Haikyuu imagines

Never Called- Iwaizumi

I never realized how quiet a phone could be until mine stopped ringing.

When you're young, you think certain people are permanent - the ones who know your tells, your moods, the way you tape your fingers before a match, the dumb inside jokes no one else gets. Hell, I used to think Oikawa and I would yell at each other until we were sixty. Maybe seventy, if he kept up with his skincare bullshit.

But life doesn't ask what you want to keep. It just takes.

And sometimes it takes slowly - so slow you don't realize something's gone until you reach for it and come up empty.

That's what happened with him.

I found myself staring at my phone again, thumb hovering over the top of the screen like a fucking reflex. No new messages. Nothing unread. Just the same old threads: Kags complaining about Hinata; Matsukawa and Makki sending cursed pictures; the team group chat; my family; you.

Not him.

Never him.

You walked into the apartment right as I was sinking into that familiar ache. I didn't look up fast enough. You noticed - you always do.

"Rough day?" you asked, dropping your gym bag by the door.

I shrugged, but it came out stiff. "Just tired."

You gave me a look - the kind that said: bullshit, Hajime, try again.

You crossed the room and sat beside me on the couch, tucking your knee toward me, close enough that our thighs brushed. It wasn't the first time we'd been near each other like that, but my heart still did that stupid anxious thud. You smelled like rain and laundry detergent. It grounded me.

"What's going on?" you asked.

Your voice was soft. Not pushy. Just... warm. Patient.

I didn't answer.

Not right away.

Not until you touched my wrist lightly, your thumb brushing over the little ridge of scar tissue from an old volleyball injury. That small, barely-there pressure made something crack open in my chest.

"It's stupid," I muttered.

"Let me decide that," you said.

I exhaled, leaning back, head hitting the couch cushion.

"It's been years," I said quietly. "Literal years. And I still..." I swallowed. "Every now and then I catch myself waiting for a message from him."

You stayed still. No shock. No judgment. Just listening.

"I don't know why I keep expecting it," I said, forcing the words out. "He left for Argentina, and I told him I'd be here whenever he needed me. And then-"

Silence.

A hollow kind.

"He never called."

My throat tightened. I felt stupid admitting it out loud. Like a kid complaining about being left out of a game.

Your brows softened. "That must've hurt."

I barked out a humorless laugh. "You don't even know."

But the truth was... you did. Because you'd been watching me unravel in slow motion ever since we got close. You'd been piecing the story together from things I never said out loud. You'd seen how I always tensed when Argentina came up on TV, how I always turned off interviews before they finished.

And you'd never pushed. Never demanded explanations. You just stayed.

"Iwa... can I ask something?" you said gently.