I offered a smile without a word.

"That's true."

"Don't you think so?" Yamamoto asked suddenly.

What?

I took a closer look at the boy’s expression. Nothing unusual; he was still in a casual chatting state, so I responded with a sufficiently cheerful tone.

"No, not at all! I mean I really agree with that point. I’ll do my best in the afternoon game as well..." I raised a finger and added seriously, "By the way. For the sake of fairness, although I’m a libero on the volleyball team, I’m playing as an attacker for this game."

"You can even do that?" Yamamoto-kun widened his eyes quite supportively, looking surprised. "You can play other positions too, Saijo?"

"Of course, you have to try everything! I’ve played setter and wing spiker before, too."

"Wow! So which position do you like the best?"

I was about to answer naturally, but I suddenly hesitated.

Like a thin, soft fish bone stuck in my throat while eating, I felt that sharp second pass before quickly gathering my composure and responding calmly:

"Since I’m usually the starting libero, doesn't that answer go without saying?"

Unexpectedly, Yamamoto didn't catch the subtext.

He still looked completely surprised and asked, "So, you mean you like being a libero the most?"

"That’s right!" I nodded without hesitation.

"Eh—"

*Eh* what, it’s almost lunch time, why is there still no sign of him leaving!

I might as well give up on this rare quiet spot and find an excuse to return to the classroom.

As I plotted this, listening to the boy nearby mutter something about "That's true, I also think liberos are especially cool," I packed up my notes and pen, responding in a relaxed tone.

"That’s why I chose that position."

"But, isn't that exhausting?" Yamamoto asked.

"Being a libero? It's alright. I suppose every position is exhausting in its own way."

I walked a few steps away and stepped off the podium. "As an important defensive force in the back row, I practice first-touches and saves more than anyone else, diving all over the place. But that’s also how I build a connection with the floor, which stops me from being afraid of falling. I think the interest in that process far outweighs the fatigue."

Then it was time for the "busy-excuse" technique; I’d just say I had an urgent matter to attend to and leave.

However, just as I was about to insert this excuse at the right moment, the person who had been watching me intently interrupted again.

"Is that so?" Yamamoto stood straight as I moved. He offered an honestly sheepish smile, hands clasped together. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean that the training was tiring."

Standing by the door, I tilted my head in curiosity.

"Then I misunderstood you, sorry. What were you trying to say just now?"

"Hmm? Well—"

The boy seemed stumped, falling into thought.

For someone as frank as him, even the way he furrowed his brows and pondered made one involuntarily wait for the result. I waited patiently. Yamamoto-kun pinched his chin, looking slightly troubled.

Generally, the normal progression would be for this thoughtful classmate to reconsider and realize: *Oh, this isn't really a question worth re-explaining*; then he would wave it off, and I could proceed with my escape.

But in no time, I heard the certainty in his clear voice.

He said: "Because, Saijo, you clearly don't want to."

...

What do you mean?

*Oh.*

He must think that because I’m a libero, I wouldn't want to play as an attacker this time.

A bad sixth sense pricked at my fingertips. I subconsciously twitched the fingers hanging by my side and blinked rapidly.

"Although I don't know what you're referring to... please don't worry, whatever I do, I do it willingly." I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled brightly. "Speaking of which, it's almost lunch time! I promised to eat a bento with a friend. You must be hungry too, right, Yamamoto-kun?"

I turned to the side and reached for the sliding door.

Just at that moment, a desperate cry from behind stopped me in my tracks.

"Ah, wait, wait a second!" The boy’s voice rose sharply, and he even stuttered. "Sorry, are you angry? I didn't mean to upset you... It’s just that I’ve been a bit curious about Saijo-san for a long time, so I couldn't help but want to know more. That—"

The classroom door was like a grey-blue wall.

I stared unblinkingly at my own hand on the door, the hand that could push it open at any moment.

My left hand.

The hand that had been praised since childhood as being perfect for playing the piano and violin. I had spared no effort in caring for it.

Even though I had practiced spiking thoroughly this morning, my palms were slightly swollen and red at the pads. If I were to rub anything, the sensation would be rough. But it didn't affect the overall slenderness, delicacy, and bone structure.

This hand wanted to clench into a fist, but it remained quietly resting on the door.

Where was I angry? Who was unhappy?

A surge of uncontrollable irritation rushed through my mind.

If I remembered correctly, I had just been smiling at him. My answers hadn't been strange either.

What on earth was this weird person thinking?

To my surprise, Yamamoto, like any "super-natural" straight guy who thinks, "She's unhappy, maybe it's because my attitude was bad," without reflecting on his own words, simply softened his tone. I heard the purely earnest intention in his voice:

"I just didn't understand, why lie?"

"..."

A taut string was pulled tighter and thinner. I felt, absurdly, that something was spiraling out of control. Maintaining my pose on the door, I rudely cast a sidelong glance at the person by the desk, and even my response was just a syllable barely dragging along a dry, forced laugh: "...Ha?"

This signal was far from friendly, yet it caused that guy to retrieve his smile.

"Because you clearly don't want to do any of these things," he said.

"..."

"Talking to me, playing volleyball, or being a libero."

"..."

"I know some things have to be done, but you could actually refuse these, right? Like, I love baseball, but if someone suddenly asked me to throw a shot put, helping out is fine, but if I had to keep doing it forever... wow, just thinking about it is hard. I definitely couldn't do it."

He seemed to take my silence as a signal to continue, his voice filled with concern and reflection, accompanied by a ruthless kindness that left no room for escape.

"But no matter how reluctant you are, you always do everything so perfectly. Whether it’s the names of juniors you’ve never seen before, or schedules that have nothing to do with you, you remember them all so clearly," Yamamoto said. "You’re so strong... There were several times I doubted if I had seen it wrong. But in the end, I still somehow felt that you aren't such a complicated person."

I noticed myself turning my head to look back into the classroom.

A cloudless, sunny day, windows flung wide, and semi-transparent curtains colliding with the warm late-spring breeze. The rectangular lab table was scattered with class supplies. Bright, natural, and thriving.

The black-haired boy in his baseball uniform stood against the light, the spirit in his brows clear and bright.

Like a shot from a youth film.

Ah, that’s right.

If I were in a script told from a first-person perspective, narrating a trivial youth, I might want to ask the audience who is reading this: How old are you now? Do you have any hobbies that make you forget the time, that you could do without sleeping or eating?

If you do, how long will this passion last?

A lifetime? Or will it suddenly disappear halfway through, as if it were all a joke?

If you never have it, what is life like?

Is it doomed to be worse than those who have passion? Is it more meaningless?

In this long, unstable life that makes one sway, are there moments that make you feel as terrified as if the world were about to collapse?

Let me start.

Right now, at this very moment, I am experiencing exactly that kind of terror.