The next morning felt… different.
Not in any dramatic, life-changing way. Nothing about the sky or the street had changed. Same pale sunlight slipping through the curtains. Same quiet hum of the neighborhood waking up.
And yet, I was painfully aware of one thing.
Saki lived right next door.
That wasn't new. It had never been new. I'd known that for years. Walk to school together, come back together, complain about homework together. Normal stuff.
So why did my chest feel tight as I brushed my teeth?
I caught my reflection in the mirror and frowned.
"Get it together," I muttered to myself. "It was just an outing."
But my mind didn't listen.
Images from yesterday kept slipping in without permission. Saki laughing at the café. The way she leaned slightly closer during the movie. Her voice last night, softer than usual, when she said she'd had fun.
I shook my head, grabbed my bag, and stepped outside.
At the exact same moment, the door next to mine opened.
Saki stepped out.
She looked… normal. Same uniform. Same tied hair. Same calm expression.
And yet, my brain froze.
"Oh. Morning, Haruto."
"M-morning," I replied way too stiffly.
There was a brief silence. The kind that shouldn't exist between two people who've walked this road together hundreds of times.
She noticed it too.
"…You okay?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
"Yeah. Totally fine," I said quickly. Too quickly. "Just, uh, didn't sleep much."
"That makes two of us," she said with a small laugh.
That laugh eased something in me, just a little.
We started walking toward school, our steps falling into sync like always. Still, something had shifted. Not enough to change our distance, but enough that I noticed it. The way I paid attention to her expressions. The way I caught myself glancing sideways when she wasn't looking.
Yesterday hadn't turned everything upside down.
But it had nudged something loose.
And as we walked under the morning sun, side by side, I had a feeling that whatever had started yesterday wasn't going to stay quiet for long.
AFTER A FEW DAYS.
IN THE GYM—
The sound of a shuttle hitting the court echoed in my head long before I reached the gym.
Yesterday's rally wouldn't leave me alone.
Not the loss itself. Losing was normal. Expected, even.
It was the way I'd lost.
Too slow to react.
A step late.
Always chasing instead of controlling.
I reached the gym earlier than usual. The lights were already on, but the court was empty. Good. That meant no excuses.
I dropped my bag and started with footwork.
Forward. Back. Side step. Lunge.
Again.
The movements felt stiff at first, my body lagging behind what my mind wanted to do. I focused on keeping my balance low, pushing off the floor properly. Yesterday, Riku hadn't moved faster than me. He'd moved smarter.
I picked up a racket and started shadow swings.
Clear. Drop. Smash.
Over and over.
By the time the others arrived, sweat was already dripping down my neck.
"Since when do you come this early?"
I glanced over my shoulder. Kenta stood at the entrance, stretching lazily.
"Just felt like it," I said.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't press further.
Practice started like usual, but for me, nothing felt usual anymore.
Every rally turned into a test. Every mistake felt louder. When my foot slipped even slightly, I stopped and corrected it. When my return floated too high, I adjusted my grip and angle.
Mei noticed first.
"You're overthinking," she said after one exchange.
"Maybe," I replied. "But not thinking enough is worse."
She shrugged. "Fair."
Then Riku walked in.
The gym's atmosphere shifted the moment he stepped onto the court. He didn't look at me directly. Didn't need to. He warmed up quietly, each movement precise, controlled.
Watching him up close made it clearer.
His shots weren't flashy.
His power wasn't overwhelming.
He simply never wasted a motion.
When we rotated into practice matches, I ended up on the adjacent court. I couldn't help glancing over between points. Riku wasn't dominating with brute force. He was reading his opponent, forcing bad returns, ending rallies cleanly.
That was the difference.
Not talent. Not confidence.
Efficiency.
By the time practice ended, my legs felt like lead.
I stayed behind, picking up scattered shuttles, replaying movements in my head. Every mistake had a pattern. Every late step had a reason. I just hadn't caught up to it yet.
"Your footwork collapses after the third exchange."
I looked up.
Riku stood a few steps away, racket resting against his shoulder.
I straightened. "I know."
He nodded once, like that answer satisfied him.
"You're fast," he continued. "But you react instead of predicting. That's why you fall behind."
No mockery. No superiority. Just observation.
I clenched the shuttle in my hand. "So what do I fix?"
Riku was quiet for a moment. Then—
"Train with me."
I blinked. "What?"
"After practice. A few times a week," he said. "Not matches. Drills. Footwork, placement, endurance."
Kenta, who had been eavesdropping while tying his shoes, froze. Mei slowly turned toward us.
"You serious?" Kenta asked.
Riku ignored him, his eyes still on me. "If you want to catch up, don't play like you're already strong."
The words hit harder than yesterday's loss.
I exhaled slowly. My pride wanted to refuse. My body wanted to rest.
But my mind already had the answer.
"…Alright," I said. "I'll do it."
Riku gave a small nod. "Good."
Then he turned and walked off, like the conversation had been settled from the start.
I stood there for a moment longer, my grip tightening around the racket.
This wasn't a shortcut.
It was going to hurt.
But for the first time since yesterday, I felt like I was finally moving forward.
Kenta stared at Riku's retreating back for a full three seconds before turning to me.
"…Did I just witness a rare event?" he said. "The undefeated senior casually recruiting you like a side quest?"
"Don't make it sound like that," I replied, stuffing my towel into my bag.
Mei crossed her arms, studying me. "You're really going to do it?"
"I already said yes."
"That wasn't my question," she said calmly. "You know it's going to be brutal."
I did know.
Riku wasn't the type to go easy just because he'd offered help. If anything, he'd be stricter. More precise. Every weakness dragged into the open.
"I need it," I said. "Yesterday proved that."
Kenta scratched his head. "Man… I was hoping we'd just coast through club until tournaments."
I shot him a look. "You can still do that."
"Yeah, but now I'll look bad standing next to you," he grumbled.
We left the gym together, the evening air cool against my still-warm skin. My body ached, but my thoughts were sharp. Clearer than they'd been in a while.
Train with Riku.
It wasn't about pride anymore. Or rivalry.
It was about closing the gap properly.
That night, I didn't touch my phone. Didn't zone out. I stretched until my muscles stopped screaming and replayed drills in my head instead of rallies.
Third exchange.
Foot placement.
Angle control.
I fell asleep faster than usual.
The next few days proved exactly what Mei had warned me about.
Riku didn't waste time.
"Again."
My legs trembled as I reset.
"Too slow."
Again.
"You're thinking about the shot. Think about where you'll land."
Again.
There were no compliments. No encouragement. Just correction after correction, delivered in that same flat tone. But slowly, painfully slowly, something started to change.
I stopped reacting.
I started anticipating.
And even when I missed, I knew why.
One evening, as we finished a drill, Riku finally spoke without prompting.
"You're adjusting faster now."
It wasn't praise.
But it was enough.
I tightened my grip on the racket, sweat dripping onto the court.
This was the path forward.
And for once, I was ready to walk it.
The drills stopped being "training" after the first week.
They became endurance tests.
Riku increased the pace without warning. Shorter rests. Longer rallies. More footwork between shots. If my breathing sounded off, he noticed. If my stance loosened for even a second, he called it out.
"Again."
My shoes squeaked as I forced myself forward, lungs burning. Sweat blurred my vision, but I kept moving. Stopping meant starting over.
At some point, Kenta and Mei stopped staying behind to watch. Not because they didn't care, but because it wasn't fun anymore.
This wasn't club practice.
This was punishment.
By the third week, my body protested every morning. Calves tight. Shoulders sore.
Blisters that reopened no matter how carefully I taped them. I learned to stretch in silence, teeth clenched, ignoring the dull ache that never fully left.
Riku didn't slow down.
He added constraints.
"One corner only."
I stumbled trying to recover.
"Wrong step."
Again.
"No smash."
My arms screamed as I relied on placement instead of power.
Again.
There were days I thought about quitting halfway through. Not out loud. Never out loud. But the thought crept in when my legs refused to respond and my vision dimmed at the edges.
Those were the days Riku pushed the hardest.
"Your form breaks when you're tired," he said once, watching me miss a simple return. "Fix that, or you'll never win when it matters."
I didn't argue.
I just picked up the shuttle and reset.
Something changed during those weeks.
I stopped counting drills.
Stopped measuring improvement shot by shot.
My body moved before my thoughts caught up.
One evening, during a full rally drill, I realized I hadn't panicked once. My feet were already where they needed to be. My return came clean, low, controlled.
Riku stopped the drill.
I froze, chest heaving, waiting for the usual correction.
Instead, he said, "That's better."
Just two words.
They hit harder than any shout.
I bent forward, hands on my knees, breathing hard. My muscles burned, my vision swam, and my shirt was soaked through.
But for the first time since that loss—
I knew I was getting closer.
RIKU's POV—
He doesn't know when to stop.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Most players slow down once fatigue shows. Their steps shorten. Their swings loosen. They start looking for shortcuts. Haruto didn't.
He just got quieter.
His breathing turned rough, his timing slipped, but he never asked for a break. Never complained. When he failed, he adjusted. When he fell behind, he forced himself forward anyway.
That made him dangerous.
I increased the drills.
Short rallies. Long rallies. No smashes. One-corner recovery. I pushed his legs until they shook and his grip until it failed.
He kept coming back.
At first, he reacted to everything. Late steps. Correct shots, wrong positioning. Typical.
Then the gap began to close.
Not in power. Not in confidence.
In awareness.
He started moving before the shuttle left my racket. His returns stayed low even when his arm was heavy. He made fewer mistakes under pressure, not because he was better, but because he understood what he couldn't afford to mess up.
That kind of learning speed is rare.
I stopped correcting him as often. Not because he didn't make mistakes, but because he was already fixing them on his own.
Today, during the rally, he didn't chase.
He waited.
He read the angle. Adjusted his stance. Sent the shuttle exactly where it needed to go.
When I stopped the drill, he looked at me like he was expecting another flaw to be pointed out.
I didn't.
"That's better," I said.
He looked exhausted. Completely spent. But his eyes were sharp.
He's not ready yet.
But if he keeps training like this—
The thought finished itself.
I tightened my grip on the racket.
Next time we play seriously, I won't be holding back.
The question comes to me late.
Not during training. Not while correcting his footwork or forcing another rally. It comes after, when the gym is quiet and the lights hum overhead.
Why did I offer to train him?
I don't usually do that.
Most players either want shortcuts or validation. They ask how to hit harder, not how to move better. When they lose, they blame luck or timing. I don't waste time on those players.
Haruto was different.
He didn't argue after losing.
Didn't make excuses.
Didn't ask for praise.
He just watched.
Yesterday, after our first match, I saw it clearly. Not in his shots, but in his stillness. The way he replayed the rally in his head instead of the score. The way frustration sharpened his focus instead of breaking it.
That kind of reaction doesn't come from talent.
It comes from intent.
I remember what that felt like.
Back when I was still chasing someone else's back. When every loss carved something out of me and forced me to rebuild. No one offered to help then. You either learned, or you stayed behind.
Maybe that's why.
Not sympathy.
Not kindness.
Recognition.
Haruto trains like someone who understands that effort alone isn't enough. Like someone who knows there's a wall ahead and is willing to run into it until it cracks.
Those players don't stay average.
I turn off the gym lights and pick up my bag.
If he keeps going like this, he won't need my help for long.
And when that day comes—
I want to be there when he finally reaches me.