౨ৎ | NOTE :
sorry for any mistake, English isn't my first language<3
I hope you love this piece of sht I wrote here, I recommend listening to :
— 4 morant ( which ever version you like )
— Army dreamers by Kate bush( would be great if the volume was down!)
— Black out days by phantogram
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Kageyama Tobio stands alone on the empty volleyball court, the echoes of his past glory ringing hollow in the cavernous gym.
His once-precise movements now feel clumsy and forced as he attempts to serve, the ball sailing wide.
The scene is tinged with a palpable sense of desperation and frustration, setting the tone for his tragic descent.
The gymnasium, once a sanctuary where Kageyama's talents shone, now feels like a cold, unforgiving void.
The rhythmic thud of the ball against the hardwood floor once filled him with a sense of purpose and exhilaration, but now it serves only to taunt him, a cruel reminder of the heights he once reached and the depths to which he has fallen.
Kageyama's brow furrows in concentration as he tries to regain his touch, his fingers caressing the familiar material of the ball.
But with each failed attempt, his frustration mounts, the ball careening wildly off-target, betraying the once-flawless control that had defined his game.
The silence that permeates the gym is deafening, save for the occasional echo of the ball's impact.
Kageyama's world has narrowed to this solitary court, the weight of his past successes and present failures bearing down on him like a suffocating vise.
The cavernous space, once a stage for his triumphs, now feels like a prison, trapping him in a cycle of self-doubt and despair.
Beads of sweat trickle down his temples as he fights to regain his composure, his chest heaving with each labored breath.
But the more he tries, the more his movements betray him, the once-fluid motions now stiff and awkward, a painful reflection of the turmoil raging within.
Kageyama's gaze drifts to the empty bleachers, where the ghosts of his past glories seem to linger.
The thunderous applause, the adoring fans, the accolades – all of it now feels like a distant, fading memory, a cruel mirage taunting him with the promise of a future that has slipped through his fingers.
With a frustrated sigh, Kageyama lets the ball drop to the floor, the dull thud echoing through the cavernous space.
His shoulders slump, the weight of his failures crushing him, as he stands alone on the court, a once-proud prodigy reduced to a shadow of his former self.
The memory of his childhood comes flooding back, a bittersweet torrent that threatens to overwhelm him.
Kageyama sees himself as a young prodigy, effortlessly setting the ball with a precision that left his teammates and coaches in awe.
His movements were fluid, almost effortless, as he orchestrated the flow of the game with a maestro's touch.
The ball seemed to respond to his every whim, zipping through the air with a grace and power that belied his tender years.
His teammates would watch in wonder, their eyes wide with admiration as Kageyama's sets found their marks with unerring accuracy.
Coaches would nod approvingly, their faces alight with the promise of a future star, a talent to be nurtured and honed to perfection.
