High school arrived without asking.
One day, we were worrying about homework and curfews. The next, we were standing in new uniforms that didn't quite fit yet, surrounded by people who all looked like they were pretending to be older than they felt.
The school was bigger. Louder. Everything echoed.
Saki walked beside me through the gate that first morning, adjusting her bag strap like she wasn't nervous at all.
"You okay?" I asked.
She nodded. "I think so. You?"
"…Ask me again after first period."
She smiled.
We ended up in the same class. Not next to each other, but close enough that we noticed when the other looked lost. That was enough.
By the end of the first week, routines started forming again. Different shape. Same feeling.
Lunch spots shifted. Hallways became familiar. Teachers stopped being strangers. And somehow, without planning it, we both started staying back after school.
That was how the clubs happened.
Badminton first.
I didn't choose it because I was good. I chose it because it felt quiet in the right way. Focused. The gym smelled like sweat and cleaner, and the sound of shuttlecocks snapping through the air was sharp and constant.
Kenta joined on the same day.
That should have been my first warning.
He burst into the gym like it was a stage. Loud greeting. Dramatic bow. Immediate claim that he had "natural talent."
Within five minutes, he hit a shuttlecock into the ceiling.
"THE CEILING IS AGAINST ME," he declared.
No one disagreed. Mostly because everyone was laughing too hard.
The captain, Ryota, sighed the sigh of a man who had already aged ten years that afternoon. Mei, a sharp-eyed first-year, corrected everyone's grip like it was her life's mission.
I wasn't good. But I wasn't hopeless either.
Kenta, on the other hand, became a public service announcement.
"Don't swing like that."
"Watch your footing."
"Please stop yelling."
He ignored all of it.
Somehow, that made practice easier. Less pressure. More noise. More life.
A week later, I noticed Saki sitting on the bench by the wall during one of our breaks.
She was wearing track shoes and holding a clipboard.
"You joined track?" I asked, surprised.
She nodded. "They needed people. And… I wanted to try."
That fit her. Steady. Quiet strength.
From then on, our afternoons overlapped. She'd finish drills and come sit by the court. I'd take water breaks and sit beside her. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we just watched.
"Your swing's better," she said once.
"I missed three shots right after that."
"But you didn't panic."
"…That's a compliment?"
She smiled. "Yeah."
Behind us, Kenta tripped over a cone and blamed the floor.
By the second month, everyone knew him.
First-years quoted him. Seniors used him as an example of what not to do. He leaned into it proudly.
"I exist to unite people through shared embarrassment," he said one day.
Mei replied, "You exist to test my patience."
Gym days were chaos. Club days blurred together. Exams crept closer.
Somewhere in between, the school stopped feeling overwhelming.
Evenings still pulled us back to the same place.
The vending machine hadn't changed. Same hum. Same flickering light.
Some days we arrived together. Other days one of us was already there. It didn't matter. We always waited.
Kenta showed up once, pressed three buttons at random, and got yelled at by a passerby. After that, he called it "hostile territory."
By the time autumn settled in, it felt normal.
Classes. Clubs. Laughter. Exhaustion.
Life wasn't quiet anymore. But it wasn't loud in a bad way either.
One evening, after practice, Saki and I stood by the vending machine while the sky darkened.
"Kinda funny," she said. "We've changed a lot."
"Yeah," I replied. "But this hasn't."
The machine hummed.
Students passed by, talking about tests, crushes, clubs, plans. None of it stopped for us. And somehow, that made it feel right.
We weren't standing at the beginning of something dramatic.
We were just… still here.
Together.
Growing.
Letting life happen around us.
And for now, that was enough.
On one specific day.
The gym smelled like polish, sweat, and something faintly burnt. Probably Kenta's shoes.
Haruto adjusted his grip and stared at the shuttlecock in his hand. It was already scuffed, feathers bent in ways that suggested it had lost too many battles. He liked that. New shuttlecocks felt judgmental.
"Alright, first-years," the club vice-captain shouted, clapping once. "Warm-ups first. No smashing until I say so."
Groans echoed across the court.
Kenta, standing next to Haruto, leaned in. "If I don't smash something soon, I might die."
"You smashed your racket last week," Haruto said.
"That was emotional damage."
They jogged around the court, dodging stray shuttlecocks and one very enthusiastic second-year who seemed to believe stretching was a competitive sport. Somewhere near the back, someone slipped, followed by loud laughter and an even louder, "I'm fine! I'm fine!" which usually meant the opposite.
After warm-ups, Haruto took his position and began practicing clears. One. Two. Three. His arm burned slightly, the good kind. The kind that told him he was doing something right.
He missed the fourth.
"Too much wrist," Mei said from the next court, already lining up another shot. "Relax."
"I was relaxed."
"You look like you're trying to fight the shuttlecock."
"That's my strategy."
She snorted and sent one flying just out of his reach. On purpose.
Practice settled into rhythm. Shoes squeaking. Feathers fluttering. The sharp sound of rackets slicing air. Haruto lost himself in it, counting shots without meaning to.
Then, during a short break, he heard it.
"…if he's using Court Three today, we'll have to rotate," one of the second-years said.
Another voice replied, quieter but clear enough. "Yeah. He's serious about training before regionals."
"Of course he is. That's just how Aoyama is."
The name slipped into Haruto's awareness before he could stop it.
Aoyama.
He didn't turn. Didn't ask. Just took a sip of water and let the sound of it sit in his head. Around him, the gym kept moving like nothing had happened.
Kenta, meanwhile, had decided now was the perfect time to show off.
"Watch this," he announced, stepping onto the court with confidence completely unrelated to his skill level.
The serve went straight into the net.
Silence.
Then laughter. Even the vice-captain rubbed his temples.
Kenta stared at the net. "The net moved."
"The net has been there since the school was built," Mei said.
Haruto laughed before he could stop himself.
"Traitor," Kenta said, pointing at him.
"Remember this when I'm famous."
Practice resumed. Haruto focused again, but now his eyes kept drifting, just a little, toward Court Three. It was empty. Clean. Almost untouched, like it was waiting for someone important.
He wondered what kind of player Aoyama was.
Tall? Short? Loud? Quiet?
Probably quiet, he decided. Loud people didn't need others to say their name like that.
When practice finally ended, Haruto lay flat on the gym floor, staring up at the ceiling lights. His arms were heavy. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
"This is the life," Kenta said beside him. "Pain and glory."
"This is just pain," Haruto replied.
As they packed up, Haruto glanced once more at Court Three. Still empty.
He didn't know why the name had stuck with him. It wasn't curiosity exactly. More like a faint marker on the road ahead. Something he hadn't reached yet, but might someday.
Outside, the evening air was cool. Haruto slung his bag over his shoulder and headed home, tired but satisfied.
It was just another practice day.
But for some reason, it didn't feel completely ordinary.
Haruto noticed it on a Thursday.
Not during a match. Not during anything dramatic. Just drills.
He sent a clear to the backcourt. It landed closer to the line than usual.
"Huh."
He tried again.
This one didn't drift short.
He frowned, like the shuttlecock had personally offended him by cooperating.
"Why are you making that face?" Kenta asked from the side, towel around his neck.
"You look like you just solved a math problem by accident."
"I didn't do anything different," Haruto said.
"That's what scares me."
They rotated drills. Footwork this time. Haruto moved without thinking, steps lighter than before. He still messed up the timing on a drop shot and barely clipped the net.
Mei didn't miss that.
"Ooooh," she said, drawing it out. "So close. That was almost cool."
"Almost still counts," Haruto muttered.
"No, it really doesn't."
Saki was sitting on the bench nearby, tying her shoelaces for the third time. She glanced up. "I thought it was good."
Mei turned to her. "You're biased."
Saki blinked. "I am?"
"Yes."
Haruto felt his ears heat up. He focused very hard on adjusting his grip.
Kenta grinned. "Wow. Encouragement from the audience. Someone's popular."
"Ignore him," Saki said quickly. "I just mean… you're faster than before."
That one stuck.
Not because it was praise. Because it was specific.
Later, during practice matches, Haruto lost. Twice. Cleanly.
The first time, he rushed his smashes and sent one out. The second time, his legs gave out halfway through a rally.
He bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
"Told you," Kenta said, patting his back a little too hard. "Growth arc. Comes with suffering."
"I hate your wisdom."
"But you admit it's wisdom."
Mei handed Haruto a bottle of water. "You're overreaching. You're not used to playing at that pace yet."
"So I slowed down and still lost," Haruto said.
She shrugged. "Yeah. That's also progress."
That didn't sound right. But it felt right.
During a break, Haruto sat on the floor, stretching his calves. Saki sat a short distance away, flipping through her notebook. She glanced over.
"You're practicing more lately," she said.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Kenta complains about it daily."
"Hey," Kenta said from across the gym. "I complain artistically."
Saki smiled, then added, quieter, "It suits you."
Haruto looked up. "What does?"
"Trying."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. Thankfully, Kenta ruined the moment by tripping over a shuttle tube and dramatically declaring, "My career ends here."
Laughter rippled through the gym.
As practice wrapped up, Haruto felt exhausted in a deeper way than usual. Not drained. Used.
On the way out, he passed Court Three.
Someone had been there earlier. The floor showed faint shoe marks. A shuttlecock lay forgotten near the sideline.
Haruto paused, just for a second.
"Don't tell me you're in love with the floor now," Kenta said.
Haruto shook his head and kept walking.
But the idea lingered. Not the court.
The direction.
He hadn't gotten better in any way that mattered on paper. He still lost. Still messed up. Still got teased.
Yet somehow, the gap between where he was and where he wanted to be felt… measurable now.
Not small.
Not big.
Just real.
The announcement came during lunch.
Haruto wasn't even paying attention.
He was busy trying to rescue his curry bread from Kenta, who had decided it was community property.
"You already ate two," Haruto said, holding the tray just out of reach.
"And I will eat a third," Kenta replied, dead serious. "This is athletic nutrition."
Mei sighed from across the table. "You're going to regret that during practice."
"That's future me's problem."
They were mid-argument when the gym doors down the corridor opened and a group of upperclassmen walked past, laughing loudly. One of them stopped near the notice board.
"Hey, did you see this?" a voice said. "Inter-school qualifiers are up."
Another voice responded, clearer.
"Yeah. No surprise. Aoyama swept singles again."
Haruto's hand paused.
"Of course he did," someone else added.
"Didn't drop a set."
"That's three years in a row now, right?"
"Basically untouchable."
Their footsteps faded as they moved on, conversation drifting to something else. Lunch noise swallowed the rest.
Haruto stared at his tray.
Untouchable.
Kenta finally succeeded in stealing the bread.
"Victory," he announced, mouth already full.
Mei noticed Haruto hadn't reacted. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Just… spicy."
She looked unconvinced but let it go.
Practice that day felt different.
Not harder. Not easier. Just louder in his head.
Every mistake stood out. Every good shot felt smaller somehow. When he slipped during footwork drills, he stayed down a second longer than necessary.
Kenta leaned over him. "Dramatic pause?
Nice. Judges give it an eight."
Haruto pushed himself up. "Shut up."
During water break, Saki joined him near the bench.
"You're quiet today," she said.
"Am I?"
"Yeah. Usually you argue back."
He considered lying, then didn't. "I heard something earlier."
She waited.
"About a senior. Aoyama."
Saki nodded slowly. "I've heard that name too."
"What kind of player is he?" Haruto asked.
She thought for a moment. "I don't know much. Just that people trust him. When he plays, they stop worrying."
That sounded worse than untouchable.
Later, as practice ended, the vice-captain gathered them.
"Reminder," he said, tapping the clipboard.
"Regionals are coming. Watch your conditioning. Some of you might get to see real matches soon."
Haruto packed his bag in silence.
On the way out, he passed the trophy case near the gym entrance. He'd walked past it a hundred times without really looking.
Today, he stopped.
Names engraved in neat rows. Years stacked on years.
Then he saw it.
Aoyama Riku
Badminton Singles
Winner
Repeated.
Haruto traced the glass lightly with his finger, then pulled his hand back like he'd touched something hot.
Behind him, Kenta whistled. "Man. Imagine seeing your name there."
Haruto slung his bag over his shoulder.
"Yeah."
He didn't imagine his name there.
Not yet.
But for the first time, the distance between now and that glass case didn't feel abstract. It felt like time. Like effort. Like something you could move toward, step by step, even if it took years.
Outside, the sun was already dipping low.
Practice tomorrow.
And the day after that.
Somewhere ahead, a name waited.
And Haruto kept walking.