I stir in my sleep. My pulse is still racing, breath catching like I've been running, or cornered. The heat clings to my skin, legs tangled between my sheets as if to accuse me of doing something, or rather someone doing something to me and the memory is too stubborn to disappear.
I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate for just a flash of a clear image, but all I can feel is impressions; pressure against my back, a hand closing around my wrist, the sharp thud of being pinned against a wall. A voice, low and close to my ear that I can't hear but can definitely feel.
Worse than all of that?
I knew who it was.
Even half-asleep, even with every detail slipping away from me like sand through my fingers, there's only one person who can make my stomach twist like this and leave my face burning before I'm even fully conscious.
I kick my blanket away as if he's responsible, like it's his fault for existing in the first place. My body feels restless, too warm, and I'm trembling in a way that makes me want to punch the wall just to reset myself.
I force myself to sit up, trying to ignore how my legs feel unsteady, like my body can remember the phantasm better than I can.
I drag myself out of bed and dawdle towards the sink, exhaling through my teeth, trying to force every single thought away, forcing his face—his stupid mismatched eyes, his stupid voice that sounds like velvet —I hate him.
I splash the cold water onto my face, but it does nothing for the way the back of my neck won't stop burning. Flashes keep replaying warm breath on my cheek, fingers tightening around my hip, the most impossible type of closeness, and every time, my stomach flips violently in protest.
It's ridiculous and almost pathetic how deep this hatred runs. I don't just dislike Kai, I resent the fucking air he breathes. Every time he walks into a room, he treats it like a stage, and he just drags me into the spotlight with him. The world just bends around him just to remind me that I'm stuck orbiting someone I despise. He gets under my skin like it's his mission, cracking me open in places I didn't give him permission to touch. I hate every smug look that crawls down my spine. I hate that part of me that reacts before I can think, like he's wired into my nerves.
This anger feels too sharp, too hungry, blurring into something that I don't want to label. It's messy, it's consuming. This must stop.
"This wouldn't happen if you just stopped thinking about him," I growl at my own reflection; it doesn't argue. People get carried away hating others; they spend more energy feeding it than they do living. I take a long moment to stare at myself, wishing it were that simple.
I shake myself off and stomp towards the shower like I can outrun these feelings. The cold-water hits harder this time, jolting my body awake, easing the lingering warmth that clings to my body. I let it run over my skin, just long enough to snap my thoughts into something resembling focus.
I can do this; I can forget about him.
I'm halfway through rinsing the last bit of cold water off my face when my phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Yuyu:
Oi I'm actually showing up today. Don't pass out before I get there!
Yuujin. Of course. Leave it to that little shit to wait until the last moment to announce himself. I huff; an uneven smirk curls at the corner of my lips despite the lingering tension from last night's dream. So, he's going to show up today. After all the ghosting, the late-night gaming marathons, and "I'll be there, maybe" bullshit, he's showing up.
By the time I autopilot my way out onto the street, the city feels sharper than yesterday, the morning light slanting across the streets, briefly stinging my tired eyes. My bag rests heavy on my shoulders, but at least it was enough to keep me grounded, something I can grip when the world feels like it's swirling too fast.
The streets are already buzzing with students, and my shoes scuff against the pavement, trying to match the rampant pace of the figures brushing past me.
"Yo! Ace!" that silly voice bellows out, loud enough to make the two girls walking in front of me flinch and glance in my direction.
I don't even have time to turn before there's an arm slamming down around my shoulder, warm and way too familiar.
Yuujin crashes into my side, grin wide like a dog with two tails. His hair is the first thing that hits me; freshly bleached to a near-platinum, the ends still faintly uneven, like it was an impulse for him to just do it himself, bored at 3 AM. Nothing new. In the morning sun, sharp in contrast to yesterday's gloom, his hair was almost too bright, glinting pretentiously in my eyes.
"Miss me?" he chirps, pulling on my arm like he's trying to pop it out of its socket. "C'mon, say it. You definitely missed me!"
"I missed the peace and quiet," I mutter, but he just laughs, totally unbothered. His laugh is always distinctive and harsh against the morning fog in my head; it gets under my skin, but in a way that I can never fully resent.
"You look like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he says, squinting at me, inspecting my face like it was a crime scene. "Didn't sleep?"
"Didn't ask," I shoot back, but my voice comes out thinner than I meant it to.
He leans closer to my face and pinches my flushed cheek "You look...flustered. What happened? Weird dreams again?"
My stomach tenses, too sharply. I attempt to swat him away from pinching my cheek with no luck. "Yuyu..."
"Oh my god," He giggles. "It was that kind of dream, wasn't it?"
I finally yank myself out of his hold and start power walking in front of him, that heat crawling up the back of my neck again. "Yuyu...seriously. I'm warning you."
He only needs to take three big strides to catch up with me, hands raised in surrender, still giggling like a menace. "Alright! I'll stop...for now." He nudges me slightly with his shoulder, softer this time. "It's nothing to be ashamed of—I've had dreams about girls, guys...sometimes both if my brain decides to be extra funky about it." He shrugs like he didn't just casually drop that into thin air. "Dreams are dreams, dude. Don't read into it too much."
I keep my eyes on the pavement, as if somehow the cracks in the slabs were now interesting. It's pathetic how fast that one sentence sent my brain into a free-fall.
Dreams like that happen. To everyone.
Right?
I should feel better, reassured. Normal. Whatever that means anymore. But all this does is make my thoughts spiral harder, like I've been granted permission to admit something I've been trying to dodge.
I'm not straight.
I mean, I've known that. Kinda. I think.
Girls turn my head. Guys do too. It just depends on the person. I don't know what that makes me, and I don't care about trying to figure that out either.
But him?
The fact that my subconscious decided Kai, of all people, deserved to appear in that kind of dream. That's what's messing me up.
I can like guys. Fine. But why him? Why my rival, my headache, the thorn in my side? Why the one person that I hate so much?
My chest twists painfully.
It just didn't feel like one of those random "brain soup" dreams people laugh and feel embarrassed about the next day. It felt targeted. Deliberate. Like my body knows something that I don't.
My jaw tightens. No. I promised myself I'd stop. I swore I'd cut this shit off the root, stop giving him space in my head, stop letting whatever this is dig its claws into me. I'm not doing this again. I'm not going to spiral over him again.
I shove my hands deep into my pockets, fixing my posture to force the air out of my lungs.
No more thinking about Kai. No more replaying anything. No more letting dreams, stupid, involuntary dreams drag me into this mess.
"Hello?" Yuujin waves a hand in front of my face "Earth to Ace!"
I blink. Once. Twice. My brain snaps back into my skull like a rubber band.
He bumps my shoulder, looking down at me with an annoyingly perceptive grin. "Seriously, dude. You spaced out so hard I thought I'd have to call an exorcist..."
"I'm fine, just tired." My voice cracks slightly, heat flaring up in my cheeks again.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't pretend you didn't go straight to bed—you didn't even play Tekken with me last night!"
I scoff under my breath. "Didn't feel like getting my ass handed to me again."
"You say that like it doesn't build character!" He steps in front of me, forcing me to stop walking before I crash into him. "Besides, I even helped you pick your main so you wouldn't cry about King being 'overpowered'—"
I cut him off, "I don't cry about him being overpowered!" The protest comes out somewhere between a growl and something embarrassingly close to a whine. The second the noise escapes my mouth I want to walk into traffic.
I shove his shoulder lightly, but he doesn't budge. He just giggles like he's just won a prize. But then his expression softens into this weird mix of concern and confusion.
"You good, Anri?" Please don't call me that. "Like—actually good?" He lets out a soft sigh before he clicks his tongue and suddenly reaches down, flicking the centre of my forehead with two fingers.
I jolt. "Ow—what the hell, Yuyu?"
"There we go," He grins, satisfied. "That usually restarts your brain."
I rub my forehead, scowling. "I don't need restarting."
"You definitely need something." He teases.
"Shut up," I mutter, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with the smallest twitch.
He doesn't reply, just shoves a hand against my back and starts steering me forward. I swear, one day he's going to forget I have my own legs.
Campus mornings were too-awake, too-loud; bikes rolling in, people talking. The clock tower above the main courtyard reads 8:23.
Tuesday.
Right. Aesthetics lecture first thing. Not a terrible class, especially on mornings when my brain is anywhere but cooperative.
Across the courtyard, students are splitting off toward the Faculty of Letters building, with the aesthetics and psychology halls on the left and the sociology wing on the right. Yuujin gives me a sloppy salute as he backs towards his building.
"Try not to fall asleep in there." He smirks, jogging off, disappearing into the crowd of students.
I turn towards my hall, slinging my bag higher on my shoulder, only for my chest to tighten when I catch a glimpse of familiar dark hair near the psych building entrance.
Of course, Kai is early. Of course, he stands outside the psychology hall like the whole hallway exists just for him. Of course, my stomach flips.
I drag my eyes away instantly. No. No, I promised myself.
I keep walking, maybe a little too fast. Because if I slow down, even for a second, I know exactly where my thoughts will go.
The lecture hall doors slide open, and I sink into a seat near the back, grateful that I didn't have to be late today with the embarrassment of eyes watching when I stumble in.
The professor doesn't raise his voice. He never does.
"Today," he says, adjusting his glasses, "we're talking about aesthetic judgement— not what you like, but how you decide that you like it."
Keys tap across laptops.
"Kant argues that when we find something beautiful, the pleasure is disinterested. That means it isn't tied to desire. You don't want to own the thing. You don't want to use it. You simply experience it."
A slide changes on the screen: an image of a quiet landscape, sunlight filtered through trees.
"Kant would say that the moment desire enters the picture, judgement becomes compromised. It stops being aesthetic and starts being personal."
—
After my lecture, I decided I'd still go to music club anyway, the weight of the day settling in sooner than I'd planned.
We meet in one of the music rooms tucked behind the main buildings: low ceilings, scuffed floors, the faint hum of other clubs bleeding through the walls. But it has everything we need.
The music club is usually laid-back. I'm not. I care about it more than I do my actual major. Today, we're looking at music history.
The instructor clicks the remote, and a delicate, plucked sound fills the room. I flinch at first, but there's a strange rhythm to it that keeps me rooted in my seat.
"We'll look at the shamisen and koto," the instructor begins, eyes scanning the room. "Notice how the timbre of the instruments interacts with the pentatonic scales. It's minimal, but each note carries weight."
I nod mechanically, trying to focus, but my mind drifts. I can picture the fingers on the strings moving just like my thoughts: precise, controlled, yet impossible to fully tame. The sound pulls me back to the high school festivals, my parents, the smell of food stalls in the air, and the warmth of their hands brushing against me as I would cheer on the performances. I blink, quickly, forcing my eyes back to the instructor. They're gone now, but the music still smells faintly like them. I shake my head and try to focus, the taste of nostalgia bitter on my tongue. I can feel my mood shifting against my will.
The hour stretches straight into the next: Music Composition, and I sink into my seat, letting the rhythmic tapping of keys and quiet strumming exercises fill the room. The instructor drones instructions about counterpoint and harmonisation, but I'm mulling over patterns and imagining melodies I can't quite reach.
By 12:30, the instructor finally shooed us away, and I shoved my laptop into my bag, relieved that the club ended, with looming anxiety at what was out there waiting for me.
I leave the room with the crowd, students shoving past my short frame in clusters.
The cafeteria splits into its usual separated queues. Habit drags me straight toward the curry line. Yuujin's already there, halfway through complaining about the portion sizes to the girl in front of him.
I fall in behind him, and the line inches forward. My bag is swinging against my hip as I exhale—
I freeze when someone steps into place behind me. I notice the scent first when I inhale: sharp, clean and evocative. The air shifts. My shoulders tense, the urge to look behind me strong, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction.
Kai is in the curry line.
He never...never takes this line. He would always queue for the ramen in a way that was too predictable. Why is he standing so close? The top of my head barely reaches his collarbone; he towers over me—close enough that when the line surges forward, a breath brushes the back of my neck.
I stiffen, shoulders twitching up, the line moves again—then I feel it: the faintest touch, like the edge of Kai's chest grazes between my shoulder blades.
My pulse spikes hard enough that it's humiliating.
There's a quiet shift of fabric; his jacket brushes as he leans just a fraction closer, enough that his voice reaches me without needing to raise it.
"You're moving like you expect me to grab you."
It wasn't a question. Just an observation, slipped out in a maddeningly soft tone, like he's watching something he already understands. Yuujin keeps chatting to the girl ahead of him, blissfully unaware.
Kai doesn't move away.
He lowers his head a bit, like he's listening for a reaction. His scent drifts forward with him—something warm like cedar. It hits harder than the proximity does, and suddenly, my mouth is dry.
I keep my eyes locked on the back of Yuujin's hoodie, refusing to turn around.
"Maybe—" Kai adds under his breath. "Don't stand so tense. People might think you're scared."
My heart slams against my ribcage.
I keep forcing myself to look forward, willing the line to move faster, willing the air to become breathable.
It doesn't.
Kai stays where he is; quiet, still, a loaded presence pressed just close enough that the fine hairs on the base of my skull prickled, independently alive.
Finally, the line shuffles forward. I take a half-step too, and Kai moves with me at the same rhythm, his chest brushes the back of my shoulder. It's barely anything, a hair's breadth. But the heat detonates straight down my spine.
Yuujin grabs his tray with a satisfied hum and turns—then stops mid-step, eyes going wide when they land on the figure standing behind me.
"AH—" he squeaks. "Uh...hey. Didn't know you enrolled, Takato."
Kai doesn't answer him. Not even a nod. His attention stays anchored on me for one last second, then he steps out of line, moving toward the drink station without a word, as if he'd only stood here for that one purpose.
The air around me inflates again. I don't know whether to feel relieved or nauseous.
Yuujin shuffles closer, whispering furiously, "Dude. DUDE. Why didn't you tell me Kai Takato enrolled here? I thought he was going to bite you or something just then."
I shove his tray at him, face burning. "...Just walk."
We grab our food and slip into a two-seater table by the window. Yuujin watches me closely, really watches, and something solicitous enters his expression.
"So, since you're clearly...scrunched—like, more than your usual moody thing—I was gonna tell you earlier but..." He glances towards where Kai is seated a few tables away, shuddering. "Got distracted."
I stab at a piece of my chicken. "Tell me what?"
He leans in, attempting to keep his volume low.
"Soccer try-outs. The university's doing open trials this Friday."
I pause mid-chew.
Friday. As in... this week?
Yuujin nods enthusiastically and carries on. "I'm thinking we should go. Y'know—get back into it. Distract your overworked brain. Being on a team again could help."
A flicker of nostalgia pinches in my chest. High school. The field. The rush. The way we functioned well together, even when everything else in life didn't.
"Do you actually think we can make it?"
Yuujin scoffs. "Please. We were monsters back in high school. You especially, coaches practically worshipped you."
I shake my head. "That was so long ago—"
"—Yeah, but talent doesn't rot, and I know you miss it." He jabs his chopsticks in my direction. "And I've still got some moves. Probably. Look—we at least try. I heard they're short on forwards too!"
I snort, but it's the first real breath I've taken all day.
He grins at me, annoyingly hopeful, before digging into his curry. I glance through the crowd, toward where Kai is seated: scrolling on his phone with one hand, the opening of his water bottle pressed against his smirking lips.
Friday.
Fine. Yuujin is probably right. I need a distraction.
—
The days leading up to the trials smeared together. Every morning started the same: my alarm exploding at 5 AM, my body begging me to stay in bed, and Yuujin already texting me "outside" like the sadistic morning person that he is. I'd throw on whatever clean kit I could find, shove a protein bar into my mouth, and meet him on the pitch while the sky is still purple.
We ran the same drills repeatedly; first touches until my toes went numb, back-and-forth sprints that made my lungs feel like they'd been turned inside out, passing patterns until the sun finally dragged itself over the horizon. Then we'd rush straight into showers, straight into lectures, smelling like the field no matter how much deodorant we used.
Between classes, assignments and pretending like I wasn't exhausted. Yuujin kept saying, "Trials are going to be brutal...But I swear—we've actually got a shot." I really wanted to believe him. Some days I almost did. Yuujin kept pushing me, correcting my form, "just one more set," throwing passes a little too fast on purpose to force me to react quicker.
Still, I can't pretend it didn't feel good. Like I was building toward something instead of just surviving the day.
By the time Friday rolled around, my whole body felt like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry. I barely slept; every time I closed my eyes, I saw cones, passing lanes, Yuujin yelling "again," and the scoreboard in my head keeping tally of every mistake I'd made that week.
Trial day.
I woke up before my alarm for once, heart already pounding, twisting itself into knots. For a moment, I thought about skipping breakfast, but then I imagined myself puking on the field from nerves, so I forced down a banana and sports drink and tried my best not to think too hard.
All morning, I keep expecting to see Kai, lurking outside the lecture halls, leaning against the wall with his stupidly confident posture, but he's nowhere. Not once. Not even a glimpse of those sharp eyes or that annoying half-smirk he always wears like it's stitched to his face.
And fine. I shouldn't care. I don't. But his absence sits under my skin like a splinter.
Lectures drag. Every minute feels like it's mocking me. I'm trying to focus, but my mind keeps drifting to tonight; who's going to show, who's going to crumble, and whether every morning Yuujin and I have been training will actually mean anything.
By lunchtime, I'm jittery enough that Yuujin bumps my shoulder "Nerves just mean that you care, don't forget to breathe." Easy for him to say, but it's reassuring.
I keep checking every hallway we pass through, almost annoyed at myself for trying to spot Kai. Not that I need him there. Not that it matters if he comes. It's just that he's been this looming presence all week. And now he's vanished on the day I expected to see him around?
Maybe that should make it easier to focus. It doesn't.
By the time early evening hits, my stomach is tight, and my thoughts won't shut up. The pitch is waiting. Coaches are waiting. Yuujin and I duck into the locker room, the smell of damp socks and sweat hitting me before anything else. The fluorescent lights are humming above us, white and sterile. Yuujin's already tearing into his kit. I drag my bag to a bench, unpacking slowly, trying to ground myself.
"You ready, Ace?" His grin is impossibly wide.
"Do I have a choice?" I mutter, fingers stumbling with the laces of my cleats, unable to calm the fluttering in my chest.
"You do. But you'll probably regret it if you bail," he teases. His shoulder nudges mine lightly as he slings his bag onto a hook. I don't respond, just keep tying my laces, trying to ignore the heat crawling through my veins.
We push the locker room door open, the sharp click of the latch echoing down the narrow hallway.
Yuujin is beside me, talking too fast, his cleats tapping against the vinyl floor, probably trying to fill the silence I didn't even notice I'd fallen into. I can barely register his words. My focus is on the field, on the faint buzz of activity in the distance, the way the turf stretches out like a stage, and a jolt of fear shoots down my spine.
The air is cool, but the floodlights are bright, sharp, revealing the pitch in a way that makes every blade of grass gleam. Step by step, we cross the asphalt to the edge of the pitch. The grass crunches under my studs. Fuck, this is actually happening. I swallow hard.
Yuujin brushes past me, and I flinch without thinking. He doesn't notice. He's already scanning the field, energetic, pulling himself into the rhythm he thrives on. I trail behind, careful to keep my steps measured, to anchor myself in something physical so my thoughts don't spiral.
We reach the sideline. Players everywhere; stretching, passing, showing off, pretending they're not terrified.
Then—
I see him.
Kai.
Jogging out onto the grass like he belongs here, fluid and calm. Like it's obvious he'd show up. Like he didn't disappear all damn day and leave me thinking—
My fingers press tightly against my palms.
He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze sweeping the field, and of course, the moment his eyes find mine, that slow, infuriating smirk that's been burned into my memory for almost a year pulls at the corner of his mouth.
I want to look away. I can't. Every part of me is tuned to him. Every instinct is screaming at me to run. But the field is behind him, the coaches ahead, Yuujin beside me, and I can't move.
He jogs past a line of cones, his eyes flicking up for just a second more, that smirk never leaving. And in that moment, I feel it all: the tension, the history, the pull I've been denying, the challenge I didn't expect to face today.
I can't breathe.
And just like that, the pitch, the trials, everything, all of it, feels like it's centred around him.
The distance between us collapses, the crowd fades, and all I hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears—
...fuck.