**You Loved Him While He Was Falling**
I’m going to warn you gently before I do this to you. This is not comforting. This is not soft.
Oikawa x reader hurt & angst
Love that doesn’t save him.
Love that *stays anyway*.
---
The first thing you learn about loving Oikawa Tōru is that he is always running.
Toward something.
Away from something.
Usually both.
You fall in love with him in the margins—between practices, between laughter, between the moments where he forgets to perform and just breathes. Those moments are rare, and you treasure them like something fragile.
He kisses you like he’s afraid time will steal it if he doesn’t.
He laughs like the sound is a shield.
He trains like stopping would kill him.
You don’t tell him you’re scared at first.
You tell yourself love is supposed to be patient. Supposed to wait. Supposed to believe.
So you do.
You believe him when he says, “I’m fine.”
You believe him when he jokes about pain.
You believe him when he promises, “After this match, I’ll rest.”
But there is always another match.
You start noticing the way he winces when he stands. The way he doesn’t let you touch his knee anymore. The way he goes quiet when you ask how he’s feeling, like the question itself is dangerous.
One night, you press your forehead to his back while he tapes his leg, your arms wrapped around his waist.
“You don’t have to be invincible,” you whisper.
He freezes. Then he laughs, soft and tired.
“That’s a shame,” he says. “Because that’s the only thing I’m good at.”
You don’t know how to argue with that.
---
The night it happens, you’re in the stands.
You don’t remember standing up.
You don’t remember screaming his name.
You only remember the sound.
Not the crowd.
Not the whistle.
The sound he makes when he hits the floor.
It’s small. Broken. Human.
You’re out of your seat before you realize it, pushing past people, vision blurring as panic crashes through you. By the time you reach the court, he’s gripping his knee, face pale, mask gone completely.
“Hey,” you breathe, dropping beside him. “Hey, hey, don’t move.”
His eyes find yours.
For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks scared.
“…I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Your chest aches.
“It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. “I’ve got you.”
He grips your sleeve as the medics arrive, knuckles white.
“Don’t let them bench me,” he pleads quietly. “Please.”
Tears sting your eyes.
“Torū,” you whisper, forehead pressing to his, “your body is begging you to stop.”
His grip tightens.
“…I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”
“I know.”
The stretcher feels like surrender.
He only looks at you as they carry him off, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he doesn’t smile.
That’s when the fear finally reaches you.
Not sharp.
Not sudden.
Heavy.
---
Recovery strips him bare.
Without volleyball, Oikawa doesn’t know how to exist. He stares at the ceiling for hours. He snaps at you, then apologizes like he’s ashamed of needing you so much.
“I don’t know who I am like this,” he admits one night, voice barely there.
You curl into him carefully, afraid of hurting what’s already broken.
“You’re still you,” you say. He doesn’t answer.
Physical therapy is cruel. Progress is slow. Some days he comes home shaking, frustration leaking out of him in quiet, ugly ways.
One afternoon, he throws his brace across the room.
“What if this is it?” he asks, eyes red. “What if this is as far as I go?”
You kneel in front of him, hands trembling as you take his face.
“Then we’ll face it together.”
He closes his eyes. He doesn’t say *we* back.
---
The doctor is kind. That almost makes it worse. The words come carefully, gently wrapped so they won’t cut too deep.
*Permanent damage.*
*Reduced mobility.*
*Competitive play unlikely.*
Oikawa nods like he expected it.
You feel like the ground has vanished.
Later, in the car, he laughs. It’s hollow and sharp and wrong.
“Guess I finally found my limit, huh?”
You reach for his hand. He pulls away.
That’s when you realize something terrifying.
He’s already leaving.
---
He doesn’t break down.
He doesn’t cry.
He withdraws.
He stops talking about volleyball. Stops watching matches. Stops letting you see him when the bitterness surfaces, when the anger eats at him from the inside out.
One night, he tells you he’s applied overseas—for school. A coaching program. Something adjacent to the dream he lost.
“It’s a good opportunity,” he says. “I’ll be busy.”
You force a smile. “When were you going to tell me?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
You’re always worrying.
The distance starts before he ever leaves.
---
The goodbye is quiet. No fight. No dramatic confession.
Just two people standing in a station, holding hands too tightly.
“I’m proud of you,” you tell him.
He swallows. “You shouldn’t be.”
You shake your head. “I love you.”
For a moment, you think he won’t say it back.
Then, quietly “I love you too. That’s why… this can’t come with me.”
The words don’t register at first.
“…What?”
He looks away.
“I can’t be who you deserve anymore,” he says. “Every time you look at me, I remember what I lost.”
You feel something inside you crack.
“I don’t care about volleyball,” you say desperately. “I care about you.”
“I don’t,” he whispers. “Not yet.”
He lets go of your hand.
That’s the moment you understand:
Love can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be seen while they’re broken.
---
Years later, you see him on a screen.
A commentator mentions his name. Former prodigy. Brilliant mind. Career cut short.
He smiles for the camera.
It’s the same one he always used.
You turn the TV off.
Sometimes, late at night, you think about the boy who ran himself into the ground because he was afraid of being ordinary.
You loved him while he was shining.
You loved him while he was breaking.
You loved him even when he couldn’t stay.
And that has to be enough.
Because sometimes, the saddest thing isn’t losing someone, it’s loving them exactly as much as you could
and still watching them walk away.
---
If you’re crying, I did my job 🫰