gravity | r. suna ✓

two

- Tuesday, 8:10pm -

I kick off my shoes in the entranceway, ready to flop down on my bed for a few minutes before studying. Before I can walk up the stairs to my room, my mother stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"Where have you been?" she asks. She's calm. Too calm. I know what's coming.

"I was at volleyball, Ma," I tell her, shrugging off her hand. "I'm going to my room to study, okay? I'll eat later."

She takes a deep breath. I turn to face her, wanting to cut off this conversation before it starts. She speaks before I can open my mouth.

"Stop playing volleyball. It's a waste of time."

I've had this conversation before. "Ma, it keeps me happy. It keeps me focused. If I didn't play, I'd have too much energy to study."

She shakes her head. "You should be doing more shifts at that restaurant you got a job at. You should be studying harder. You could be higher in the student council by now. Don't you want a good future? Do you want to end up like your aunt?"

I think about my aunt, a single mother, struggling to take care of my 9-year-old cousin, the product of a one night stand. I think about how happy she is, despite her situation. My mother's question is unfair. I bite my lip, feeling bitter.

"I want to be happy when I grow up!" I reply. "I don't care how rich I am, I want to be happy."

"Then you will disappoint us!" My mother screams, slapping me across the face. "Don't you care about your parents? You're our only daughter! We will rely on you when we grow old!"

"STOP!" I scream back, turning to run up the stairs. By the time I've reached my room and shut the door, tears are streaming down my face. My back slides down the closed door and I slump onto the floor, sobbing into my knees.

My mother doesn't understand how something like volleyball could bring me happiness. She has lived a miserable life in a loveless marriage. I understand why she wants me to do better. But I can't forgive her for trying to force me to give up something I love so much. I feel so trapped here. I need to get out.

My bedroom is on the second story, but I climb out and land on the ground as soundlessly as possible. Despite the cold, I run to the park just around the corner to think.

Has it always been like this?

For as long as I can remember, my parents have put pressure on me to succeed. I don't know why, but I've always assumed it was because they were never happy with their upper middle class life. They always wanted more power, more money, more fame.

Because I'm an only child, I'm their only chance of success, so that makes the pressure they put on me a lot worse. If I had a sibling, I would have someone to complain about it with, someone who would understand. If I had a sibling, my love for volleyball wouldn't be such an issue for my mother, because if I failed, there's always another chance. But it's not like that.

The worse part is, I meet their expectations. I exhaust myself and work until I collapse so that I can meet their expectations. And when I meet their expectations, they raise them higher.

It's a constant game of "how high can I go before I die from exhaustion?" and I'm sick of it.

I sit on the swings and think about how, no matter how good my grades are, no matter how many hours I work, no matter how big my paycheck is, my parents are never satisfied.

I think about how if I could fly myself out of Japan and start a new life under a new name, I would, in an instant.

I think about volleyball, and I wonder why it's so important to me.

- Suna, Tuesday, 9:33pm -

I have an English assignment coming up in two days, and I have no idea how to prepare for it. You're supposed to write a poem about something. I'm not good at writing poems. I'm not good at writing in general.

Tonight, I try and put my pen to paper and make it speak, but it just rests in one spot.

My brain is clouded, foggy, like when you breathe on glass.

Just write about something important to you, I tell myself. There must be something like that. I think of volleyball, but I still can't string words together.

I'm terrible at language. I'm terrible at relating to and communicating with people. I'm terrible at reading, because words don't make sense to me in the same way that numbers and logic and actions do.

I excel at math. Numbers aren't hard to read. Numbers are logical.

Words can mean anything you want them to mean. Numbers are restricted to meaning exactly what they say.

In the end, I give up trying to form sentences. I don't know how to write poems. I'm not going to be a poet when I grow up anyway.

Instead of writing my poem, I make a call.

"Atsumu? Are you free right now? I need your help."

- Ayano, Tuesday, 11:29pm -

When I come back home, I go in through the front door. My parents will be in bed by now, or at least my mother will be. The lights are off in the downstairs area.

I'm hungry, but it's too late to cook something, and we're out of frozen meals.

I slowly climb the stairs to my room. I'm freezing. My hands and legs are numb. I can't wait to go to sleep. My eyes are barely open.

My room seems untouched, but I know there's a note on my bed. It says, like it always does, "I'm sorry for hitting you. It won't happen again. Please finish your math homework. You know I love you."

I think about how many times she's said it won't happen again.

I think about how I don't know that she loves me.

I go straight to bed without finishing my math homework. 

a/n ++

hey yallll i see you made it to the second chapter! if you enjoyed this chapter please drop a vote and a comment, it really helps me out :))

qotd: what's your favourite flavour of ice cream? mine is for sure salted caramel or chocolate with brownie chunks and extra sAuCe !! i actually bought a whole 2L tub of ice cream yesterday as a 'light snack' hehe