The hospital room felt emptier than ever. White walls. Cold sheets. A stale silence that had started to cling to my skin like a second layer.
I zipped the last of my things into the bag and sat at the edge of the bed. My fingers twitched around the straps. The doctor had said two more days but my parents? They pushed for earlier. They always did. They wanted me out before the media caught on, before the school's reputation could be "tainted" by my presence.
Get better. But don't take too long.
Heal. But don't make it messy.
Breathe. But quietly.
A familiar knock. Not hesitant. Confident. It was him.
Kuroo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his eyes locked on mine. He didn't smile right away, just walked over and crouched in front of me.
"Ready for the grand return?" he asked, voice quiet, almost teasing.
I gave a dry laugh. "If by 'grand' you mean walking into school like I'm some tragic headline… yeah. Totally ready."
He tugged at the scarf around my neck gently, making sure it sat just right, covering what it needed to. "They're gonna stare, yeah. Whisper. But they always do. You're just the new obsession now."
I scoffed, standing up. "What do you want me to say..? 'Yay. I'm trending.' "
Kuroo chuckle but didn't let go of my hand when we walked out. He didn't speak again either not until we were in the car and halfway down the street.
"You don't owe them anything, Y/n," he muttered, like he was saying it more for himself than me. "Not the school, not your parents. You're not a product."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. I just kept my gaze on the window, watching the hospital disappear behind me.
The school gates looked bigger than I remembered. Too tall. Too bright. Too exposed.
The moment I stepped onto campus, I felt it.
Eyes.
Dozens of them. Piercing, judging, lingering too long. Like invisible weights pressing into my skin, daring me to crumble beneath their gaze.
Whispers followed me like a pack of wolves, hungry for a story they didn't deserve to know.
"Is that her?"
"She actually came back?"
"She tried to-"
"Why would her parents even let her show her face?"
"She's probably just looking for attention…"
Their words weren't even hushed. Not really. They weren't meant to be private they were weapons, sharpened with cruelty and carelessness. Carried by mouths that never once asked if I was okay.
I paused, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. My lungs burned with the effort it took just to keep walking.
"Y/n."
The voice cut through the static, low and steady.
Kuroo.
I didn't have to turn around to recognize it. He always had a way of showing up when I needed it whether I wanted him to or not.
I felt his hand settle on my shoulder, firm and grounding. Not too tight, not too soft. Just enough to remind me I was still here.
"You okay?" he asked, leaning just slightly closer, shielding me from the stares without making it obvious.
I inhaled slowly through my nose. My heart was a mess of shattered glass trying to hold itself together.
"Just… back to reality," I murmured.
He gave a quiet nod and started walking beside me. No questions, no pressure. Just… there. His presence was like armor I hadn't realized I needed.
The hallway felt impossibly long, every step like walking on glass. And yet somehow, it was easier with him beside me.
Some people glanced and quickly looked away, feigning indifference. Others stared outright, their curiosity flaring like open flames. One girl someone I vaguely recognized from chemistry shoulder-checked me as she passed. She muttered a half-hearted "Sorry" without stopping, then rushed to her little cluster of friends to whisper behind her hand, stealing glances back at me like I was a sideshow exhibit.
My fingers curled. My throat tightened. But I didn't stop.
I kept walking.
Because that's what you do after you've fallen apart in front of the world.
You walk. You keep walking. Even if your knees are trembling and your hands are cold and your heart doesn't feel like it's in your chest anymore.
You walk.
And hope that one day… it won't hurt this much.
In class, my seat felt… smaller. My desk, somehow colder, like the wood remembered my absence and resented my return.
The moment I stepped through the door, everything shifted. Conversations dipped into silence. Eyes flicked toward me some curious, others uneasy. The teacher paused mid-sentence, chalk hovering just above the board. She looked at me, then looked away. No "welcome back," no "how are you feeling?" Just a stiff nod and a muttered, "Take your seat," as if my presence was a ghost she'd rather not acknowledge.
I walked to my desk slowly, every step echoing louder than it should. The chair screeched slightly as I pulled it out. No one spoke to me. Not yet.
Then-
"Hey."
The voice was soft, grounding. I turned to see Bokuto sliding into the seat beside me. His usual chaotic energy was turned down, but his eyes were still warm, his smile still genuine just quieter now.
"You good?" he asked, voice low so only I could hear.
I hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Better than before… I think."
His smile widened just a little. "That's what matters."
He gave me a thumbs up before facing forward again, and just in time, too—Oikawa waltzed over with a stack of neatly arranged, color-coded papers in his hands.
"Y/n!" he said, as if we hadn't just gone through two weeks of emotional hell. "Behold, my masterpiece. Notes, summaries, highlighted keywords, and motivational doodles. I accept hugs or baked goods as thanks."
He placed the stack on my desk with a flourish like he was laying down a crown jewel.
I blinked. "Did you really do all this?"
"Of course," he said. "Also, I may or may not have strongly encouraged the teacher to give you an extension for next week's quiz."
"Strongly encouraged?"
He grinned. "Threatened is such a harsh word."
A loud sigh behind me.
Tsukishima.
Without a word, he dropped a textbook onto my desk with an audible thud. I looked up, startled.
"Try not to fall behind," he said flatly. "Or fall asleep. Or fall at all."
I stared at him. "That's… surprisingly thoughtful."
He scoffed. "Don't read into it. I just don't want to carry the group project again."
"Sure," I said, smiling despite myself.
He walked back to his seat without another glance.
For a brief second, the world felt manageable again. The weight pressing down on my chest loosened just a little. The whispers didn't seem as loud. The stares didn't cut as deep.
Even as the room buzzed back into its usual rhythm, something in me softened. Surrounded by familiar voices and quiet support, I felt something almost foreign bloom in my chest.
It wasn't quite peace.
But it was enough.
It was a start.
After school, the hallway had finally started to thin out its earlier chaos fading into silence broken only by the occasional locker slam or the soft squeak of sneakers on polished tile. Most students had already disappeared into after-school clubs, buses, or the safety of home. But I wasn't in a rush. I couldn't be. My limbs felt too heavy to move fast, like even gravity had decided I wasn't worth the effort today.
Kuroo found me at my locker, the last row in the far corridor where the lights always flickered and the air felt colder. He leaned casually against the neighboring locker, but his eyes were sharp, stormy. He was never one to sugarcoat things, not when it mattered.
"Your parents called the principal again," he said, voice tight. His jaw clenched the way it always did when he was trying not to explode. "They want you back on stage next week. Recital. Charity event. Something about appearances and image. You're like a damn puppet seriously."
My fingers froze over the combination lock.
Of course they did.
My chest tightened, the kind of pressure that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. The metal of the locker felt too cold beneath my touch. I didn't even realize I was shaking until Kuroo reached out and stilled my hand with his own.
"They want me to be perfect again," I muttered, not looking at him. "Dress up. Smile. Perform. Pretend everything's fine. But only when it's convenient for them. Only when it makes them look good."
Kuroo didn't speak right away. He just watched me, really watched me, with the kind of gaze that made you feel like you were being seen for the first time in years. Then, without a word, he took my hand gentle but firm, as if anchoring me back into my own body.
"You don't have to be perfect for them," he said, voice low. "Or anyone. You just have to be you. Messy, real, scarred… but you."
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to believe him so badly.
But the truth was… I didn't even know who that was anymore.
"I don't even know who I am," I whispered, my voice cracking as I stared down at our intertwined fingers.
"They turned me into something I hate. Something beautiful and hollow. Something that smiles on cue and falls apart in silence."
His grip tightened just slightly, warm and steady. "Then let's destroy that version of you."
I looked up, startled.
He wasn't joking. His eyes were fierce with quiet rebellion, and for once, I didn't see pity in them. I saw fire. Rage. Care. Defiance.
"Let's burn that version to the ground," he continued. "And build a new one. One that's yours. One they don't get to control."
The words clung to the air between us, daring me to believe them.
I looked at him really looked. The sharp lines of his jaw, the familiar way his hair always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, the softness he tried to hide behind sarcasm and wit. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel completely alone.
Maybe I couldn't erase the scars.
Maybe I couldn't silence the whispers.
Maybe I couldn't go back and undo everything they'd taken from me.
But maybe...just maybe I could start writing the story myself.
And this time, I wouldn't let anyone else hold the pen.
Not my parents.
Not the rumors.
Not the past.
Only me.
And maybe… him too.