Haruto realized something was wrong before he could put it into words.
It started in class.
The chalk squeaked against the board as the math teacher turned around, glasses slipping down his nose. Numbers filled the blackboard in neat rows, symbols stacked on symbols, each one demanding attention.
Haruto stared at them.
They stared back.
He copied everything down anyway, his pen moving out of habit more than understanding. Around him, chairs creaked, pages flipped, someone near the window yawned loudly and got shushed immediately.
Normally, Haruto liked this part of the day. Quiet. Predictable. You listened, wrote things down, tried to make sense of it later.
Today, his mind refused to stay put.
His shoulder ached faintly. Not pain exactly. Just a reminder. His legs felt heavy, like he'd run farther than he remembered. When the teacher asked a question, Haruto realized too late it was directed at him.
"Haruto. The answer?"
Every head turned.
"…Could you repeat the question?" he asked.
A few snickers followed.
The teacher sighed but repeated it. Haruto stood there, eyes on the board, mind scrambling. He knew this. He should know this. The formula sat somewhere in his head, just out of reach.
Mei, two rows ahead, glanced back at him. Not mocking. Just concerned.
"I—" Haruto started.
The bell rang.
Saved by timing, not skill.
"Sit down," the teacher said, already moving on. "Pay more attention next time."
Haruto sank back into his chair, face warm.
This never used to happen.
Lunch wasn't much better.
Kenta was in rare form, loudly reenacting a rally from practice with a bread roll as a prop.
"And then I go BAM," he said, slamming the bread onto the table. "Absolute masterpiece."
"That was a serve," Mei said flatly. "And it hit the net."
"Art is subjective."
Haruto poked at his food, appetite oddly missing.
"You okay?" Kenta asked around a mouthful.
"Yeah," Haruto said automatically.
Mei didn't look convinced. "You spaced out in class too."
"I'm just tired."
That was true. Just not the whole truth.
Practice had been getting longer. Not officially. No one told him to stay late. He just did. One more drill. One more rally. One more attempt to clean up a mistake that shouldn't have happened.
He didn't hate the fatigue. He hated what came with it.
The slipping.
The gym felt louder than usual after school.
Shuttlecocks hit the floor in uneven rhythms. Someone laughed too loudly near the entrance. A second-year scolded a first-year for sloppy footwork.
Haruto warmed up slowly, rolling his shoulders, stretching his calves. The ache was still there.
"Careful," Mei said, watching him from the side. "You're stiff."
"I'm fine."
She raised an eyebrow. "You've said that a lot today."
Kenta jogged past them, nearly colliding with a bench. "If I die today, tell my story."
"No one will," Mei said.
Practice started rough.
Haruto's timing was off. His clears fell short. He tripped once during footwork drills and had to pretend he meant to stop there.
"Whoa," Kenta said. "Gravity finally caught you."
Haruto laughed it off, but the sound felt hollow.
They moved into practice matches.
Haruto lost the first one quickly.
No big deal.
Then the second.
Then the third.
By the fourth, his breathing was uneven, chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with stamina.
"Take a break," the vice-captain called.
"You're forcing it."
Haruto nodded and stepped off the court, sitting heavily on the bench. He stared at his hands. They were shaking slightly.
Saki approached with a bottle of water and handed it to him without a word.
"Thanks," he said.
She hesitated, then asked, "Does it hurt?"
"A little."
"Where?"
He rolled his shoulder experimentally. The ache flared, sharper this time. "Here. It's nothing."
She didn't argue. Just sat down beside him.
"You don't have to push every day," she said quietly.
Haruto took a long drink. "If I stop, I feel like I'll lose what little I have."
She looked at him, really looked at him, then nodded once. "Just don't lose yourself instead."
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a lecture.
But it stuck.
The real trouble came two days later.
A quiz announcement.
"Pop quiz tomorrow," the teacher said, like it was nothing. "Covers the last three chapters."
Groans filled the room.
Haruto's stomach sank.
He hadn't reviewed properly. He meant to. He just… hadn't.
That night, he sat at his desk, textbook open, notes spread out. His racket leaned against the wall in the corner of his room, still in its case.
He stared at it longer than he should have.
Focus.
He forced himself back to the page. Read. Re-read. Nothing stuck. His shoulder throbbed when he shifted.
By midnight, frustration won.
The quiz went badly.
Not disastrous. Just bad enough.
When the paper was returned the next week, the red marks felt heavier than they should have.
Kenta leaned over. "How'd you do?"
Haruto flipped the page face down. "Fine."
Mei glanced at it anyway. "That's not fine."
"I passed."
"That's not the same thing."
He knew.
Practice that afternoon was shorter. The vice-captain gathered them early.
"Conditioning check," he said. "Some of you are overdoing it."
Haruto avoided eye contact.
During drills, his shoulder finally protested properly. A sharp twinge shot down his arm mid-swing, forcing him to stop.
"Hey," Mei said immediately. "Stop."
"I can keep going."
"No, you can't."
The vice-captain noticed. "You're done for today."
"But—"
"That wasn't a suggestion."
Haruto clenched his jaw but nodded. He sat out the rest of practice, watching from the bench.
It felt worse than losing.
Kenta finished a rally and jogged over. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You say that like you're trying to convince yourself."
Haruto didn't answer.
From the bench, everything looked different. The court felt farther away. The rhythm he loved carried on without him.
Someone else was practicing on Court Three.
Haruto noticed without meaning to.
The footwork was clean. Efficient. Every movement deliberate.
He couldn't see the player's face from here. Just the way they moved.
A name surfaced in his mind.
He looked away.
That evening, Haruto walked home alone.
The streets were quieter than usual. The sky had turned a deep blue, clouds barely visible. His bag felt heavier on his shoulder.
At home, his mom noticed immediately.
"You're early."
"Practice ended sooner."
She frowned. "Are you hurt?"
"Just tired."
She gave him the look that said she didn't fully believe him but would let it go. "Dinner's in an hour."
In his room, Haruto sat on the floor instead of his bed. The racket case lay beside him.
For the first time since joining the club, he didn't feel eager for tomorrow.
He felt… stuck.
Like he'd tried to move forward and hit something solid.
He thought of the missed shots. The quiz. The bench. Court Three.
Maybe this was normal.
Maybe this was the part no one talked about.
The part where effort didn't add up neatly.
The next day, he went to practice anyway.
He always would.
But this time, he warmed up slower. Stopped when it hurt. Watched more. Thought more.
During a break, Kenta plopped down beside him. "You know," he said, "for someone who says he's not aiming for anything, you sure look disappointed when things go wrong."
Haruto snorted. "You're surprisingly observant today."
"Don't get used to it."
They sat there in comfortable silence.
Across the gym, someone laughed. Someone else groaned. Life continued.
Haruto rolled his shoulder carefully. It still ached, but less.
He picked up his racket again.
Not to prove anything.
Just to keep going.
Somewhere along the way, he realized, this was part of it too.
And he stepped back onto the court.