genre: haikyuu imagine, minor angst
pairing: keiji akaashi x fem!reader
summary: f2f. please listen sza is so good guys.
you’re in your dorm, standing by the desk, arms crossed, jaw tight. the room’s too hot, heater buzzing under the window, blinds half-drawn with moonlight bleeding through.
from outside, the campus is alive; someone’s blasting music down the hall, laughter echoes from the courtyard below, and a door slams two floors up.
not with akaashi standing across from you near the door, back pressed lightly against the dresser, hands deep in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to use them.
he’s calm. too calm. you hate when he does this thing, this quiet thing, where he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink hard. just watches you. just listens. makes you feel like the villain in your own meltdown.
“you didn’t have to hang up on me,” he says, level. like he’s explaining something to a stranger on a bus.
you scoff, arms tightening. “you were talking in circles. i said what i said.”
“no,” he replies. “you said what would hurt.”
your eyes roll before you can stop them. “oh my god, keiji, not everything is some—”
“no,” he cuts in, soft but firm. “don’t do that. not this time.”
your stomach tightens. your jaw pulses. it’s not the first time he’s said that to you, not this time. not the first time he’s drawn a line he won’t keep.
you pace a little, socks sliding on the linoleum. fingers twitchy. there’s still mascara on your cheek from earlier, and your boots are in a half-kicked pile by the door. he hadn’t even planned to see you tonight. you just couldn’t sleep. couldn’t sit in your room, surrounded by silence, without wondering what he was doing. what he was thinking. if he was still thinking about you.
“you make it so hard to talk to you sometimes,” you mutter.
“only when you don’t like what i’m saying.”
he tilts his head when he says it. his expression’s not angry, just tired. that’s what kills you the most. not anger. just fatigue. like he’s been trying to carry something too heavy for too long and finally realized it’s never gonna get lighter.
he pushes off the dresser. crosses the room slowly, carefully, like he’s not trying to startle a wild animal. “i keep letting this happen. i let you say things you don’t mean. i let you do shit you swear you regret. i let you disappear for days and come back like nothing happened.” he stops a few feet in front of you, voice low. “i keep letting you convince me that love has to hurt.”
the words hit harder than you expect. your breath catches in your throat for half a second. you cover it with a bitter laugh.
“so what? you’re done now?” you challenge. “this the speech? you want credit for finally growing a spine?”
“no,” he says. “i don’t want credit.”
he doesn’t grab his jacket. doesn’t need to. just pulls open the dorm door, keeps his eyes on you like he’s trying to memorize something. and then he’s gone.
no slamming. no dramatic exit. just quiet footsteps down the hall, and the sound of the latch clicking into place behind him.
you stand there, heart racing, breath shallow. for a minute, you actually think you won.
you sit on the edge of your bed, legs still tense. replay every word. every look. and when the silence gets too loud, you reach for your phone.
[you: you always do this]
[you: leave in the middle of shit like i’m supposed to chase you]
[you: guess i finally got what i wanted right?]
twenty-four hours. two missed calls. three texts. you even send a selfie like it’s casual, head tilted, lips glossed, like see? i’m fine.
you try bokuto the next day. wait outside the rec gym while practice runs late. it’s cold out. your fingers are stuffed in your sleeves. your stomach’s a mess. you don’t even know what you’re gonna say until you see him, sweaty and flushed, jersey tied around his waist and a water bottle dangling from his fingers. he spots you and sighs before he even gets close.
“have you talked to him?”
bokuto’s jaw ticks. his shoulders shift, like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to say. “he’s not really taking calls.”
“bokuto.” your voice softens, just barely. less demanding now, more desperate.
he exhales, sharp through his nose. turns halfway toward you but doesn’t meet your eyes. “what?”
you step closer, arms folded like a shield across your chest. “you’re his best friend.”
he lets the bottle fall into his gym bag, scuffs his sneaker against the concrete. he doesn’t look at you when he says it, just exhales, short and sharp.
“and you know what? i’m his only friend left who still thinks you might be a good person underneath all that bullshit.”
the words sting. sting worse because he says them with his arms crossed and his eyes on the ground like he’s ashamed of even that.
you blink hard. straighten up. “excuse me?”
and it’s not soft. it’s not forgiving. it’s not even angry, it’s exhausted.
“leave him alone,” bokuto says. “if you’re not gonna love him right, please just leave him the fuck alone.”
your throat tightens. you cross your arms to steady yourself, but the shame’s already curling hot and sticky in your chest. you swallow it. raise your chin. pretend you’re unbothered even as your voice comes out smaller than it should.
“he could’ve said that to my face,” you say.
bokuto stares for a long second, eyes narrowing just slightly. then, calmly:
“yeah. but unfortunately he still thinks you might change.”
it was a saturday when you first met akaashi. someone’s apartment, hazy with smoke and bad music. you hadn’t even wanted to be there. threw on a hoodie over your slip dress, didn’t do your hair.
your ex had texted you earlier that afternoon. some half-drunk, late-night kind of paragraph about how he missed your mouth, how nobody else hit the same, how maybe you should come see him just to talk.
you hadn’t answered. just showed up at the party instead, heart raw and buzzing, and took three shots in the kitchen without saying a word to anyone.
you found yourself on the back steps eventually. vape in one hand, red solo cup in the other. mascara starting to run. phone face-down beside you.
akaashi sat down next to you without a word. didn’t ask if you were okay. didn’t ask why you were alone. just passed you his when yours died and let the silence stretch until you broke it yourself.
“you ever wish people would stop texting you back?”
he glanced over, lips tugging up just barely. “all the time.”
you looked at him. really looked. soft curls falling into his eyes, long fingers brushing his knee, the kind of jaw that looked too sharp for how kind his voice was.
“you go here?” you asked, squinting at him through the haze of porch light and smoke, voice still a little raw from crying.
“sophomore,” he said, tipping his head toward you. “english major.” his tone was calm, casual. too casual for someone who’d just sat down next to a stranger falling apart on concrete steps.
“ew,” you replied, wrinkling your nose.
he raised a brow, not offended, more amused than anything.
“also a sophomore,” you muttered, shrugging, eyes fixed on the edge of your cup. “undeclared and indecisive.”
and for the first time that night, you smiled too.
it wasn’t love. it was curiosity. warmth. a pause in the chaos. he asked if you wanted to head back inside and you said no. so he stayed with you on the steps until your cup was empty and your head stopped spinning.
he walked you back to your dorm too, not because you asked, but because he said, gently, “you shouldn’t be out here alone.”
you slept together the next weekend. not the kind of sleep where someone takes and leaves, but the kind that sinks into your bones. the kind where you stay tangled long after the heat fades, his arm slung heavy around your waist, breath steady against your neck like he belonged there. the kind where he didn’t ask what this meant and you didn’t offer an answer, because it felt too fragile to name, too real to ruin.
you slept in the same bed. curled up against him under the thin twin sheets, legs tangled. he didn’t say much. didn’t ask you to be anything. didn’t label it. just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and asked if you needed anything before bed.
he wasn’t like the others. didn’t play the ego game. didn’t flood your messages or demand answers. he let you text first. let you call at midnight when your thoughts were too loud. sometimes you showed up at his dorm in just a hoodie and knee socks. he’d open the door and step aside without a word, always with this quiet look on his face, equal parts soft and searching, like he was trying to see who you’d be tonight.
because you were never the same girl twice.
sometimes you were sweet. you made tea in his microwave and folded his laundry. laid your head in his lap while he read and traced the veins in his hands with your fingertips.
other times you were cruel. you’d leave mid-conversation, say you needed space and disappear for days. you’d flirt with other guys on campus loudly, shamelessly, and pretend not to notice when it made him retreat into himself.
you cried often. in bathrooms, in stairwells, into his hoodie on the nights you didn’t want to go back to your room.
when he touched you, you flinched like it hurt. when he kissed you, you clung like it healed.
you said sorry like it meant something. and he forgave you like it didn’t matter.
akaashi didn’t beg. he never needed to. he loved with steadiness, not desperation. that’s what made it worse. because you knew he wasn’t stupid. he saw everything: every flinch, every lie, every moment you used him to scrub your ex’s fingerprints off your skin, and still, he stayed.
he gave you playlists. shared books. offered to edit your writing even when you turned it in late and barely tried. brought you snacks when you skipped meals and told people you were sick when you were just hungover and ashamed.
he let you make him your crutch. and you leaned so hard you fractured the bones beneath.
you accused him of being cold when he stopped texting good morning. accused him of pulling away when he stopped inviting you over after a fight. you picked every fight. slammed the door, told him he was boring, told him he didn’t get it.
he did. he just didn’t know what to do with a girl who needed chaos to feel alive.
the sex got messier. more frantic. more about forgetting than connecting. you cried after. sometimes he held you, sometimes he didn’t. and it broke him a little more each time watching you unravel in his bed and knowing he’d never be enough to fix it.
you were smart enough to know you were hurting him. just not strong enough to stop.
you told yourself he could leave any time.
you just didn’t think he ever would.
even after your conversation with bo, akaashi doesn’t text back.
not after the second message. not after the fifth. not after the one you send at two in the morning, heart racing, half-drunk and fully unraveling.
you check his status. it hasn’t changed. no new posts. no green dot.
you call once. no answer.
instead, you smoke on the fire escape outside your dorm, hoodie up, toes curled against the cold metal, and think about how stupid it is that you miss someone who was never even yours. not officially. not with titles. not in the way you made sure nobody could hold you to anything.
the backwood burns slow between your fingers. your phone’s hot in your lap from the texts you’re not sending.
you scroll through old pictures. not selfies—he never liked taking them. just soft, blurry shots of him in your room. studying. eating. laughing quietly with his head tipped back.
you swipe past the one of him asleep on your chest.
and then past the one of you at the window after a fight, middle finger up, his hoodie hanging off your shoulder, eyes swollen from crying. you captioned it “what are you gonna do? leave me?”
not in that romantic, fluttery way. no, this was something tighter. something sour. like the space behind your ribs had folded in on itself and left you hollow. you close your phone, but the afterimage of his username still burns behind your eyes.
you’re ovulating. your body knows it even if you wish it didn’t. you feel it in the way your skin prickles too easily, in the way your legs can’t get comfortable beneath your sheets, in the way your whole chest feels like it’s waiting. for something. for someone.
you tell yourself it’s just hormones. tell yourself it’s just withdrawal.
you don’t even save his number anymore, but you know it by heart. he replies with a heart emoji and a “pull up.”
he meets you at the front of his frat house, shirtless and barefoot, laughing at something someone yelled from inside. you can already smell weed and cheap cologne.
“you look like shit,” he grins, taking you in from head to toe.
“missed you too,” you say flatly, brushing past him.
the room’s the same as always. dim lights, rumpled sheets, condoms in the drawer, weed crumbs on the desk. there’s a candle burning, something sweet and citrusy, probably stolen from a girl who thought she meant more.
you sit on his bed and he hands you a drink. doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t ask if you’re okay.
the sex is rough. fast. forgettable. he pulls your hair. you scratch his back. he calls you baby like it means something. you ride him with your eyes closed, pretending it’s someone else’s hands on your hips, someone else’s mouth on your skin. you finish first and feel nothing.
after, he rolls over and texts someone else.
you laugh under your breath. it sounds broken.
“still a dick, huh?” you murmur.
he shrugs. “you didn’t come here for romance.”
you leave before he can ask if you wanna stay.
the next night, you text akaashi again.
[you: i’m sorry i’m such a mess]
[you: i didn’t mean any of it]
you go to class the next day wearing his hoodie. not on purpose. it just smells like him still, and you’re sick of trying to feel close through pictures.
later that week, he responds.
[keiji: you said you didn’t want anything serious.]
you stare at the screen until your vision blurs, until the words melt into each other and the air in your lungs starts to feel too thick, too warm, too trapped in your chest. until:
you don’t think. you just type yes so fast your thumbs shake.
your phone slips from your hand and lands on your comforter with a dull thud, but you’re already up. pacing. digging through your closet like there’s something in there that can make you feel worthy. you settle on lip gloss, just enough to make your mouth look soft, and a sweatshirt that doesn’t smell like smoke. you smooth your hair three times. check your reflection four. breathe through your nose. don’t cry.
you get to the library before him. ten minutes early, because you can’t sit still in your room anymore, and maybe you think if he sees you already waiting, already small and quiet in the corner, he’ll remember the version of you that didn’t bite so hard.
the room is cold. flickering overhead lights, one vending machine half-out of order, couch cushions too sunken to be comfortable. you pick at your sleeves, chew the inside of your cheek, wipe your palms against your thighs.
when he walks in, he doesn’t look at you first. his gaze scans the room like he’s giving himself one last chance to leave.
his hoodie’s black and oversized, the kind he only wore when he was trying not to be seen. his sweatpants hang low on his hips. his shoulders are sloped. tired. like this meeting is the last thing he wanted to do, and he’s doing it anyway just to shut the door all the way.
he doesn’t say your name. doesn’t greet you. just lowers himself onto the opposite end of the couch like there’s a line of tape running between you and he doesn’t want to cross it.
you watch him. your heart’s a wild, dumb thing in your chest.
“you look good,” you offer, voice small. too small.
his eyes lift, just barely, but he doesn’t answer. doesn’t nod. just stares. not at your mouth, or your hair, or the sleeves you’re still wringing in your lap. at you. like he’s trying to make sense of what’s still there.
you try again. “i didn’t know if you were ever gonna text back.”
his lips part, then close. his expression doesn’t change, but you see the breath he pulls in—see how slowly it moves through him like he’s choosing every word with care.
he nods once. like that’s all there is to say. like you didn’t deserve more.
and then, without lifting his voice, without hardening his tone:
“were you with atsumu again?”
the question hits like a hook to the ribs. your spine locks. your vision pulses. your stomach sinks so fast it feels like you might actually be sick.
“keiji, i—” your voice jumps, cracks. you force yourself to sit up straighter. to find your footing. “listen, i know how that looks, but i wasn’t—i didn’t mean for it to happen like that, okay?”
he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. he’s completely still, hands clasped in his lap, jaw tight.
you can’t breathe. the words are falling out now. “i was spiraling. you weren’t answering and i didn’t know if you ever would and god, i just needed to feel something. anything. it wasn’t about him. it really wasn’t about him, keiji.”
he leans forward slightly, like the motion alone costs him something. his elbows rest on his knees. his eyes find yours and hold.
“so you fucked someone else,” he says.
not loud. not cruel. just true.
you flinch. visibly. your eyes sting instantly, your lip trembles, and your whole body feels like it’s falling forward even as you try to stay seated.
“please, you have to understand,” you whisper, voice breathless, eyes locked on his. “i didn’t do it to hurt you. i swear to god, i didn’t. i just missed you so bad, keiji, i didn’t know what else to do. it was just one night. it didn’t mean anything. i don’t want him. i don’t love him. i love you. i’ve only ever loved you. i just didn’t know how to fix it.“
his lips twitch. not into a smile. not even close.
he lets out a single laugh, one breath. clipped and bitter. it tears out of him like glass, sharp and joyless.
then he exhales slow, like the rest of his body’s catching up with the moment. he looks at you again. looks through you.
“you know what the worst part is?” he asks, voice stripped down to the bone.
your hands are trembling now. clenched in your lap. mascara already smudging from the corners of your eyes.
“what?” you whisper, desperate.
he shakes his head, almost like he’s tired of hearing himself talk.
you blink. the breath leaves your chest all at once.
his eyes are tired. his voice is flat, low, steady. not even angry, just ruined.
“i believe you miss me. i believe you think you love me. i even believe that you hate what you did.”
he finally looks you dead in the eye. holds your gaze so long it starts to burn.
“and that’s what makes it worse.”
you don’t move. don’t breathe. the weight of his disappointment crushes something deep in your ribs.
“keiji, i can change,” you murmur, voice cracking hard on the last word. “i want to. just—please. don’t give up on me. i swear i’ll be better. i can be better. just give me a chance.”
you reach for his sleeve before you even think about it, hand curling tight like instinct.
he pulls back. doesn’t violently jerk away. doesn’t snap. just… moves.
like touching you hurts now.
he stands there for one second longer. like he wants to say something else. like maybe there’s still a sliver of softness in his chest that hasn’t turned against him yet.
but then he walks to the door. doesn’t slam it. doesn’t turn around. just leaves.
and you sit there, stunned and shaking, in the low hum of the vending machine, mascara streaking down your face, hands curled into fists in your lap like you’re holding onto the ghost of a boy who finally had enough.
when you get back to your dorm, your hands still smell like his sweatshirt. your phone buzzes with a notification from instagram. someone else’s post. not him.
you send one last text. not because you think he’ll reply, but because you don’t know how not to try.
[you: i don’t want him. i want you. i’m sorry. please.]
no typing bubble. no call. no mercy. just silence.
a time when it was easy. when the air between you wasn’t thick with things left unsaid, when his voice was soft and certain and his hands knew exactly where to rest; on the curve of your knee, on the small of your back, on the side of your face like he was holding something precious.
a time before you clawed at the seams. before the silence and the storms. before the first fight that turned into the second. before the fifth apology sounded like a script.
it was late september, and the heat hadn’t broken yet. campus was still buzzing with welcome-back energy, people everywhere pretending not to care who saw them with who. your classes had just started to make sense. your dorm was finally clean. your playlist hadn’t yet been ruined by memory.
akaashi texted you that morning, a simple:
[keiji: coffee + the bookstore?]
you were already out of bed before you finished reading it.
he met you on the green, under that old tree with the weirdly low branches. he wore a crewneck that made his shoulders look broader, and his glasses kept sliding down his nose because the bridge was slick with sweat. you made fun of him for it, told him he looked like someone’s overworked T.A., and he smiled, all tongue-pressed-to-cheek and lashes too long for someone so quiet.
you got iced lattes with oat milk. he ordered something you couldn’t pronounce and paid before you could reach for your card.
at the bookstore, he didn’t rush you. he let you wander the aisles, let you pick up titles you’d never finish and read the back like you were serious about them. he pulled one from the shelf, handed it to you without saying anything.
“poems for people who think they’re unloveable.”
he tilted his head. “fitting.”
you hit him in the shoulder. he grinned and didn’t dodge.
you bought it. he dog-eared his favorite page before you even made it to checkout.
the sun started to fall low behind the campus buildings, orange and honey-bronze light dripping through the leaves. you walked the long way back to his dorm just to stay in it longer.
on the way, he stopped you.
and there, on that little bridge near the fountain, in a pocket of golden-hour stillness, he kissed you like he didn’t have to be careful. not like he usually did, not like he was trying to read you first.
he just kissed you. his hand on your jaw, his other on your waist. deep, unhurried, honest.
when he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded, lips a little swollen, voice quiet: “i think i’m falling.”
he looked down, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
you didn’t say it back. not then. but you kissed him again, slower this time, and you reached for his hand like it meant something, and you thought: this could be it. this could really be it.
you spent the night in his bed. no sex. just tangled limbs and whispered jokes and the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. you traced his collarbone with your fingertip until you fell asleep.
he held you the whole night.
when you woke up, there was a sticky note on the pillow beside you.
class @ 9. coffee’s in the microwave. don’t leave yet.
smiley face. lowercase k at the end.
you still have the note. tucked inside the poetry book. page twenty-two. his dog-ear.
you wait until after practice. wait outside the gym, hands shoved in your hoodie pocket, hood pulled over your head like it’ll protect you from what’s coming. it’s cold. wind biting. your fingers ache from clenching them so tight.
you don’t know exactly what you’re gonna say—you just know you have to say something. it’s been three days since the library. three days since akaashi looked you in the eyes and said he believed you, and still left. three days of no texts, no glances, no rhythm to your world.
bokuto’s the last thread. the only one who’s ever stood between you and total collapse. he’s always been the one to drop hints, to defend you half-heartedly when no one else would. he’s the reason akaashi didn’t walk away a dozen times already. and now you’re standing in the wind like a stray dog, hoping he still has a little mercy left in him.
the door swings open. the team spills out. sneakers squeaking, bags slung over shoulders, laughter echoing off the walls. you spot him instantly. tall, broad-shouldered, sweat-dark shirt clinging to him. his curls are matted to his forehead, jawline sharp with exhaustion. his voice carries, cheerful and bright.
until he sees you. then it dies.
his whole body stiffens. he says something low to a teammate, pats him on the back, then turns and heads your way.
you swallow. the nerves knot in your stomach like rope.
“bo.” your voice cracks as he gets closer. “can we talk?”
he doesn’t stop walking. just brushes past you like he didn’t hear.
you whip around, follow him. “please. just—please, can you talk to me?”
he halts near the sidewalk, hands on his hips, breathing heavy through his nose. he doesn’t look at you yet.
you inch closer, voice softer. “i’m sorry. i know i messed up, i know i say that all the time, but bo, please. please just throw me a bone. tell him i’m sorry. tell him i didn’t mean it. i really didn’t mean it this time. i won’t do it again, i swear. just… please help me fix this. he won’t even look at me.”
his shoulders rise. fall. he turns.
and when he speaks, it’s not the bokuto you know. not the one who gave you rides home. not the one who always smiled even when you were being impossible.
his voice is flat. low. like he’s fighting to keep it from boiling over.
he steps closer. his eyes are cold.
“you won’t do it again?” he scoffs. “you actually won’t do it again? are you even listening to the shit that comes out of your mouth?”
“no.” he cuts you off. loud. harsh. a hand lifted like he can’t stand another word. “no. you don’t get to stand here and cry and beg like you didn’t drag him through hell for months. you don’t get to act like this one mistake broke something that wasn’t already shattered. he’s been breaking over and over and over for you, and you didn’t give a fuck.”
your throat tightens. your eyes burn. you feel smaller than you’ve ever felt.
bokuto keeps going, voice rising with every word.
“he’s one of the best people i know. and you—you just use him. you pull him in when you’re lonely and push him out when he asks for anything. he shows up for you even when you humiliate him, even when you disappear, even when you cheat, for fuck’s sake. and you still think you deserve him?”
you can’t speak. your breath comes fast and shallow. your mouth opens, then closes.
“you and atsumu,” he spits, “you two deserve each other. you’re both so fucking toxic, you can’t keep anything in your pants, and you ruin everything good just because you can.”
your knees almost give out. your hands tremble. the wind slices through you, cruel and unrelenting.
he points a finger at you, not angry, just done.
“i hope someone walks into his life who’s nothing like you. someone who listens. someone who knows what they have. someone who doesn’t treat him like a punching bag with pretty eyes.”
the silence after that is deafening. cars in the distance. someone yelling across the quad. you don’t hear any of it. just that line.
someone who’s nothing like you.
bokuto looks at you one last time. his mouth twists like he almost feels bad. almost.
“he loved you,” he says, softer now. “and you killed it. so no, i’m not telling him anything. go fix yourself first.”
you sit down on the nearest bench, arms wrapped around yourself, legs bouncing. you feel like a child. like a stranger. like something unrecognizable is growing inside your chest and you don’t know how to cut it out.
you hate yourself. you do.
you hate that you loved watching akaashi rise for you. you hate that you got off on making him fall. you hate how beautiful he looked when he was angry. how wrecked, how devoted.
you hate that you kept atsumu in your back pocket like a poisoned safety net. that you knew he’d never love you but still crawled back, still opened your legs like it meant nothing, still felt a flicker of power when he reached for you again.
you hate that you could’ve been happy. really happy. you hate that you ruined it.
you miss being ten years old. miss your dad brushing your hair on the couch while a disney movie played. miss hugging his arm at the grocery store. miss the version of you that didn’t measure love by how many times someone came back after you hurt them.
and worse: you’re terrified.
terrified that bokuto’s right. that someone gentle and whole and kind will walk into his life. someone who doesn’t yell. doesn’t test him. doesn’t beg for forgiveness just to do it again.
you’re terrified of the day he falls in love with someone who isn’t you. because he always came back. always.
you don’t know who you are if he doesn’t.
and if this time he really doesn’t—you don’t know what you’ll do.
at first it’s unintentional: just one missed lecture, one alarm you sleep through, one email you tell yourself you’ll respond to later. but then it’s two days. then a week. then you stop checking your school email entirely. turn off canvas notifications. every assignment becomes a blurred event in someone else’s timeline.
your room is a mess. not the cute kind. not clothes-on-the-floor-and-candles-everywhere kind. it’s dark. stale. there’s an old smoothie on your desk you’re scared to touch. mascara-stained pillowcases. your bedsheets twisted and cold from nights you don’t remember sleeping.
atsumu texts once. just a lazy “u alive?” with a red heart.
you read it. don’t reply.
he double texts. “kinda miss u lowkey”
you toss your phone facedown and cry so hard your jaw locks.
because it’s not just that akaashi left.
it’s not just bokuto’s words still pulsing in your head like a curse.
it’s that you’ve been walking around for years pretending you’re the damaged one with a heart of gold buried somewhere beneath the chaos.
and now you’re starting to think there isn’t anything buried beneath it. just hunger. and need. and the kind of emptiness that swallows people whole.
you don’t recognize yourself. not in the mirror. not in the texts you can’t bring yourself to send. not in the way you lie still for hours in bed, eyes open, heart aching and exhausted and begging to just stop feeling for one fucking second.
your period starts three days early. you bleed through your favorite sweats. there are no tampons left in your drawer. you sit on the edge of the bathtub for ten minutes before you even move.
you throw on whatever’s clean, barely brush your teeth. hoodie. shorts. your legs are dry and your eyes are puffy and your hair’s in some sad, loose knot. you look like a warning sign.
you walk to the campus store with your hood up and your head down.
it’s sunny. people pass by in clusters? laughing, skateboarding, touching each other like nothing in the world is wrong. you walk past them like you’re made of fog.
you buy the tampons. you don’t say a word to the cashier. you clutch the bag like it’s something heavier.
and then, on the walk back, you shatter.
you don’t even know what does it. maybe it’s the way the wind kicks up and your hoodie rides up your stomach. maybe it’s the smell of someone’s laundry from a dorm window. maybe it’s just the way your shoes scrape the sidewalk.
but suddenly your eyes are burning. your chest is caving in.
you duck down a side path you know most students don’t take between classes. too narrow, too out of the way. you find a bench half-swallowed by ivy and shade.
not the cute, sniffly kind. not something instagrammable. you curl into yourself and sob. quietly but completely. your shoulders shake, your nose runs, your chest spasms with each ragged breath. your hoodie sleeves go damp. you’re shaking. your knees knock together. the bag with the tampons hangs from your fingers, forgotten on the bench beside you.
you are a live wire. unraveling in plain sight.
and then the bench shifts.
you jolt. look up through soaked lashes.
he sits beside you without a word.
he’s not put together either. eyes hollow, hoodie wrinkled, a scab healing on his knuckle like he hit something. he’s breathing through his nose slowly, like he’s still debating whether this was a good idea.
you freeze. your tears keep falling but you stop making sound. you stare at your lap, face hot, stomach twisting so hard it hurts.
and still he doesn’t say anything.
he doesn’t reach for you. doesn’t ask what’s wrong. doesn’t offer to make it better.
he just sits there. jaw tight. eyes forward. body rigid with something you can’t name.
you let out a shaky breath.
your voice is barely a whisper. “i’m sorry.”
he doesn’t look over. doesn’t flinch. but you keep going, the words bubbling up like blood from a wound.
“i’m sorry i’m like this,” you say, barely audible. “i’m sorry i ruin things. i’m sorry i push people away and say shit i don’t mean and hurt people who love me. i’m sorry i thought i could fix it by fucking someone else. i’m sorry i didn’t change. i’m sorry i don’t know how to change. i’m sorry you saw something in me that isn’t there.”
your shoulders quake. your breath hitches. the words spill fast and raw now.
“i hate myself for it. i hate that i always want the things i can’t have. i hate that you gave me love and i made it hurt. i hate that i still wanted atsumu’s attention even though he’s never given a fuck about me. i hate that i thought he might change, and i ignored you while you were trying so hard to love me right. i hate that i—”
“i hate that i miss you. i miss you so much i can’t sleep. i can’t eat. i don’t know who i am without you and i know that’s not fair to say, but it’s true and i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”
you curl your arms around your stomach like it might keep your chest from caving in. tears run down your neck.
akaashi’s breathing heavier now. you hear it. slow. through his teeth.
when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. rough.
“you shouldn’t be saying any of this to me.”
you nod. you know. you know.
“but,” he says, and he swallows hard. “you are.”
you look at him then. really look.
his eyes are glassy. red-rimmed. he hasn’t shaved in days. his nails are bitten down.
“you look like hell,” he murmurs.
you laugh. broken. wet. “so do you.”
and for a moment, neither of you speak. the sunlight flickers through the leaves. the wind shifts the edges of the tampon bag. you sniffle. he exhales.
he doesn’t touch you. doesn’t offer anything. but he doesn’t walk away.
and somehow, that’s enough to keep you breathing.
the morning after the bench, something shifts. not a miracle. not a clean break. just… a shift.
you still cry. at dumb things. the microwave beeping. the sight of his old toothbrush in your drawer. you cry when you open your closet and see his hoodie still there, crumpled in the corner. you cry when someone in class raises their hand and it sounds like him clearing his throat. you cry when you wake up before your alarm because you dreamed about him again.
but the difference now is that you get up.
you email your professors. say you’ve been going through something personal. something emotional. nothing too specific, just enough to sound honest. enough to earn their pity.
you shower. actually scrub your skin. change your sheets. toss the old smoothie cup. take out the trash. your room doesn’t smell like rot anymore, but it doesn’t smell like lavender or new beginnings either. it’s neutral. empty.
you still don’t like being inside of it, though. the walls feel too close. the air feels stale. it’s where too many things happened. good ones you ruined, bad ones you can’t forget.
so you start spending more time in the library.
there’s this little corner on the third floor, hidden behind a row of outdated psychology textbooks and a broken printer that nobody’s bothered to fix. akaashi showed it to you last semester, back when the two of you were still sharing playlists and half-eaten bagels and falling asleep on each other’s shoulders.
he doesn’t study there anymore. he told you once he found a better spot. you’ve never tried to find out where. you don’t want to.
you settle into the corner quietly. bring your laptop, your charger, your highlighters. you still don’t do great work, but it’s work. your grades inch up. your hair starts to look brushed. you eat again.
one afternoon, you’re pacing the stacks, looking for a book on social theory, and your eyes snag on a spine you’ve never seen before, small, linen-bound, with a deep green cover and gold lettering. the title is pretentious. vague. something about the ethics of solitude.
you pull it off the shelf. flip through. the writing is dense. gorgeous. melancholic. the kind of thing that feels like akaashi would eat alive and then quote at you later with his glasses sliding down his nose.
you check it out without thinking.
you go to the campus store after. grab a few of his favorite snacks: those plain biscuits he swears are better than cookies, that specific canned coffee he likes chilled.
you go back to your room and pull out a clean sheet of paper. then another. then another.
you try to write a letter. not a text. not a DM. a real letter.
you restart twenty times. cross out every other sentence. worry about whether he’ll pick apart your grammar, your tone, your metaphors. you google how to use a semicolon correctly twice.
but the letter gets written. not perfectly. not beautifully. just honestly. and you don’t say exactly what you want. you don’t ask for him back. you just speak from wherever the hell this ache is sitting in your chest now, and let it bleed into the page.
then you fold it. tuck it under the book’s cover. pack it all into a small paper bag with the snacks and the book and a handwritten note that just says this reminded me of you.
you stand there for a long time before you knock.
when the door opens, he looks at you like he expected this. maybe not today. maybe not like this. but eventually.
he looks tired. thinner, maybe. his hair’s a little longer. his sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, and he’s holding a pen in his other hand like he’d just been writing something. his room smells like ink and tea and something earthy.
his brows knit slightly. “what’s this?”
“just… something i thought you might like.”
he reaches in, pulls out the book first. his eyes flick over the title. a smile—small and startled, tugs at the edge of his mouth, just for a second.
then he sees the envelope. you’re holding your breath.
he opens it right there in the doorway. unfolds the letter. reads it in silence.
you can feel yourself shaking, a little. you don’t know where to put your hands.
he finishes the letter and exhales through his nose, then looks up at you with that infuriatingly steady gaze.
“you still don’t know how to use a fucking em dash,” he murmurs, lips twitching. “and i think you’re abusing the semicolon. like, aggressively.”
you bark out a laugh. broken. breathless. “yeah, well. i’m not the english major.”
he’s still looking at you. head tilted, expression unreadable.
you hover at the edge of the doorway, afraid to move. to breathe.
he sees it. sees your hands balled up in the sleeves of your sweatshirt. sees the way your eyes flicker between his and the floor.
“you can come in,” he says softly.
his room’s clean. not sterile. just organized. quiet music plays from a speaker in the corner. his bed is unmade but the desk is neat. you recognize your handwriting on the envelope now folded on his desk.
you stand awkwardly in the middle of the room for a second, then sit on the edge of his bed.
he sits beside you. neither of you says anything for a while.
then, slowly, you turn towards him.
his breath catches. he nods.
his hand comes up first, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers gentle beneath your jaw. his touch is warm. familiar. almost too much to bear.
and when he leans in, his lips are soft. slow. reverent. like he’s trying to remember every inch of you.
you taste like mint and want and regret. he tastes like chamomile and pages.
your hands curl in his shirt.
he deepens it, just slightly. just enough.
when you finally pull back, you rest your forehead against his. eyes closed. hearts thudding.
you don’t say i love you. you don’t say take me back.
and maybe, just maybe, it could be the start of something real.
something that doesn’t have to hurt to be true.
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