REACHING BEYOND THE NET

Ghosts of the Past

The steady rhythm of the ball hitting the court should have been enough to keep me focused. Each spike, each set, every movement on the court had always been second nature to me, a place where I felt at ease. But lately, something had been gnawing at me, a presence in my mind that I couldn't shake.

It was Hinata Shoyo.

Seeing him today had been a shock. I'd heard whispers that he was working with some big-name designer, but I hadn't expected him to show up here, at our training ground. He'd always been a bright, fiery presence, someone you couldn't ignore even if you wanted to. But today, when I saw him, it wasn't the same. There was something different about him, something broken.

I'd always known I'd hurt him, but seeing him like that—pale, trembling, nearly collapsing just from being in the same room as me—made me realize just how deep the wounds went.

I took a deep breath and tried to shake off the memories, but they kept creeping back in, slipping through the cracks in my defenses. Memories of Shoyo, back when we were together, when I had everything and didn't even realize what I was losing.

It had started out simple enough. He was just another player to me at first, small but feisty, with a fire that burned hotter than most. He was so determined, so driven, and I was drawn to that. At first, I admired him—his ability to jump so high despite his stature, his relentless pursuit of his dreams. But admiration soon turned into something else, something that neither of us had really expected.

Our relationship began like a match—intense, thrilling, but ultimately destined to burn out if not handled with care. We were both passionate, but in different ways. Where Shoyo was all heart and emotion, I was calculation and control. And that was where things went wrong.

I can't pinpoint exactly when it started, but I know it wasn't long after we became a couple. Shoyo's insecurities, particularly about his height and his place in the volleyball world, were always simmering beneath the surface. At first, I tried to comfort him, to tell him that he was enough, that he didn't need to prove anything to anyone. But somewhere along the way, my words became sharper, more critical. I began to see his weaknesses not as challenges to be overcome but as flaws that I couldn't ignore.

I pushed him harder, demanding more, expecting perfection. And when he couldn't give it, I lashed out. I was so focused on my own goals, my own ambitions, that I didn't see how much I was hurting him. I didn't see the way his eyes would darken when I made an offhand comment about his height, or how his shoulders would slump when I criticized his performance.

And then there was the jealousy. It ate away at me, festering inside like a poison. I didn't like how others looked at him, how they admired him. He was mine, and I didn't want to share him with anyone. I began to isolate him, pulling him away from his friends, convincing him that they didn't really care about him the way I did. I made him dependent on me, and I liked the power that gave me.

But with that power came a darkness that I didn't even recognize at the time. I started to control him, telling him what he could and couldn't do, who he could and couldn't see. I thought I was protecting him, keeping him safe, but really, I was just suffocating him.

The worst part was the way I used his insecurities against him. I knew how much he struggled with his height, how much it bothered him that he wasn't as tall or as strong as some of the other players. And when I was frustrated or angry, I would throw it back in his face, belittling him, making him feel small—both physically and emotionally.

"Maybe if you were taller, you'd be able to keep up," I'd sneered at him once after a particularly rough practice. The look in his eyes had been like a knife to the chest, but I'd ignored it, too caught up in my own bitterness to care.

I still remember the night it all came crashing down. We'd had another argument—one of many—and I'd said things I didn't mean, things that cut deeper than I realized at the time. He'd looked at me with tears in his eyes, silent, just taking it. That was the worst part. He didn't fight back. He just took it, like he'd accepted that this was how it was going to be.

But when I woke up the next morning, he was gone. No note, no goodbye—just gone. I'd told myself I didn't care, that it was better this way, but that was a lie. I cared more than I wanted to admit. I missed him, but I was too proud to go after him, to apologize, to admit that I was wrong.

And now, seeing him again, seeing the fear in his eyes, I finally understood the full extent of the damage I'd done. I hadn't just hurt him—I'd broken something inside him. And no matter how much time had passed, those wounds hadn't healed.

As I stood there on the court, watching the rest of the team go through their drills, I couldn't stop thinking about him. The way he'd looked at me today, like I was some kind of monster—maybe that's exactly what I was.

"Atsumu!" Bokuto's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He was waving at me from across the court, grinning like a maniac. "You spacing out on us, man?"

I forced a smile, trying to shake off the memories. "Yeah, sorry. Just thinking."

Bokuto jogged over, clapping me on the back. "Don't think too hard. We've got a game to win."

I nodded, but my mind was still elsewhere, still on Hinata. As I watched Bokuto return to the drills, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever be able to make things right with him.

But deep down, I knew the truth. Some things couldn't be fixed. Some wounds were too deep to heal, no matter how much time passed.

And the worst part? I had no one to blame but myself.