An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rumi is a legacy, born into the game, sharpened by its demands, and slowly splintering beneath the weight of perfection. Everyone sees a prodigy. She sees the cracks. Her sets are clean, calculated, and full of control, but there’s desperation behind every toss. Then there’s Mira: tall, unshakable, terrifyingly smart. Her wall is ruthless, her cross shots deadly, and she doesn’t play by Rumi’s script, not if she sees a better way. Zoey is all motion and heart, underestimated until she isn’t, digging up the impossible and hitting with a kind of joy that feels like defiance. Together, they could be brilliant. Together, they could be more than the sum of their scars. But Rumi has secrets she won’t name, Mira won’t follow blind, and Zoey’s smile masks the strain of trying to be enough. They’re not perfect. They don’t trust easily. But if they can learn to move as one — to reach through the dark and connect — they might just become a team worth fearing.
Been seeing a number of things recently in fandom on tumblr that have bothered me, so I wanted to shout a couple quick thoughts as a fandom creator who stumbled into a large readerbase:
Please think about what fandom creators can see. If you post something online publicly, there is a likelihood they can and will see it! Fandom creators are not the same as professional creators. We occupy the same tight-knit community online, nerding out the exact same way as our peers! I really don't care what you have to say about my fics, and certainly don't expect everyone out there who reads them to enjoy them, but don't TELL me ajdfkls - do it in private please!
Please think about the intent behind what you're saying publicly for fandom creators to see. Speaking personally, I love seeing people theorize and talk about my own works (shoutout to a lovely shark friend of mine <3)! That being said, I'm also fiercely protective of my versions of these characters, and get genuinely disheartened if someone reads and declares malintent into characters that I love. Those takes have been thankfully rather self-contained (and none public beyond ao3 comments sections), but I can't express how sad and discouraged I'd be if they spread and convinced others that that was the story I was telling, let alone if they'd spread while I was actively writing the fic.
It stings. We see these comments and takes, and some I still think about months later, wondering if there's any other way I could've made my narrative and my love for the characters within it clearer.
Fandom creators and fandom enjoyers: all of us are here to have fun together and are doing this for free - all we ask is that you please be respectful of that. <3
She snaps through the ball, and it rockets over the net.
The blocker gets a hand up, but she's a fraction too late. The spike tears past her outstretched hands, skimming the outside of her arm before slamming into the open space behind the block. The sound cracks through the gym. Their libero throws herself after it anyway, diving across the floor on pure instinct, but the ball has already struck the court and ricocheted out of bounds.
Rumi lands lightly, knees bending with the impact.
The stadium erupts in shrieking whistles in tandem with hands crashing together . Her teammates are already shouting, but the noise reaches her as though she's underwater, distant and muffled beneath the steady thrum of blood in her ears.
Five in a row.
She lifts her eyes to the scoreboard.
20–15
Fifteen of those points are hers. No lucky wipeouts off the block either. All clean spikes.
The referee's whistle cuts through the cheers.
Timeout.
Of course.
Momentum is a living thing. You feed it, and it grows teeth. You let it run too long, and it devours the match. The other side knows it as well as she does. They need the pause more than they need instructions.
Rumi watches them drift toward their bench.
Their middle blocker is already arguing with the outside hitter, sharp gestures slicing through the air between them. Frustration spills from every movement — pointing at the net, at the floor, at each other. Neither wants to own what keeps happening. Then, almost in unison, they look at her.
Rumi meets their gaze without expression.
The moment lasts only a heartbeat before both of them look away first and disappear into the huddle with the rest of their team.
She looks up.
Celine catches her eye and offers a small smile. Rumi returns it.
She jogs back to her bench, where someone presses a bottle of water into her hand. She twists the cap off and drinks while Coach Park talks.
“...good tempo. Keep trusting your setter. They're struggling to close us off, so keep attacking like you have been.”
The rest blends into the familiar rhythm of timeout speeches. Encouragement. Minor adjustments. Stay focused. Don't get complacent.
They're playing well.
She's playing well.
There isn't much to fix or discuss.
Instead, her attention drifts to the opposite bench. The opposite team huddles tightly around their coach. Their middle blocker is still talking with animated hands. The outside shakes her head, jaw clenched.
“Don't forget,” Coach Park says, drawing Rumi's attention back. “Number One usually needs a set to warm up. Keep the pressure on her. Don't let her build momentum.”
Rumi's gaze flicks back across the net.
Momentum? Where?
They're five points away from taking the first set.
Once that happens, the pressure shifts. It always does. The team behind starts chasing points instead of playing them. They swing harder. Reach farther. Force plays that aren't there. That's when mistakes creep in.
She catches another glance from one of their opponents’ blockers. Then another. Neither lasts more than a second. They're already looking at her differently. As if they're searching for an answer they haven't found.
Another win for the Solar Flares, she thinks.
Another mark in the loss column for... Her eyes drift to the banner hanging above the opposite bench.
RISE.
What a fitting name…
The whistle slices through the gym. Players peel away from their benches and return to the court.
Rumi starts toward her position.
A hand settles on her shoulder.
She flinches before she can stop herself, twisting around fast enough that the touch slips away.
Haeun immediately raises both hands. “Sorry.”
Rumi blinks once, then shakes her head. It's fine. Or at least that's what she means to say. What comes out is only a quiet hum.
Haeun rubs the back of her neck. “So... um... listen, we—I…” She trails off.
Rumi waits.
Haeun lets out a breath through her nose. “Nevermind.”
She turns and jogs toward her position before Rumi can ask. Rumi watches her go, a faint crease settling between her brows.
What was that about?
The thought barely has time to form before the referee blows the whistle.
The serve flies. The rally begins. A clean receive. A quick set. A swing. A dig that skids inches above the floor. The ball refuses to die. Back and forth it goes, the rhythm building with every touch until the match swallows everything else.
RISE's middle never looks away from her.
Number Ten tracks every step Rumi takes along the net, shoulders tense, feet constantly adjusting to mirror her.
Good. Keep watching me.
The next pass is clean. Her setter’s — Vera's hands rise beneath the ball.
Rumi starts her approach.
One.
Two.
Three.
The set arcs toward the left antenna. She jumps. The opposing middle moves with her. A heartbeat later the outside closes the block, sealing the line. Another step, another pair of hands, and suddenly a wall rises in front of Rumi.
Three blockers.
Rumi's arm whips forward anyway.
Then, at the last instant, she loosens her wrist. Instead of driving through the ball, she cushions it, nudging it over the top of the block.
The libero reacts late. She lunges forward and manages to get an arm underneath it, but the ball has no pace left. It pops weakly into the air before falling right back onto the floor.
The whistle blows.
21–15
“Hey Rumi!”
She turns.
Vera is walking towards her.
Rumi raises an eyebrow.
Vera points toward Haeun with an awkward smile. “You mind being a decoy for the rest of the set?”
Rumi blinks. “What?”
“You've scored over half our points.”
“…Yes…?”
“And you're not graduating this year.”
Rumi waits.
Vera waves both hands vaguely, as though the rest should explain itself. “So... there are kind of... too many eyes on you, and not enough… um…”
Rumi's gaze shifts to Haeun. Haeun is already looking at them. The moment their eyes meet, she looks away.
Then back to Vera. “But... you set to me?”
“Yeah.” Vera lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I'll, uh... stop doing that for the rest of the set.” She points toward the net. “But, keep making your approach, okay? Jump every time. Just don't let them realize you're not getting the ball.”
Rumi's brow furrows. “But Coach—“
“Thanks, Rumi!” The words tumble out so quickly they barely sound like an answer. Vera is already halfway back to her position before Rumi can say anything else.
Rumi watches her go.
The scoreboard catches her eye.
21–15
Four points.
That's all they need.
She's found her rhythm. The block is reacting exactly the way she expects. Every swing feels cleaner than the last. Stopping now feels... She doesn't know, like leaving a sentence unfinished.
Her gaze drifts toward Haeun again. Haeun stands near the net, pretending to stretch her shoulders, but her eyes keep flicking back to Rumi. As if she's afraid Rumi might be angry.
Rumi isn't. Confused, maybe. A little frustrated. She doesn't understand why Haeun is acting as though this is Rumi’s decision.
The setter chooses who gets the ball. Not the hitter. If Vera stops setting her, then Vera stops setting her. That's how volleyball works. If spreading the ball around helps everyone's spirits, then... fine.
They only need four more points anyway.
The whistle blows before she can think about it any longer.
Rumi settles into her stance.
The game resumes and whether she likes it or not, the next decision isn't hers to make.
They lose the rally.
Vera sets Haeun. The ball hangs too close to the net. Haeun is late getting underneath it, still recovering from the receive she'd made seconds earlier, her feet never quite settling before she has to jump again. The swing is rushed. RISE blocks it cleanly.
The whistle blows.
21–16
Whatever.
It's one point.
They've got room to spare.
Across the sideline, Coach Park throws Vera a puzzled look. He points toward Rumi. Then toward their middle. Both had been open.
Vera winces. “Sorry, Coach,” she mouths as they rotate back into position.
The next rally begins. Rumi starts her approach anyway. She already knows the ball isn't coming. But, she jumps. Three blockers leave the floor with her. The instant their hands rise, Vera sends the ball sailing behind Rumi toward Haeun.
For a split second, the court opens. Haeun swings. The defense digs it, but awkwardly. The ball pinballs high into the air before drifting back over as a free ball.
Easy.
The Solar Flares reset. Haeun gets another chance. She buries it. The point is theirs. The rallies keep unfolding the same way after that.
Rumi approaches. The block follows. The set goes somewhere else. Sometimes Haeun. Sometimes the middle. Sometimes the opposite. The plan works. Mostly. Not because it's cleaner but because Rumi keeps dragging defenders with her wherever she goes.
The set stretches longer than it should. Points they could have finished in one swing become rallies. Easy kills become scrambles. Still. They win. That’s what matters. The first set belongs to the Solar Flares.
When they gather around the bench, Rumi waits for Coach Park to mention it. To ask Vera why she ignored the open hitters. Why she ignored him.
Instead, “good work.”
He talks about serve placement. About Number One finally finding her timing. About closing the line block sooner. Small adjustments. Nothing about Vera. Nothing about the sets.
Rumi glances toward her setter. Vera doesn't say anything either. As if nothing unusual happened. A faint crease settles between Rumi's brows.
She looks up into the stands. Celine isn't watching the court. Her attention is fixed on Coach Park instead.
She's frowning.
She’s noticed.
“Rumi?” Coach Park's voice cuts through her thoughts.
“Hm? She quickly turns back around.
Everyone is looking at her. Her ears warm. He'd asked her something. She hadn't heard a word.
“Sorry,” she says quietly. “Could you... repeat that?”
Coach Park studies her for a second. “I'm switching you out with Nolana.”
What?
The word echoes uselessly inside her head.
“But—“ She stops herself. The question never leaves her mouth.
Coach Park is already reaching for the substitution paddle. Rumi bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes copper.
“Okay.” She hands over her number and walks to the bench.
The towel feels rough between her fingers. She doesn't remember picking it up. When she glances into the stands Celine is still watching. The crease between her brows has only deepened.
The second set slips away from them one point at a time.
9–10
14–12
15–16
No one can build a lead. Rumi watches every rally from the sidelines. She watches openings appear. She watches them disappear.
At 17–20, Coach Park reaches for the substitution paddle.
Number three. Nolana.
Rumi is already standing before he says anything.
At 17–21, she's back on the court.
The familiar pressure of the hardwood beneath her shoes settles something inside her.
Finally.
She glances toward Vera. Vera never looks back. Neither does Haeun. Nolana mutters a quick, “good luck” as they switch before jogging off without meeting Rumi's eyes.
Something twists low in Rumi's stomach.
The referee whistles.
She steps behind the end line to serve.
The ball settles into her palm. One breath. Then she serves. The ball tears over the net.
An ace.
Then another point.
Then another.
20–21
The gap is almost gone.
RISE finally manages a controlled receive. The rally begins. Rumi approaches.
No set.
She lands. Transitions. Approaches again.
Still nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Every blocker on RISE shadows her movement, drifting wherever she goes. The seams open. The middle is free, Haeun is free, the opposite is free. Vera uses every opening. Rumi doesn't mind.
Much.
They're scoring. That's what matters.
But with every rally, RISE adjusts. The block hesitates less, starts turning toward the real attack. Little by little, the windows shrink until they're barely there at all.
24–24
Another long rally. Another approach. Another jump. The set goes to Haeun. This time the blockers are waiting. The spike thunders into solid hands and straight down.
The whistle blows.
24–25
RISE is at match point.
The Solar Flares had been winning.
Comfortably.
The first set should have ended sooner. The second shouldn't have been close.
So why…
Why won't they just—
Her eyes find Vera. And stop. Vera is glaring at her. It’s no passing accident either, she’s looking directly at her. Haeun is too. The seniors. One after another. Expressions tight and frustrated. Resentful.
The feeling that has been tugging at Rumi since the end of the last set suddenly drops like a stone.
They're angry. At her.
Her chest tightens.
Why?
She looks instinctively toward the stands. Celine's seat is empty.
Rumi turns toward Coach Park instead. He's pacing. His cap is clenched so tightly in one hand, the brim bending between his fingers.
The whistle sounds.
He plants his feet. “Vera!”
She looks over.
“Set to whoever's most likely to score!” His voice echoes through the gym. “Ignore everything else!”
Vera stiffens and answers immediately, “yes, Coach!” With that she squares herself toward the court.
Rumi stares at her.
Ignore everything else... Doesn’t that go without saying?
The whistle pierces the air.
The ball hits the floor.
27–25
For a heartbeat, the gym is perfectly still. Then the cheers crash over the court. Rumi exhales.
They'd done it.
No.
Rumi had.
The thought comes so naturally she doesn't notice it until another follows behind it. The match should never have been that close.
Her teammates rush toward one another, laughing in relief. Rumi joins them a second later, accepting the quick hugs and high-fives that come with every win, though they feel different. Smaller somehow.
By the time they line up at the net, the smiles have settled back into something polite.
“Good game.”
“Good match.”
Hands meet hands down the line.
As the teams separate, Rumi glances toward the stands. Celine isn't climbing down the steps with the other spectators, instead, she's waiting beside the barrier.
Coach Park notices her a moment later and walks over. Rumi slows without meaning to. She can't hear what they're saying, but she can see that Coach Park talks first. His hands move as he speaks, broad gestures cutting through the air.
Celine listens. She says something and Rumi gets the feeling that it’s not loud but it is firm.
Coach Park's hands stop moving. He answers. It’s shorter this time. Celine responds as the crease between her brows deepens.
Coach Park rubs the back of his neck. His shoulders sink. By the end of the conversation, he's no longer looking at her. His gaze rests somewhere near the floor. Finally, he gives a single nod and Celine's expression relaxes, though only slightly.
Then they part without another word.
Rumi watches Coach Park walk back toward the team. He looks worn out somehow. He congratulates them on the win and walks out with them.
Rumi lags behind as they exit the stadium. The bus is already filling by the time she reaches the parking lot.
She starts toward it automatically but when a horn chirps once behind her it makes her pause. She turns and Celine leans across the passenger seat, pushing the door open. “Come on.”
Rumi looks from the bus to Coach Park to her team then back to Celine. No one is looking back at her other than Celine.
She climbs into the car. As the door shuts behind her and she glances once through the window. Her teammates are laughing again. Vera says something that makes Haeun grin. Coach Park stands a little apart from them, his arms folded, watching them enter one by one.
Rumi wonders, briefly, what Celine had said to him.
Then Celine pulls out of the parking lot and the question stays behind.
“That was pretty good,” Mira says, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Zoey glances over, startled enough that she almost misses the compliment. She pushes herself upright, dragging the back of her wrist across her damp forehead. Sweat clings to the fine hairs at her temples, stinging her eyes.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
She drifts back to her spot at the back of the court, forcing her legs to cooperate. Her thighs tremble with every step. Her calves burn, tight enough to snap. A dull ache has settled deep in her shoulders, and the pulse pounding behind her eyes makes the fluorescent lights smear at the edges until the whole gym seems to sway with her heartbeat.
She swallows. “Again?”
For a long moment, Mira doesn't answer. She just looks at her. Then her gaze lifts. Zoey doesn't have to follow it to know she's checking the clock. She doesn't have to glance through the high windows to know the warm gold spilling across the polished floor has deepened into the amber light of sunset. Their quick twenty-minute practice had quietly unraveled into two hours.
“Are you sure?” Mira asks.
Zoey draws in a careful breath that catches somewhere in her lungs. “One more,” she says, attempting a smile. “I promise.”
Mira's eyebrows pinch together, concern slipping through the easy confidence she usually wears.
“I promise,” Zoey repeats.
A sigh escapes Mira. It’s not impatient, just resigned. She bends to retrieve the ball, her fingers brushing over the polished wood before she straightens and walks back into position.
“Okay,” she says. “Last one.”
She spins the ball once against her palm. “Remember, you have to—”
“Kick off the floor,” Zoey finishes automatically. “Yeah.”
Mira studies her for a beat longer than necessary. There's something in her expression — hesitation, maybe worry, maybe the feeling that she's about to say something she isn't sure Zoey wants to hear.
Zoey looks away first.
Some things are easier not to understand.
Mira sends the ball toward her. Zoey receives it against her platform, the impact rattling through tired arms as it’s passed back. The familiar rhythm settles over them without another word. Mira steps beneath the ball, feet planting, knees soft, hands raised. Ready.
Zoey inhales and starts her approach. One step. Two. Three. The squeak of her shoes skids across the polished floors as the court rushes beneath her feet. Her pulse drums in her ears, blurring everything except the spinning ball hanging above Mira's head.
It drops. Mira meets it cleanly, fingertips cushioning it for the briefest heartbeat before sending it soaring upward in an arc.
Zoey is already by the net. Her arms draws back. Her body coils. Jump.
The instant she drives off the floor, something gives.
Not a tear. Not a snap.
Just... nothing left.
It feels as though someone has reached inside her leg and pulled the wires loose. A violent cramp seizes her ankle, surges up her calf, then rips through her thigh in a wave of white-hot agony so fierce it steals the air from her lungs.
The ball sails overhead.
Zoey crumples before she ever reaches it, crashing onto the hardwood with a sharp cry. The impact jars through her hip and shoulder, but it's barely a whisper beneath the fire flooding her leg.
It won't stop.
Every tiny movement makes it seize harder.
She curls instinctively, dragging her knee toward her chest with shaking hands as another spasm wrings through the muscles, forcing a string of ragged curses through clenched teeth.
Somewhere nearby, shoes slap against the floor. “Zoey!”
Mira drops beside her so fast her knees crack against the floorboards. Her hands hover helplessly over Zoey's leg, her shoulder, her arm — wanting to help but afraid to touch. “Are you okay? What happened?!”
Zoey can't answer. She squeezes her eyes shut and rolls onto her side instead, trying to breathe through it.
In.
Out.
The breaths come shallow, stuttering, each one snagging on the next spasm before she can fill her lungs.
“What’s wrong? What do I—“
“Shut up!” The words explode out of Zoey before she can catch them, sharp enough to cut.
Silence.
If the pain weren't swallowing every scrap of her attention, she'd probably regret it the moment it left her mouth. Instead, she only hears Mira stop breathing for a second. The hovering warmth disappears. A moment later comes the quiet scrape of sneakers against the floor as Mira stands. Zoey keeps her face buried against the court.
Distantly, she wonders if Mira has walked away. If this is finally the point where she's had enough.
The pain doesn't disappear. It simply loosens its grip. The sharp, blinding agony ebbs into a heavy throb that settles deep beneath the muscle, quiet until she so much as twitches her foot. Every movement threatens to wake it again. It’s still enough for the rest of the world to filter back in. The buzz of the fluorescent lights. The faint echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere in another court. The smell of varnished wood and sweat. Her own breathing, no longer frantic.
Zoey lets her hands fall away from her leg. She braces a palm against the floor and tries to sit up. A hiss escapes through her teeth as pain shoots through her again. Before she can lose her balance, something firm meets her back.
She stills. Then, cautiously, she lets herself lean into it. When she tilts her head, Mira is standing directly behind her, legs planted on either side of Zoey's shoulders, letting her use them as a backrest without a word.
In one hand she holds a water bottle. In the other, two blister packs and a protein bar.
She gives the bottle a small shake in front of Zoey's face. An unspoken instruction. Zoey reaches for it, but even that feels strangely difficult. Her arm moves through syrup, every muscle weighed down by exhaustion. The bottle nearly slips from her fingers before she gets a proper grip on it.
“Electrolytes,” Mira says. She waits until she's sure Zoey has it before placing the rest into her lap. “Magnesium. Food. Painkillers.” A pause. “Not all at once.”
A tired smile tugs at Zoey's mouth. “Thanks, nurse.” It earns her nothing. Not even the ghost of a smile.
The bottle is cool against her lips. She takes a slow drink, it’s sweet. When she lowers it again, the room tilts just enough to make her stomach dip. Whether the dizziness comes from the pain or the sheer exhaustion, she can't tell anymore. She sinks back against Mira's legs. They don't move.
“Sorry I snapped at you.”
Behind her, Mira only hums. The quiet sound lands heavier than any lecture could have.
Zoey squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m really s—“
“Once is enough, Zoey.” Mira's voice isn't cold, exactly. If anything, it's level, every emotion pressed flat beneath careful control.
Zoey swallows. “Right.” The apology should shrivel before it reaches her lips. “Sorry,” she murmurs anyway.
A shiver slips through her, sudden enough to make her shoulders tense. She barely has time to register the chill before something warm settles over them. Mira's jacket. The fabric still carries the lingering warmth of her body. Zoey's fingers curl instinctively around the sleeves. The knot in her chest tightens. Guilt winds itself around her throat, slow and inexorable, until every breath feels just a little smaller than the last.
Mira breaks the silence. “I asked you—“
“I know.”
“Seven times—“
“I know.” The words come smaller now. “I'm sor—“ Zoey bites the apology off before it can fully escape. She shakes her head instead, peeling back the wrapper of the protein bar with clumsy fingers. “It didn't feel that bad.”
Silence. Again.
She doesn't have to look to know Mira is staring at her. She can feel it, sharp and unwavering, settling between her shoulder blades. She doesn’t want to meet eyes. Doesn’t want to see how they look at her.
Zoey takes another drink instead, buying herself a few more seconds.
“I thought we agreed,” Mira says at last, her voice calm in that way that somehow feels worse than anger, “that you'd tell me if it started hurting.”
Zoey lets out a quiet breath through her nose. “I always hurt.” The words are matter-of-fact. Not defensive. Just true. “You know that.”
A beat passes.
“Zoey...” The click of Mira's tongue fills the gym. Exasperation. Or maybe disbelief. Probably both.
Another apology rises instinctively to the back of Zoey's throat. She swallows it down. “Can we go?” she asks instead.
A pause.
Then, “can you walk?”
“I think so.” She plants a hand against the floor and shifts her weight beneath herself. For a fraction of a second, it works. Then her leg buckles. The strength disappears so suddenly it’s as though something scooped her bones hollow that instant. The room lurches sideways.
She barely has time to think oh before the floor rushes toward her.
Mira catches her. One hand around her forearm. The other steady against her side. She eases Zoey back down before she can hit the hardwood.
Embarrassment burns hotter than the ache in her leg.
“Give me...” Zoey huffs out a breath that almost becomes a laugh. “Like twenty minutes.” The joke dies the moment it leaves her mouth.
Mira only sighs.
She doesn't say I told you so.
She doesn't say stop pushing yourself.
She doesn't say anything at all.
She simply stays. Zoey knows Mira could carry her to the car without breaking a sweat. Zoey knows she would too. They've already had that argument.
Instead, they stay where they are, side by side on the empty court while the evening settles beyond the windows. Until the bottle is empty. Until the wrapper of the protein bar lies folded neatly beside it.
Until the magnesium is gone. Then the painkillers. Until feeling begins to return to muscles that had forgotten how to hold her upright.
Even then, calling it ‘walking’ is generous. She leans into Mira with every uneven step, letting her shoulder take just enough of the weight to make the journey across the gym manageable. Neither of them speaks. The drive is quieter still. The engine hums softly beneath them, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of the indicators and the occasional hiss of tires over the road.
Apologies gather behind Zoey's teeth. One after another. She swallows every single one.
When they reach her house, Mira parks at the curb. “Get some rest,” she says. Just four words. Measured get gentle.
Zoey nods. When she sees Mira’s eyes flick between herself and the front door, she adds, “I can make it.”
Mira looks unconvinced.
“I can.” Another beat passes before Mira relents. She lifts her hands up in defeat and settles into her seat. She waits as Zoey limps up the short path, one careful step after another, refusing to look back until she reaches the front door. The key catches once before sliding into the lock. She pushes the door open and finally turns.
Mira is still there.
Zoey lifts a hand in wave. Mira returns the gesture. And then she’s driving off.
Only when the door clicks shut behind her does Zoey realize how unbearably quiet the house is. She’s alone.
Sweat beads along Rumi's brow. She wipes it away with the back of her hand before tugging the brim of her cap lower against the sun. Heat settles over her skin, warm and heavy, while the sand burns pleasantly beneath her bare feet, shifting with every step.
She glances over her shoulder. Celine is still on the phone, pacing beneath the shade. Catching Rumi looking, she lifts a hand in a small wave. Rumi grins and returns the gesture before turning back.
“That was closer?”
Jinu huffs a strand of hair out of his eyes. The sunglasses Celine lent him are too big, forever slipping down his nose. He nudges them back into place with one finger. “Not really.”
“It was a bit better,” Rumi insists, jogging after the volleyball before it can roll too far.
The loose sand threatens to steal her balance with every stride. Celine swears it's good training, that once they're back on a proper court, they'll feel impossibly light.
“Eh.” Jinu shrugs.
Rumi rolls her eyes and lobs the ball back to him. “Fine. I was a bit better.”
His head snaps up. “No! I was!”
She can't help smirking. “So you admit we got closer.”
He groans dramatically, scuffing a spray of sand with his foot. The volleyball spins lazily between his palms. “Whatever. Let’s just go again.”
Rumi laughs, backing into position. The breeze brushes gently at their backs, carrying the distant crash of waves and the shrieks of children further down the beach. Jinu waits for the wind to settle before tossing the ball high into the bright sky. Rumi darts beneath it, sand spraying behind her. Jinu moves at the same time, circling in perfect rhythm with her. She plants her feet, bends her knees, then springs upward just as the ball begins to fall.
“Now!”
The ball brushes her fingertips. Her eyes flick instinctively to Jinu. He’s right beside her. For a heartbeat, he seems weightless. His body unfolds in the air with effortless precision, sunlight catching on the lenses of his oversized sunglasses. Everything falls away. Everything but the arc of the ball.
Rumi sends it into his path. Jinu swings. The crack of his hand against the ball rings across the beach as it rockets over the net.
Neither of them watches where it lands.
Jinu drops back into the sand, stumbling half a step before finding his balance. He looks up at the exact same moment Rumi does.
Their eyes meet. Wide.
Did that really just happen?
“Zero,” Jinu whispers.
“Tempo,” Rumi breathes.
For a heartbeat, they simply stare at each other.
Then they explode.
They shout so loudly a flock of gulls startles nearby. Their palms smack together once, twice, five times, dissolving into breathless laughter as they bounce on the spot, half cheering, half disbelieving.
“We did it!”
“Oh my—“
“We actually did it!”
“—god!”
Then they’re sprinting across the sand, waving and yelling, high on the adrenaline rush.
“Celine!”Jinu bellows.
“Look!” Rumi calls. “Come here!”
Celine looks up, eyes widening as the pair barrel towards her. She says a hurried, “hang on,” into her phone before pressing it against her chest.
“What? What is it?” she asks, looking between them. “What happened?”
“We did it!” Jinu blurts, throwing an exaggerated spike through the air. “We actually did it!”
“We got the tempo, Celine!” Rumi squeaks, hands instinctively forming the setting motion. “We connected!”
“Okay, okay.” A laugh escapes Celine. She reaches over and ruffles Jinu's windswept hair, earning an indignant noise from him. “Slow down. Tell me what happened.”
“Zero tempo!” they shout together.
Celine's eyebrows shoot upwards. “Really?”
“Come—“
“We'll show you!” Jinu doesn't even wait for an answer. He's already tearing back across the sand towards the net, waving frantically over his shoulder.
Rumi lingers for a moment. When she looks up, she finds Celine watching the two of them with an expression so openly fond it makes something warm settle in her chest. Her gaze follows Jinu racing ahead, then drifts back to Rumi.
Without taking her eyes off her, Celine lifts the phone to her ear. “I'll call you later.” She ends the call before the other person can answer.
Then she smiles, gentle and bright, and pats Rumi's sun-warmed cheek. “Alright,” she says. “Show me.”
They can't do it again.
Jinu jumps too early. Rumi's set drifts too far. The pass comes too hard, too soft, too low. Sometimes the timing feels right until the very last second, when everything somehow falls apart anyway. Most of the time, Rumi can't even tell what goes wrong. She only knows that, for one perfect moment, they'd found it... and now it's gone.
Jinu lands awkwardly as the ball sails past him. “Damn it.”
“Language,” Celine warns.
Jinu mumbles, “sorry,” as he scuffs the sand with his heel before trudging after the ball.
There’s a sting behind Rumi's eyes. They’ve been practicing all day with nothing to show for it.
Was it just luck earlier?
“Sorry,”Rumi murmurs once he's far enough away not to hear.
No response comes.
She braces herself.
But instead of telling her to focus or try again, Celine crouches beside her, lowering herself until they're almost eye level. “What are you apologising for?”
Rumi shrugs without looking up. “We couldn't do it.” Her voice comes out small, uneven. She swallows against the lump in her throat. “You were on the phone... and we dragged you over for nothing.”
“Oh, don't be silly, baby.” Celine brushes a loose strand of hair behind Rumi's ear before her fingers come to rest against her cheek, cool despite the afternoon heat. She tilts her head, gently coaxing Rumi to meet her eyes. “I'm always happy to watch you play.”
Rumi blinks.
The warmth beneath Celine's palm seems to spread through her, filling the hollow disappointment in her chest until she can barely remember why she'd been upset in the first place.
“You promise?”
A soft laugh escapes Celine. “Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”
Footsteps crunch through the sand behind them.
Jinu returns, volleyball tucked under one arm, his shoulders slumped. “Sorry, Celine.”
She rises smoothly to her feet and gives him an easy smile. “You've nothing to apologise for.” She reaches for the ball, he hands it over easily. “How about I set for you two? Then you can just focus on your own timing.”
“Yes!”
“Please!”
Their answers tumble over one another. Celine laughs and tucks the ball beneath her arm as they head towards the net. They stay until the sun begins to sink. The afternoon heat softens into golden light, stretching long shadows across the beach. Rumi's legs burn. Her shoulders ache. Sand clings stubbornly to her calves and works its way into her clothes.
She couldn’t care less.
For hours, Celine stands beside them in the heat without a single complaint. All the comes from her is laughter and gentle adjustment as they try again and again.
“Elbows a little higher.”
And again.
“Try quicker this time.”
And again.
“Don't chase the ball. Try to trust it.”
Every correction is accompanied by a smile, every demonstration easy. The ball leaves Celine's hands with what feels like impossible consistency, floating into exactly the right place, every single time. When Rumi jumps, it almost feels as though the ball waits for her, hanging in the air for the briefest heartbeat until her hand meets it.
And every time one of them gets a little closer, Celine smiles. Not because she thinks she should. Because she's enjoying herself.
Rumi can't remember the last time she saw that smile so often.
By the time they leave the beach, the sky is streaked with pink and amber. They're exhausted, sun-flushed, still arguing over whose last spike was better between bursts of laughter.
On the drive home, Celine insists on buying them ice creams.
Neither Rumi nor Jinu argues.
After they drop Jinu home, the car settles into a comfortable silence. The windows are down, letting the evening breeze drift through the cabin. The scent of salt still lingers on their skin.
A few minutes later, Celine glances across from the driver's seat.
“So,” she says, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel, “why were you two trying a zero tempo?”
“'Cause it's cool.”
A laugh slips out as Celine shakes her head fondly. “I suppose that's one reason.”
Rumi smiles to herself, tracing absent circles against her shorts. “And it's only one step away from the minus tempo.”
Celine's fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the wheel.
“The one you and mom used.”
“I see.” Her voice is thoughtful now.
Rumi sneaks a glance sideways, trying to read her expression, but Celine is watching the road. Her focus seems to be entirely on it. The side of her face is softened by the amber glow of the setting sun.
After a moment, Celine asks, “How come only you were setting? I thought you wanted to be the ace.”
“I do.” Rumi picks at a loose thread on the hem of her shorts. “But...” She hesitates, searching for the right words. “You always look so cool when you set.”
Celine raises an eyebrow.
“And... the setter gets to touch the ball the most.” Rumi shrugs, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “And you've taught me loads already...” Another shrug. “I figured I'd get the hang of setting quicker than Jinu.”
For a second, there's only the hum of the tyres against the road.
Then Celine snorts. She immediately lifts a hand to hide it, but it's far too late.
“What?” A smile tugs at Rumi’s lips.
“Nothing.”
“Celine,” Rumi whines, kicking her legs.
Celine laughs more openly this time, shaking her head. “You're probably right.”
Rumi grins triumphantly.
Celine points a finger at her without taking her eyes off the road. “But don't you dare tell Jinu I said that.”
“I won't.”
Celine sighs but a smile is still tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You absolutely will.”
“I won't!” Rumi insists, her grin wide.
It takes all of three seconds before they're both laughing.
By the time they get home, the sky has turned violet. Celine starts dinner while Rumi trails after her through the kitchen, washing vegetables, fetching ingredients and drying dishes almost before Celine has a chance to ask.
Conversation comes easily. Rumi peppers her with questions between mouthfuls of dinner.
How do you know when to speed up a set?
How do you decide who gets the next ball?
What's the hardest part?
Each question makes Celine's face brighten a little more. She answers with easy enthusiasm, illustrating invisible arcs through the air with her hands, explaining footwork, timing, deception, all the tiny details most people never notice. Before long she's talking with both hands, completely caught up in it.
After they've eaten, Rumi disappears into her office and returns carrying a battered videotape.
“Can we watch this one?”
Celine glances at the label and smiles immediately. “Of course.”
It's a match from the years when the minus tempo belonged to only two people. When Celine and Mi-yeong could run it so quickly that opposing blockers barely had time to leave the floor. They could do it from anywhere on the court too, not just shoulder to shoulder the way Rumi and Jinu were practicing. It was deadly.
It’s the coolest thing Rumi has ever seen.
Rumi curls up against Celine on the couch, tucked comfortably into her side with a blanket pulled over their legs. The tape crackles to life, filling the room with the familiar hiss of old recordings. The commentators rave over impossible saves and spectacular spikes.
Celine quietly points out everything they miss.
“Your mom’s pretending to look cross there.”
“Watch their middle blocker. She knew where that set was going before it left my hand.”
“Mi-yeong forced the quick on that one. She was winding me up.”
Rumi giggles.
The stories keep coming. Little tactical decisions hidden inside ordinary rallies. Private jokes exchanged across the net. Old rivalries. Playful taunts. Tiny moments that never made it onto the broadcast but somehow meant the most.
Rumi barely looks at the screen. Not because she isn’t interested the match — she loves that game — but because every time she glances up, Celine is wearing that same bright, unguarded smile she'd worn all afternoon on the sand.
Rumi decides she likes that smile even more than the minus tempo.
A sharp knock at the door startles Zoey so violently she almost slips off the couch. Her heart lurches. She glances at the clock. Eight o'clock. Who on earth is knocking at this hour?
Another rap sounds through the apartment, louder this time.
“It's me.” Mira's voice, muffled by the front door.
Zoey frowns. What is Mira doing here at this hour? Did she miss a message? She reaches automatically for her phone on the coffee table — there’s nothing. What — another knock interrupts her thoughts.
“Zo?” The single syllable is quiet, small enough to tighten something in Zoey's chest.
She is hurrying across the room before she's fully aware she's moving. She swings the door open. The greeting waiting on her lips dies the instant she sees her.
Mira stands on the doorstep, drenched. Dark hair clings to her face and neck, water dripping steadily from the ends. Her jacket is soaked through, the fabric plastered to her shoulders, and tiny beads of rain glisten on her eyelashes.
Zoey hadn't even realised it was raining. She looks beyond Mira into the darkness. The rain is little more than a drizzle, barely visible beneath the streetlamp. Hardly enough to leave someone looking like they've stood out in it for hours for the few steps it takes to walk from Mira’s car to Zoey’s front door. Her stomach knots.
“Can I come in?” Mira rubs absently at her elbow, her eyes fixed somewhere over Zoey's shoulder rather than on her face. The sound of her voice pulls Zoey back into herself again.
“Right. Sorry. Of course.” She steps aside.
Mira slips past without another word.
Zoey reaches instinctively for her jacket, ready to help her out of the dripping thing.
Mira flinches.
A quick, instinctive jerk away from her touch. It’s over in a heartbeat. But the sharpness of it is enough. A cold weight settles low in Zoey's stomach. She suddenly has a very good idea why Mira has turned up on her doorstep.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Zoey asks gently.
Mira gives a small shake of her head. “No.”
Zoey nods once. She can ask more later. “Okay.” She lets the silence settle between them for a heartbeat before asking, “do you want to warm up?”
Mira shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers worrying at the cuff of her sodden sleeve. “Yeah.” She hesitates. “Is that okay?”
The question catches Zoey off guard but she shakes it off quickly enough. “Yeah,” she says, smiling as warmly as she can. “‘Course it is.”
She leads Mira down the short hallway to the bathroom, flicking on the light as they go. She fetches a fresh towel from the closet, hangs it within easy reach, then quietly slips away to her bedroom. A drawer sticks for a moment before giving way, revealing the familiar collection of clothes Mira has gradually left behind over countless nights.
A pair of sweats. An old T-shirt. A hoodie Zoey’d claimed was more comfortable than her own and never quite returned. She leaves the hoodie behind, just in case Mira would want it back for good.
By the time Zoey gets back, the bathroom door is closed. She knocks softly. After a moment, the door opens just enough for a hand to appear through the gap. Zoey passes the clothes over.
“You okay?” She asks.
It's an easy question on the surface. Mira knows where everything is by now. Knows which way to turn the tap, where the spare toiletries are kept, which cupboard holds what. But maybe she'll answer the other question instead. Maybe she’ll tell her what happened.
For a moment, all Zoey hears is the quiet hiss of the shower warming up.
“Yeah,” Mira says at last, her voice muffled by the door. A beat passes. “...no.” The single word lands heavily. “But I will be.”
Zoey closes her eyes for a second and bites the inside of her cheek. Mira has never been good at asking for what she needs. Even now, she has turned up soaked through rather than sending a message or calling. Whatever has happened, Zoey knows better than to crowd her with questions. At least not yet. If she really doesn't want to talk, no amount of asking will change that.
So, she offers the one thing she knows Mira could always use hearing. “I love you.”
For a few seconds, there is only the faint rustle of fabric from the other side of the door.
Then, “I know.” Soft and fragile. Another pause. “I love you too.” The words are quieter still, thick and strained with something Mira is trying very hard to swallow down.
Zoey's chest tightens. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
A tiny huff of laughter drifts through the door. “Yes, ma'am.”
Despite everything, Zoey can't help smiling. A quiet laugh escapes her, easing the tightness in her chest, if only for a moment.
While Mira showers, Zoey drifts back into the living room and switches on the TV. She could wait in her bedroom, but they're the only ones in the house, and the TV out here is bigger. Not to mention, the couch is far more comfortable for two people.
She rummages through a chest of drawers for blankets, pulling out the thick fleece throw Mira always steals first, then another for herself. The film is already playing quietly in the background by the time she starts arranging an assortment of soft plushies along one end of the sofa. She is deciding which one Mira would reach for first when someone clears their throat behind her.
Zoey startles, hand flying to her chest as she spins around.
Mira winces. “Sorry.” The apology comes with a sheepish little smile.
It's been years, and Zoey still hasn't learnt to hear Mira coming. She moves through a room with the sort of quiet that always catches people off guard.
Mira lifts the damp towel in both hands. “Where should I...?”
“Oh.” Zoey lets out a breathless chuckle. “You can just drape it over one of the chairs.” She gestures towards the dining table.
“Thanks.” Mira crosses the room, spreading the towel carefully over the back of a chair.
Zoey watches without really meaning to.
Freshly washed, Mira's hair hangs loose around her shoulders, still dark and damp at the ends. The oversized sweatpants sit low on her hips, the old T-shirt hanging from one shoulder just enough for her to tug it back into place.
“Are your parents out?” Mira asks as she turns back.
“Yeah. Mom won't be back until tomorrow evening.”
Mira lets out a quiet sound of understanding. “Ah.”
Silence settles again, usually easy, heavier tonight.
“Have you had dinner?l Mira asks after a moment. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, again.
A nervous habit, Zoey thinks. She wishes she could do something to ease it.
“Yeah. I made something earlier.” Zoey tilts her head. “Do you want some?”
Mira brushes a damp strand of hair behind her ear before looking up. “Yes, please.” Her voice is so small it barely carries across the room. Under different circumstances, the shyness would almost be endearing. Instead, it makes Zoey's chest ache. She's seen this before. Not often. Almost exclusively after the sort of argument where only one person gets to be angry, and the other is left apologising simply for existing.
Zoey fixes Mira a plate and pours her a glass of water before they settle in front of the TV. The room is warm, lit only by the soft flicker of the screen and the amber glow from a lamp in the corner.
Once Mira has found a comfortable position, she pulls one of the blankets around her shoulders. It's the thicker one, heavy enough to feel grounding, and she offers Zoey a small, tired smile that makes something in her chest ease.
She eats slowly, saying very little. Zoey doesn't rush her.
When the plate is finally empty, Zoey takes it from her without a word and returns a moment later with one of her turtle plushies instead. She gently presses it into Mira's hands.
Mira lets out a quiet giggle, the sound soft and surprised, before curling her fingers around it. She hugs it against her chest. Zoey wishes she could wrap her up in a tight hug. Although doing it right now might startle her so she refrains.
Zoey sinks back onto the couch beside her, tucking one leg underneath herself. “Did you walk here?” she asks, her gaze lingering on Mira's hair. It's still damp, loose strands clinging to her temples despite the warmth of the apartment.
Mira hums, drawing the plushie a little closer. “Yeah.”
Zoey frowns. She expected that answer, and yet... “But... your car?”
Mira clicks her tongue, her grip tightening around the turtle until the fabric creases beneath her fingers. “Little shitstain crashed his, which means I don't get to have one for the foreseeable future.”
Heat flares in Zoey's chest. One day, she's going to punch Mira's brother. She doesn't waste breath asking if he's all right. She already knows the answer.
“Is that what you fought about?”
Mira inhales sharply through her teeth. For a moment, her fingers go rigid around the plushie before slowly relaxing again. “I still don't want to talk about it.”
Zoey nods, but her eyes never quite leave Mira's face. She thinks about trying again, asking differently this time. Softer. Less direct. Sometimes, when Mira says she doesn't want to talk, what she really means is that she doesn't want to take up space with her feelings — as though sharing them could ever be a burden.
Then Mira shifts, absently tugging at the sleeve of her shirt. The movement exposes a bruise spreading across her upper arm, deep violet bleeding into angry blue.
Zoey's stomach drops. Whatever question sits on the tip of her tongue dies there instead.
Zoey clears her throat, searching for something lighter for them to focus on. “I nearly had a heart attack when you knocked,” she blurts out, offering a tentative smile.
Mira doesn't look at her. She murmurs a quiet, “sorry,” into the turtle and draws her knees up to her chest, folding herself into the corner of the sofa.
Zoey immediately shakes her head, waving both hands. “No, no. Don't apologise. It's okay.” She lets out a small laugh. “It was actually kind of funny.” She tilts her head, searching Mira’s eyes. “Why didn't you call me, though?”
Mira's voice is muffled by the plushie. “Mother took my phone.”
“Oh.” The word hangs between them. An apology rises instinctively to Zoey's tongue, but she swallows it. Mira hates being pitied, and sorry feels far too small for something like that anyway.
Instead, she nods towards the now empty plate. “Did you like the food?”
That, at least, gets Mira to look up at her. “Yeah.” She sits a little straighter, almost sheepish. “Sorry. It was really good. Thanks, Zoey.”
Warmth spreads through Zoey's chest. “No problem.”
She glances back at the TV. The film has reached the inevitable low point, the heroes have split up, everyone's arguing, and the world is apparently ending. “Have you seen this before?”
Mira blinks at her, then lets out a snort. “Yeah.” She looks sideways at Zoey, amusement creeping into her expression until it blossoms into a quiet chuckle. “We watched it together.”
Zoey’s eyes widen. “We did?”
“Yeah.” Mira laughs this time. “When we stayed over at mine, after Jinwoo's party.”
A familiar warmth creeps into Zoey's cheeks. “Oh... right.” She rubs the back of her neck. “I don't really remember much after the, er...”
Mira raises an eyebrow. “The penis game?”
A laugh escapes Zoey. She shakes her head frantically. “Don't call it that!”
“What?”Mira grins, the expression softening every sharp edge she'd been carrying since she arrived. “You literally answer questions to build a penis. What else am I supposed to call it?”
“Trivia.”
For a second there's quiet.
Then they both dissolve into laughter. The sound fills the living room, easy and bright, chasing away the heaviness that has been sitting between them all evening. Mira sinks further into the cushions, her shoulders finally loosening beneath the blanket, and Zoey catches herself smiling just because Mira is.
After a while, she nudges Mira gently with her elbow. “Do you want something warm to drink?”
Mira hums thoughtfully. “What do you have?”
“Tea.” Zoey glances towards the kitchen. “And hot chocolate.”
Mira rests her chin on top of the turtle, looking up at Zoey through her lashes. “Will you share the hot chocolate with me?”
Zoey's heart promptly forgets how it's supposed to work. “Yeah.” Her voice cracks. Neat.
She winces as Mira's eyebrow lifts in quiet amusement, then clears her throat. “Yeah,” she repeats, trying for something resembling composure. “‘Course. We can share.”
Mira's smile widens. “All right, then. One hot chocolate, please.”
Zoey grins despite herself and pushes herself off the sofa. “Coming right up.”
When she returns with one big steaming mug, the rain is tapping softly against the windows, the blanket has somehow ended up covering both of them, and when they settle shoulder to shoulder to finish the movie, the room feels warmer than it did before.
“That was pretty good,” Mira says, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Zoey glances over, startled enough that she almost misses the compliment. She pushes herself upright, dragging the back of her wrist across her damp forehead. Sweat clings to the fine hairs at her temples, stinging her eyes.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
She drifts back to her spot at the back of the court, forcing her legs to cooperate. Her thighs tremble with every step. Her calves burn, tight enough to snap. A dull ache has settled deep in her shoulders, and the pulse pounding behind her eyes makes the fluorescent lights smear at the edges until the whole gym seems to sway with her heartbeat.
She swallows. “Again?”
For a long moment, Mira doesn't answer. She just looks at her. Then her gaze lifts. Zoey doesn't have to follow it to know she's checking the clock. She doesn't have to glance through the high windows to know the warm gold spilling across the polished floor has deepened into the amber light of sunset. Their quick twenty-minute practice had quietly unraveled into two hours.
“Are you sure?” Mira asks.
Zoey draws in a careful breath that catches somewhere in her lungs. “One more,” she says, attempting a smile. “I promise.”
Mira's eyebrows pinch together, concern slipping through the easy confidence she usually wears.
“I promise,” Zoey repeats.
A sigh escapes Mira. It’s not impatient, just resigned. She bends to retrieve the ball, her fingers brushing over the polished wood before she straightens and walks back into position.
“Okay,” she says. “Last one.”
She spins the ball once against her palm. “Remember, you have to—”
“Kick off the floor,” Zoey finishes automatically. “Yeah.”
Mira studies her for a beat longer than necessary. There's something in her expression — hesitation, maybe worry, maybe the feeling that she's about to say something she isn't sure Zoey wants to hear.
Zoey looks away first.
Some things are easier not to understand.
Mira sends the ball toward her. Zoey receives it against her platform, the impact rattling through tired arms as it’s passed back. The familiar rhythm settles over them without another word. Mira steps beneath the ball, feet planting, knees soft, hands raised. Ready.
Zoey inhales and starts her approach. One step. Two. Three. The squeak of her shoes skids across the polished floors as the court rushes beneath her feet. Her pulse drums in her ears, blurring everything except the spinning ball hanging above Mira's head.
It drops. Mira meets it cleanly, fingertips cushioning it for the briefest heartbeat before sending it soaring upward in an arc.
Zoey is already by the net. Her arms draws back. Her body coils. Jump.
The instant she drives off the floor, something gives.
Not a tear. Not a snap.
Just... nothing left.
It feels as though someone has reached inside her leg and pulled the wires loose. A violent cramp seizes her ankle, surges up her calf, then rips through her thigh in a wave of white-hot agony so fierce it steals the air from her lungs.
The ball sails overhead.
Zoey crumples before she ever reaches it, crashing onto the hardwood with a sharp cry. The impact jars through her hip and shoulder, but it's barely a whisper beneath the fire flooding her leg.
It won't stop.
Every tiny movement makes it seize harder.
She curls instinctively, dragging her knee toward her chest with shaking hands as another spasm wrings through the muscles, forcing a string of ragged curses through clenched teeth.
Somewhere nearby, shoes slap against the floor. “Zoey!”
Mira drops beside her so fast her knees crack against the floorboards. Her hands hover helplessly over Zoey's leg, her shoulder, her arm — wanting to help but afraid to touch. “Are you okay? What happened?!”
Zoey can't answer. She squeezes her eyes shut and rolls onto her side instead, trying to breathe through it.
In.
Out.
The breaths come shallow, stuttering, each one snagging on the next spasm before she can fill her lungs.
“What’s wrong? What do I—“
“Shut up!” The words explode out of Zoey before she can catch them, sharp enough to cut.
Silence.
If the pain weren't swallowing every scrap of her attention, she'd probably regret it the moment it left her mouth. Instead, she only hears Mira stop breathing for a second. The hovering warmth disappears. A moment later comes the quiet scrape of sneakers against the floor as Mira stands. Zoey keeps her face buried against the court.
Distantly, she wonders if Mira has walked away. If this is finally the point where she's had enough.
The pain doesn't disappear. It simply loosens its grip. The sharp, blinding agony ebbs into a heavy throb that settles deep beneath the muscle, quiet until she so much as twitches her foot. Every movement threatens to wake it again. It’s still enough for the rest of the world to filter back in. The buzz of the fluorescent lights. The faint echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere in another court. The smell of varnished wood and sweat. Her own breathing, no longer frantic.
Zoey lets her hands fall away from her leg. She braces a palm against the floor and tries to sit up. A hiss escapes through her teeth as pain shoots through her again. Before she can lose her balance, something firm meets her back.
She stills. Then, cautiously, she lets herself lean into it. When she tilts her head, Mira is standing directly behind her, legs planted on either side of Zoey's shoulders, letting her use them as a backrest without a word.
In one hand she holds a water bottle. In the other, two blister packs and a protein bar.
She gives the bottle a small shake in front of Zoey's face. An unspoken instruction. Zoey reaches for it, but even that feels strangely difficult. Her arm moves through syrup, every muscle weighed down by exhaustion. The bottle nearly slips from her fingers before she gets a proper grip on it.
“Electrolytes,” Mira says. She waits until she's sure Zoey has it before placing the rest into her lap. “Magnesium. Food. Painkillers.” A pause. “Not all at once.”
A tired smile tugs at Zoey's mouth. “Thanks, nurse.” It earns her nothing. Not even the ghost of a smile.
The bottle is cool against her lips. She takes a slow drink, it’s sweet. When she lowers it again, the room tilts just enough to make her stomach dip. Whether the dizziness comes from the pain or the sheer exhaustion, she can't tell anymore. She sinks back against Mira's legs. They don't move.
“Sorry I snapped at you.”
Behind her, Mira only hums. The quiet sound lands heavier than any lecture could have.
Zoey squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m really s—“
“Once is enough, Zoey.” Mira's voice isn't cold, exactly. If anything, it's level, every emotion pressed flat beneath careful control.
Zoey swallows. “Right.” The apology should shrivel before it reaches her lips. “Sorry,” she murmurs anyway.
A shiver slips through her, sudden enough to make her shoulders tense. She barely has time to register the chill before something warm settles over them. Mira's jacket. The fabric still carries the lingering warmth of her body. Zoey's fingers curl instinctively around the sleeves. The knot in her chest tightens. Guilt winds itself around her throat, slow and inexorable, until every breath feels just a little smaller than the last.
Mira breaks the silence. “I asked you—“
“I know.”
“Seven times—“
“I know.” The words come smaller now. “I'm sor—“ Zoey bites the apology off before it can fully escape. She shakes her head instead, peeling back the wrapper of the protein bar with clumsy fingers. “It didn't feel that bad.”
Silence. Again.
She doesn't have to look to know Mira is staring at her. She can feel it, sharp and unwavering, settling between her shoulder blades. She doesn’t want to meet eyes. Doesn’t want to see how they look at her.
Zoey takes another drink instead, buying herself a few more seconds.
“I thought we agreed,” Mira says at last, her voice calm in that way that somehow feels worse than anger, “that you'd tell me if it started hurting.”
Zoey lets out a quiet breath through her nose. “I always hurt.” The words are matter-of-fact. Not defensive. Just true. “You know that.”
A beat passes.
“Zoey...” The click of Mira's tongue fills the gym. Exasperation. Or maybe disbelief. Probably both.
Another apology rises instinctively to the back of Zoey's throat. She swallows it down. “Can we go?” she asks instead.
A pause.
Then, “can you walk?”
“I think so.” She plants a hand against the floor and shifts her weight beneath herself. For a fraction of a second, it works. Then her leg buckles. The strength disappears so suddenly it’s as though something scooped her bones hollow that instant. The room lurches sideways.
She barely has time to think oh before the floor rushes toward her.
Mira catches her. One hand around her forearm. The other steady against her side. She eases Zoey back down before she can hit the hardwood.
Embarrassment burns hotter than the ache in her leg.
“Give me...” Zoey huffs out a breath that almost becomes a laugh. “Like twenty minutes.” The joke dies the moment it leaves her mouth.
Mira only sighs.
She doesn't say I told you so.
She doesn't say stop pushing yourself.
She doesn't say anything at all.
She simply stays. Zoey knows Mira could carry her to the car without breaking a sweat. Zoey knows she would too. They've already had that argument.
Instead, they stay where they are, side by side on the empty court while the evening settles beyond the windows. Until the bottle is empty. Until the wrapper of the protein bar lies folded neatly beside it.
Until the magnesium is gone. Then the painkillers. Until feeling begins to return to muscles that had forgotten how to hold her upright.
Even then, calling it ‘walking’ is generous. She leans into Mira with every uneven step, letting her shoulder take just enough of the weight to make the journey across the gym manageable. Neither of them speaks. The drive is quieter still. The engine hums softly beneath them, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of the indicators and the occasional hiss of tires over the road.
Apologies gather behind Zoey's teeth. One after another. She swallows every single one.
When they reach her house, Mira parks at the curb. “Get some rest,” she says. Just four words. Measured get gentle.
Zoey nods. When she sees Mira’s eyes flick between herself and the front door, she adds, “I can make it.”
Mira looks unconvinced.
“I can.” Another beat passes before Mira relents. She lifts her hands up in defeat and settles into her seat. She waits as Zoey limps up the short path, one careful step after another, refusing to look back until she reaches the front door. The key catches once before sliding into the lock. She pushes the door open and finally turns.
Mira is still there.
Zoey lifts a hand in wave. Mira returns the gesture. And then she’s driving off.
Only when the door clicks shut behind her does Zoey realize how unbearably quiet the house is. She’s alone.
hello i'm back to hold you at gun point and tell you to read ovenglovee's work.
she's among my favourite authors in any fandom for a reason, and that's because her writing and character analysis is absolutely breathtaking. she weaves metaphors into the narrative perfectly (more on that later) and gives them room to stretch out and get comfortable in a way that i aspire to achieve. an absolute master at her craft, and a genuine delight, even when her fics make me cry so hard i get headaches sometimes.
bloodhound [E] [Rumira] [Ongoing]
Mira and Rumi are pretty torn up after the Idol Awards. They have sex about it. It’s about as messy as you'd imagine.
i'm actually unwell about this fic. it's an incredible character study on Mira and her animal need to be useful. i've never seen this backstory for her before but it makes perfect sense, and it's so cleverly linked to how she behaves around Rumi.
their relationship is extremely messy and complicated but it's perfectly characterised and i'm so sympathetic to both of them. they're both so hurt and unfamiliar with being loved
this may, at its core, be about Mira, but Rumi is incredible in this fic too. she's that perfect mix of very confident and just a little bit pathetic.
so many lines from this one are looping in my head constantly.
after the tone [T] [Rumira] [Complete]
You have 64 voicemails from: Mira. Press 1 to play.
god i can barely speak on this one. it's main character death, and it is devastating, so be warned.
it's told in the form of voicemails left by Mira before and after Rumi died and there's so much emotion and information across in just dialogue and descriptions of sounds.
it took me ages to read this because i knew MCD written by ovenglovee would take me out with it and i wasn't wrong at all but if you have the stomach for it, bring some tissues.
faultlines [T] [Polytrix] [Complete]
faultline (noun)
a line on a rock surface or the ground that traces a geological fault.
an area of a system that seems weak and likely to cause problems or failure.
a divisive issue or difference of opinion that is likely to have serious consequences.
hoooooly shit, faultlines. this one also made me sob so be warned again.
did you watch the movie and think the fact that all those people on the train dying wasn't addressed sufficiently? look no further. this is the fic for looking into the impact of that on Rumi in particular.
when i think about ovenglovee's mastery over extended metaphors, this is the fic i think of. the concept of one small thing causing absolute devastation is woven tightly into the story throughout and it's perfect. i'm still stunned by how incredible it is.
if found, please return to [M] [Polytrix] [Complete]
A soft Rumi character study featuring cows, colours and collars.
this and its E-rated sequel, damaged goods, handle with care, is probably the fic you recognise the author for, and it's an incredible character study on Rumi and her need for rules, punishment, and praise.
despite the rating this isn't actually a very smutty fic. there's a lot of focus on non-sexual kink, and it's the first time i've seen that explored in a fic. it rearranged my brain chemistry on how kink can be used as a character study and i've never been the same since.
also, she loves cows. this isn't related to the kink she just thinks they're neat. moomi is real.
on every shore, in every life [T] [Rumira] [Complete]
Mira, Rumi and the ocean over the years.
another excellent character study of both Mira and Rumi. i'm trying not to repeat myself too much but once again, perfect metaphors. this feels like it's as much a love letter to the ocean as it is to Rumira and I mean that in the best way possible.
its sequel, sea glass, is also incredible. i love it when people give Mira a weird relationship with her brother and this is exactly that, plus a delve into Mira and Celine's relationship and their similarities.
extremely soft and sweet, even with a difficult subject matter. i don't know how ovenglovee does it.
frostbitten [T] [Polytrix] [Complete]
In which Rumi learns to love and be loved.
this and its sequel sunkissed are another set of absolutely incredible Rumi character studies done through extended metaphors and beautiful prose. the imagery of rot and how Rumi feels it applies to her is, once again, masterful and devastating.
and, of course, all that hurt is met with equally soft comfort. Mira and Zoey love Rumi so much and it's so clear in this fic.
please please please read ovenglovee's works. i cannot express enough how much i admire her writing.
