When Akari opened her eyes, she was met with the familiar sight of her parents in the kitchen. She stared, trembling involuntarily, tears welling up in her eyes.
Didn't I... didn't you...
"Akari, before you go to school, since your dad and I are free today, would you like us to help you get your things back from your aunt's house?" Her mother asked, setting aside her iPad—a tool she usually relied on for work—to show she was fully present.
Her father smiled warmly at her while busy making breakfast, as it was his turn that morning. "We've imposed on them long enough. They might not mind, but we've had this house for a few months now. It's really time for you to settle into your own room, you know?"
It feels just like this morning. No, this can't be happening. It's not possible!
The thoughts spiraled in her mind as dread washed over her, an unsettling sense of déjà vu gripping her heart.
She wanted to step back, to retreat from this reality, but at that moment, she felt utterly out of control as her legs moved of their own accord, carrying her to the table where she sat down. A wave of nausea washed over her, and the urge to vent her discomfort surged within her, yet even the thought of screaming felt beyond her reach.
"How about we buy her some new things while we're at it?" her dad suggested, finishing up the table settings and taking a seat. "We don't need to take everything since their place is closer to school, right, kiddo?"
Mom! Dad! But...
The words swirled in her mind, desperately wanting to spill out. She wished she could tell them to leave, to go anywhere but here.
Just go somewhere else... because the house... the house...
The thought echoed, heavy with dread, as the weight of her emotions pressed down on her like a lead blanket.
Akari's thoughts came to a halt as she met the smiles of her parents. It was that same measured expression they wore when trying to make it up to her—an attempt to soothe her that she had grown accustomed to. Usually, it filled her with a sense of discomfort, like they were treating her like a small child. But this time, she found herself willing to accept that comfort rather than face the void of feeling nothing at all.
Yet, the same conversation played out before her, like a loop that had no end. There wouldn't be new interactions, no fresh moments to look forward to.
"So, what will it be?" they both asked, their eyes bright with anticipation for any choice she might make.
Stop! Go away! Don't wait for me here! Stay away from here. Please... please don't leave me alone...
The desperate thoughts screamed in her mind, fighting against the painful familiarity that wrapped around her like a shroud.
Akari longed to reach out, to hug them, to grasp their hands and feel their warmth, but her body wouldn't obey. Instead, she heard herself coolly reply, "Let's do both after I come home!" The words felt hollow, her past self standing up to leave.
Don't go! Stay there! Stop!!!
Idiot, stop!!!
Go back... you'll regret leaving like that... because there won't be a home to come back to.
---
Akari felt herself falling backward, a sudden tackle catching her off guard. As she looked up through her tears, she was met with the tear-filled faces of her teammates. A wave of disconnection washed over her; while their eyes shimmered with joy, hers were clouded with sorrow.
Their expressions were a stark contrast to her own—a celebration of triumph that felt impossibly distant. At that moment, the weight of her grief pressed down harder, amplifying her sense of isolation amidst their happiness. She couldn't share in their joy; instead, she felt like an outsider in a moment that should have belonged to her too.
Another memory...
"Akari-chan!!! You're amazing!!! What the heck was that last spike?!" Her classmate, a silly but reliable setter, tackled her in a joyful hug, tears of happiness streaming down her face. "Damn it, we really won!"
A tournament?
As reality sank in, Akari looked around, hoping to spot the two people she longed to see. Her gaze darted to the stands, where her cousins were jumping and waving excitedly. Her aunt held onto their collars, clearly trying to keep them from leaping over the railing to reach her. She definitely smiled happily then.
But as her heart raced with longing, she realized her parents were nowhere to be found. It was the second tournament. They only came to watch for the first one so this time, they were not there. The absence felt like a gaping hole, overshadowing the celebration around her.
She remembered that her parents were both busy with work and couldn't attend, unlike during her first match last year. Before, she hadn't minded too much; she understood they couldn't always carve out time for her. But now, the pain of their absence felt magnified, a heavy reminder that this time, their absence was permanent.
Amid the noise and cheers celebrating their championship victory, Akari sobbed, the joy around her fading into a distant echo.
What's the point of going back like this? They are not even here?!
The question gnawed at her, drowning out the excitement, and leaving her feeling lost in a moment that should have been triumphant.
No, this is too far back. Just take me back closer...to my parents! Please... I don't care about any of this anymore. I'll give up anything. I'll stop being needy and be satisfied with whatever is given to me, so just bring them back.
As if mocking her desperation, the cheers of happiness grew louder, drowning out her silent pleas. The celebration swirled around her like a storm, each joyful shout piercing through her heart. She felt utterly alone in a crowd, her sorrow overshadowed by the exuberance of those who had everything she now longed for—her family, her sense of belonging.
---
Akari stared up at the darkening sky, her breath coming in ragged gasps, too exhausted to move.
"Are you okay, Akari-chan?"
It was Shoyo, peering down at her with concern etched on his face.
This was one of those moments when she had pushed herself too hard during practice, collapsing from the weight of her determination. But now, none of that mattered.
Her anguish overflowed as she sobbed, feeling utterly powerless. Her current emotions match that of this memory.
The feeling of losing her first tournament had felt devastating, but it paled in comparison to the greater loss she faced now—the void left by her loved ones.
She even wanted to punch Shoyo's sunny face, convinced he was mocking her, but even that release eluded her.
Instead, she wailed in misery, knowing that no matter how much she cried, the memories wouldn't change. This is just another memory she can't control. There was no point in even trying.
Desperation crept in, and she heard herself asking for help, groaning at the weakness of her body that refused to cooperate with her wishes.
I'm weak... too weak...
To her surprise, Shoyo readily agreed, his small stature surprisingly capable as he lifted her onto his back. For a moment, it felt like a lifeline, a reminder that even in the depths of despair, someone is willing to reach out.
"Why did you end up like this? Isn't it painful?" Shoyo asked as he began walking home, their home—not hers.
Akari shivered at the question, feeling as if the probe was aimed at her present predicament. But no matter how much she wanted to answer, to scream out her pain, she found herself trapped in silence. This moment had already passed; the event was etched in the past, unchangeable and unforgiving. She wanted to scream that yes, it was painful—more than he could ever know—but the words got lost in the suffocating weight of a past that can never be changed.
She heard herself say, "When you lose something because you were lacking, and it causes so much pain, that's when you realize you took it for granted. You regret."
She had taken so much for granted—her parents, their love, the laughter that filled their home. Now, all that remained was an aching void. The regret twisted in her chest, a reminder of everything she had lost and the moments she would never get back.
"Hmm, that's too complicated. Is it like choosing between tamago kake gohan and meat buns?" Shoyo pondered aloud, his brow furrowed in thought.
Thwack!
His nonsensical question grated on her nerves then so in a reflexive motion, she reached out and playfully chopped his head.
"Seriously? That's what you come up with?" she heard herself say.
"Eh? Rii-chan, what was that for?" Shoyo exclaimed, sounding genuinely aggrieved. "I thought that was good since I like them both."
"You asked something silly," she replied then; she could hear her voice surprisingly relax a little, a stark contrast to the heavy dread that had weighed on her moments before in this memory.
Shoyo laughed it off and she couldn't help but feel a small flicker of warmth amid the storm inside her. Her right now. His lightheartedness felt like a shield against the darkness that threatened to consume her. It reminded her that even in sorrow, moments of levity could still exist, even if they were fleeting.
Akari realized this was the moment Shoyo had started calling her 'Rii-chan.' It had slipped out naturally, and she couldn't help but feel a warmth at the nickname. She had never changed the way she addressed him in return, always opting for a more formal and evidently distant one, but now she understood how brusque she must have seemed for so long.
Looking at him, she felt a twinge of guilt. He had always been there, never calling her out on her distance, always just trying to lighten the mood. Maybe it was time to let down those walls a little. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the past slowly begin to lift if only just a bit.
"It's the same! If I lose out on one, I'll regret not eating the other," Shoyo insisted, his tone mock-serious.
Akari couldn't help but chuckle, both in that moment and in this memory. "So stupid. Never mind then, just think of it as the musings of someone half asleep."
Shoyo just huffed.
Akari realized how much time she was spending in this memory. She glanced around, scanning her surroundings as if something important might catch her eye. The playful banter with Shoyo had momentarily distracted her, but now she felt a sense of urgency. What was it that she was overlooking?
"Oh really?" Shoyo murmured gently. "Don't put on a brave face when you're feeling alone then. If you're ever tired, we're right here for you, no matter what. I'm with you now, aren't I?"
At that moment, her of the past already drifted off to sleep, comforted by his words. But the Akari of now felt a jolt of realization.
I'm not alone?
Her heart ached as the truth washed over her. It was such a simple truth yet it eluded her all this time.
Even in her darkest moments, she had support. She wasn't just a solitary figure in her grief; there were people who cared, and who would stand by her side. The weight of that thought pressed heavily on her, but it also sparked a flicker of hope.
As if to respond to her thoughts, she recalled moments when Shoyo attempted to mimic her training, often buzzing around her like an annoying fly. She remembered times when he would casually approach her, trying to hide a bottle of water, eager to offer it, only for her to brush him off and walk away after saying no. Each time, he left looking dejected, yet his enthusiasm seemed to revive every time she returned to train, and he would follow her again.
If Akari recalled correctly, she only allowed Shoyo to join her about a month before the second tournament, a brief span compared to the time he had been following her around. Like in this memory where he was able to aid her at her lowest. She couldn't even remember when he had started.
Then her thoughts shifted to Natsu, who had willingly opened up a part of her room for Akari. It was Natsu's idea for Akari to stay with them during the week after she entered Yukigaoka Junior High. Despite Akari's awkwardness, Natsu had shown no signs of dislike.
And on top of it all, her aunt had always welcomed her with open arms.
I never really shared my struggles with her, yet she somehow knew. My parents always assumed I was fine on my own because I often acted capable, so for her to do so much for me... it means a lot.
The present is painful and devastating. Though she longed to go back and start over, she understood that wasn't possible. But now, at least she recognized she wasn't alone.
She could still take a step forward.