Most Unfortunate - Daichi X Reader

PART TWENTY-TWO: Folded and Forgotten

There's a weird kind of quiet that settles in after a loss. 

It isn't silent. Not really. It's the absence of the usual things — laughter, teasing, the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors, and Hinata yelling something ridiculous from two classrooms down. That stuff's just... gone like someone sucked the soul out of the building and left only the dull buzz of fluorescent lights and creaky windows that don't quite shut right.

Even the wind outside sounds defeated, as if it's dragging its feet.

And then there's him.

Daichi.

He hasn't looked at me since this morning. He's spoken to Sugawara. Noya. Even Asahi. But not me. Not once.

I try not to take it personally. I try. Because maybe I deserve the cold shoulder. Maybe I overstepped. But... I didn't think being there for someone counted as a crime. Especially not when they were hurting.

I see him now, across the hallway. Leaning against the vending machine like it's the only thing holding him up. He looks tired. Eyes shadowed, shoulders slumped, like the weight of the entire team is still riding his back, even off the court.

I walk up slowly. Not too close. Just enough.

"Hey," I say quietly.

He barely glances my way. Doesn't answer.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "I thought maybe we could talk. About... the game. Or just—"

"You don't understand."

The words are sharp. Not loud, but final. Like a door slamming shut.

I blink. "Daichi..."

"Stop trying to help," he says, voice low but bitter. "I don't need your pity."

The sting is instant. Like he's slapped the words right across my chest. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My thoughts tangle, intertwining with each other, as I try to make sense of what just happened.

"I wasn't trying to—"

"I'm fine." Cold. Clipped. He doesn't even look at me.

My breath catches. Everything I want to say—about how I was just trying to be supportive, about the stupid paper crow in my bag I folded last night just in case he needed cheering up—dies on my tongue.

So instead, I just nod. Barely.

"Right," I whisper. "Got it."

And I walk away.

***

Later...

Daichi's POV

Literature class drags like a sprained ankle. I'm physically here, but my brain checked out somewhere between the whiteboard and my own damn regrets.

The air feels thicker than usual. Or maybe that's just me. I can't tell anymore.

Mr. Takeda's voice filters through the haze, reading something from the textbook — something about symbolism, I think. I'm not listening.

Not really.

My eyes drift again.

Her seat's empty.

The one where she always leans on her elbow like she's in a music video, pen twirling between her fingers like some bored background character who doesn't know she's the main one. The margin of her notebook is probably covered in dumb sketches and stupid little quotes.