Work Text:
Dear Osamu,
Osam
'Samu,
Doctor Shimomura said I should talk to you. I immediately told her I wouldn't. Not out of spite or anything; I just knew that I wouldn't, that it'd end like every other time I try calling, and the words don't come out, and you ask "How's it going?", and I can't tell you how it's really going, 'cause that’s not even close to the brand of small talk that we’re used to. But I still cling to the hope that you're asking for an answer, a half-question for a half-truth, and I can't bring myself to lie either.
"It could go worse," I say every time.
It's not going well. When I told her I wouldn't talk to you, she said I could try writing instead.
Well, I'm trying.
You got mad at me today. Like, face-red, eyes-blazing, fists-swinging mad, words mean as a needle. You were always good at getting mad. Even as a child you’d never pull your punches; I could see your shoulders stiffen with fury even before you raised your voice, long before we went down rolling on the grass, hands tugging at each other with that sort of careless abandon only kids who don’t understand consequences know. I’d blame you and you’d blame me back. You’d never cry, not even when you lost, though that was rare; you were always the better fighter, or maybe I would have fought better if I’d just stopped crying. I cried all the time, every time, because I didn’t know how else to get angry. I’d sob while pulling at your shirt until you pinned me down to the floor and all my limbs went slack. Then you’d just stand up, heaving, and march inside, chin high.
You wouldn’t say a word. I’d wait five minutes or ten, or fifteen, as long as it took for the tears to stop, before dragging myself up on wobbly legs and making my way to the restroom where you’d be washing the dirt off your knees. Then I’d knock softly at the door, sniffing, and I’d croak out, “O-samu?”
You wouldn’t even raise your eyes.
“Osamu?” I’d say again, and my eyes would fall to the floor. “I think there’s a bruise. On m-my elbow.” I’d lift my arm, extend the offended flesh in front of me.
It’d be quiet for slices of a second.
Eventually, you’d hum across the door. I was never sure if it meant I’m sorry or I forgive you. Fault was a fleeting and foggy concept that neither of us ever associated with finality. Only then would I step into the bathroom, let you run cold water on my bruises or scraped skin, and sometimes we’d make a mess of the floor with our muddy shoes, and then mom would scold us and I’d blame you and you’d blame me back, but this time it’d sting less like a burden and more like a gift.
This mess is as yours as it is mine.
And sometimes I do wish we could go back to when all that was mine was also yours.
Your anger today was all yours; I guess you have a right to it. At some point I had to learn how people own their anger.
It was when you told me you'd quit volleyball. We screamed as hard and fought as much as any other time, but when you left me breathing hard on the living room floor, the right side of my face already pulsing and swelling into a soon-to-be black eye, I just laid there. I wanted to hate you and I wanted to be mad, to scream again, to throw more punches, til I suddenly realised, like a fool, that I couldn’t even be angry at you. That I had no right to the fury I felt at the thought of you leaving me. I was helpless with the knowledge that nothing I could do would ever make you stay; and all I’d earned was anger at myself, for deluding my brain into thinking that we’d share our own brand of mess forever.
I think the tears stopped at some point, but I didn’t get up. Ten minutes, fifteen, thirty. Forty-five. The ceiling didn’t get any whiter as I stared at it. Now that my dream was mine alone it just felt like I didn’t have anywhere to be. I’d almost forgotten you were in the house anymore when I heard the creaking; the bathroom door squeaking open. Then the steps, heavy but faltering, uncertain.
I was still laying down next to the couch when you stopped right in front of me, looked down at me with a practised frown that was refusing to last.
“So?” You blurted then, hands still balled up at your sides. “Where’s the bruise?”
And I believed, for another hour, that if we couldn’t share the bruises we’d at least share the recovery.
Writing is tiring.
I had to stop the other nigh The hardest part is that I don't know what to say. This isn't meant to be a list of things I want to tell you; my self-pity is too much to even consider sending this letter at all. It’s more like a list of things I think I should tell you, and it turns out there’s a lot more of them than I thought there would be, or, maybe, like those sponges that inflate when you plunge them in water, they just turn out a lot bigger once I put them on paper.
There’s a bunch of things I should’ve told you the other day. When you came barging in and I said, I’m not coming to dad’s stupid birthday party, I didn’t mean it. Or when you told me the real reason why you were there, and I told you to fuck off ‘cause I have better things to do than answer your goddamn texts, I was lying out of my ass.
You called today, just to confirm that I’m actually going to the party this weekend, though I think it was more about what you said the other day.
You didn’t say sorry.
In our family we don’t really know thanks or sorrys. Favours and grievances are all ingrained in the mechanism, fully integrated part of the deal of being family. We get to fight because we’re family and we get to be kind because we’re family; all that is being grateful or being sorry feels unnecessary, a step into polite niceties that don’t belong with us. So when I first visited you at your uni dorm that one time and dropped some snacks on your bed and your eyes widened and you said thank you, I remember freezing. Scared, terrified, that after two weeks of not seeing each other we’d entered new territory without me knowing; a land in which we’ve stepped back from being family and we need to be polite to reach across a newfound distance.
I’m still afraid of it sometimes. Distance. The thought that you might decide one day that you don’t like me anymore, and that I wouldn’t know, because I don’t see you for weeks at a time, because you don’t tell me about the business anymore, because I never know how you’re doing or what you think or if Rei is doing well in kindergarten or if you’re tired of my inconsistency.
So I’m glad, maybe, that you didn’t say sorry. I’d rather think, in general, that you don’t have any regrets, not even about me.
I thought of telling you I'm going to therapy, then I put my phone down.
About two weeks ago the team went out for drinks. Bokkun was asking Hinata how it felt to be back in Japan, if he was lonely back in Brazil. Then Adriah-san said, Loneliness is relative. And I just sat there wondering, Relative to what?, though the red flag in the front of my mind telling me it'd sound stupid wouldn't let me ask.
I take long showers lately.
When we were kids we hated showering. In the brief step of time between becoming old enough to take showers and growing big enough that we wouldn't fit in the stall anymore, mom would have us shower together to save water — not that you and I needed any more bonding time after a decade of symbiosis.
Then the growth spurt hit, and I think I was the one to complain first, and we began to shower alone. You started taking the fastest showers in the world, in and out in record time, shaking off water all over the tiles. You never cleaned up after yourself, but you still had the gall to scold me whenever I took too long, glaring and mumbling and mastering this specific look of reproach that I could never really gauge.
Aran-kun even asked you once, standing right outside the locker room door. Dude, what're you, the Flash? You spent barely a minute in that shower stall.
You just shrugged, hair still wet and dripping on your clean shirt. What 'bout it?, you said. It's lonely in there.
Now I remember clicking through your Instagram stories, of dozens of parties and college friends you never introduced me to, and I wonder if you ever forgave me for enjoying all those long showers without you.
Maybe loneliness is relative to the lifespan of a shower.
You assiduously keep up with the V.League and you still get that glint in your eyes after watching a good spike land, as if there’s a forever-ringing bell only volleyball shakes in your chest.
I miss I know you miss volleyball.
That doesn't really mean you regret leaving it.
It’s callously obvious that you’re satisfied with the shop, as if everything from sickeningly healthy hair to your minimalistic business-website aesthetic is trying to prove a point. No matter how rocky hard the work gets, you never seem to waver, and gone are the days when you’d text at the early hours of the morning to admit that exams were kicking your ass or to ask for my algebra notes from high school, or the months when you'd show up and drag me out for drinks 'cause Akemi's pregnancy was driving you bald and you were oh-so-sure mom would kill you and Akemi would leave you with the child and raising a child would kill you a second time.
But you kept going. Like a blindfolded man refusing to walk into walls, you marched straight through it all. For someone in his twenties single-handedly balancing a growing business and a four-year-old kid, I think you’re kind of killing it.
When I mention that I don't want people to know I'm seeing a therapist, Doctor Shimomura insists that it's pretty common for therapy patients to feel judged. I’m not sure how to explain that that was never the problem. I'm not worried people might think I'm a freak. I just don't want everyone to know that I'm miserable; that successful, confident, proud Miya Atsumu has everything and still cries himself to sleep; that I have all I’ve ever wished for and I still failed to be happy. That I'm the failure of a failure.
So I begged mom not to tell you about it. Pathetic, I know, but I’m still too proud to let you know that I'm losing the life bet, that I'm not happier than you, and I can’t bring myself to be the one to crush the flimsy pretense of our cumulative success.
You seem to be doing so well.
I’m terrified of asking and finding out that you are not.
I miss mom and dad. We should visit more often.
I don't know what you told him, but Sunarin has been showing up at my door every day ever since he came back from Shizuoka last Monday, which is ironic, considering he'd barely ever stepped into my apartment before last month. Sometimes with Aran-kun in tow, sometimes alone, he shows up every morning at ten thirty wearing this hard set to his jaw that screams I know this is awkward but I won't give in, and I’m forced to let him into the genkan. He jokes that once practice starts again soon he'll be calling every morning to make sure I don't miss his stupid face.
I try to laugh hard enough that it scrapes the rust off my throat.
Sometimes I wish I was
If I told you, would it matter?
A couple months before I started therapy, there was a moment when loneliness seemed to seep out from the inside of my bones. I know I have people in my life and there was a time a bunch of years ago when I would've gone to them and opened up. Sunarin, Aran-kun, Gin. Kita-san.
But these days? The thought alone feels so unnatural.
Hey, Hitoshi, I know I haven't seen you in months, but can we talk about my day?
Now it feels like I'd break down before even trying. Like all my old friends are too busy and all my new friends are too new.
Yo, Bokkun, we've known each other for barely a year and only ever talked about bouncing balls, but what do you do when you feel like never leaving your house again?
Feels like there's a blank space between me and everyone else, between me and the people whose messages I haven't answered in weeks and between me and the people who I never let close enough to really know me.
And I don't know how to bridge the distance anymore.
There are times w
I think I’ve lost the concept of a friend.
Today in the shower I thought about that last fight again.
You weren’t having it; it all still plays in my head, the mental montage of our mistakes approaching the length of an unreasonably intricate indie movie.
“You’re a selfish, cruel son of a bitch,” you say, hands splayed flat on the kitchen table. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You never call, you never even ring me up when you’re in town. You broke your goddamn phone and you didn’t think to tell anyone? I called three times last week, thought you were just busy. Then I call mom yesterday, then I call Hinata-san, then Sakusa-san, and they all say they haven’t heard from you in days? Are you insane?”
You look at me and for a moment I think you know. I think you see right through me like I’m made of water. I think you know what I’m hiding.
“You don’t care, do you? That I,” your voice creaks on its hinges, “that we might be worried about you.” You're not looking anymore. “I fucking hate you.”
Then you turn your back to me and you’re breathing heavily and I think you expect me to fight back or to say something. Look, you're hurting me? Shut the fuck up? Okay, I’ll buy a stupid new phone?
But I cry silently and I don’t say anything at all and that’s probably the real misstep.
And you, who just told me you hated me without even faltering, who never mean what you say but always mean what you do, who risked so much without a hint of fear, you freeze like a prey, eyes speaking panic as they scan me for answers.
So?, they say, they plead. Where's the bruise?
Sometimes I want it all to stop.
Volleyball is still good, good in the way only volleyball ever was.
Sometimes I get the fleeting thought of skipping practice, but the fear of anyone prying on why Miya Atsumu would ever miss out on setting a ball always wins out. And you know, they'd be right; I could never miss out. When I'm on the court, I want to be there. I want to set balls. I want to be good. I want to be enough. I want to be more.
The guys are too good to me; they ask me out for drinks on the weekend, no matter how many ways I find to say no. Hinata tags me on group messages whenever he's in town. Omi-kun invites me over for tea like we're ancient British ladies meeting for petty gossip.
I noticed today that they never ask.
Meian-san asks, I mention I already have plans, he nods with a smile like I haven't stood them up a dozen times already.
“Thank you,” I felt like I should say. “For not cussing me out. I get a little anxious sometimes.”
Silence fell like a curtain. For just a second, but I felt it. Adriah-san looked over. Omi-kun seemed vexed behind his mask, or maybe just unsettled.
It's Bokuto who walked over, towel slapping me lightly in the calf. "You think we don't know that?"
And I feel lucky that sometimes the distance bridges itself.
You've been calling a lot. Telling me about Kita-san's newest crop adjustments, about Rei’s new homeroom teacher. Sometimes you call me while I'm crying. You don't ask, but you say Hey, I’m free right now, and it still rings like a question.
Sometimes I even tell you.
I was so sad I couldn't sleep last night. I cried a bit this morning . Today it’s all so bleak.
You hum low and you listen. After a while you grumble, we should go out more often. To do what, you don't mention, but it still makes me smile enough to say, Sure, it'd be fun, and mean it.
I didn't want to let Suna in this morning. He insisted because it's the last day before he leaves for Shizuoka, but I was kind of a mess.
"I dunno what 'Samu told you but I'm fine, okay? There's no need for your pity visits anymore."
Suna frowned like I'd wronged his goddamn mother.
"What does 'Samu have to do with this?" he said. "I'm just worried about you. You never answer the group chat when I'm not here, and I missed you and I. Um. Care about you.” And then, because the asshole always has to play hard to get, “I guess."
Surfaces are a funny thing; as smooth as they are slippery. You think you can walk straight until you start to trip. You think you see all of a person until you try to grasp them.
“I’m going to therapy,” I burst out then, ‘cause I felt that Sunarin had been grasping for a while.
He held me as I cried, complete with awkward pats on my back so clumsy they almost made me laugh, and I tried to apologize for crying so much and for being so much and for telling so much and he looked like he would rather die than see me apologize ever again, which actually made me laugh. He called me a jerk for implying he would only stop by because my brother told him so, but said he’d forgive me ‘cause I was his favourite jerk. (Then I said, I’m gonna tell ‘Samu you said that, and he said, no one will ever believe you, and I hated him again.)
So I started to wonder what I was so afraid of.
It’s not like there was ever a breaking point. It was more like slowly cracking up, my confidence giving out bit by bit under my feet as I doubted everything I’d ever loved. Therapy helps, when I manage to be sincere; Doc’s strategies gradually fill the holes in my mechanisms, though they can’t really make up for that constant, sinking feeling of falling short.
The first time you showed me your menu I laughed at the simplicity. Tuna Mayo, Pickled Plum, Ebiko; it was so your style, so direct and so simple. So sure of itself. I felt stupid knowing that you could make things sound so easy, while I’d been failing at something as elemental as happiness.
And what if they’re simple? What else would I call them? You asked, spiteful, Spicy tuna tastes like spicy tuna.
I don’t know, I said. I think ebiko tastes like childhood. And you called me a sap and threatened to kick me out.
Twenty-five tastes like re-learning how to be happy.
There's no distance and no bridging; there's trying, from me and whoever is close enough to care.
It's not easy, answering all these calls and actually going out with Inunaki-san and not answering okay when I mean not okay and rejecting the little instincts in my stomach begging me to lock myself in my room, though recently, at least, it feels like it’s worth it. It might not last, or maybe it will, but it’s fair that I tell you regardless.
I could just give you the letter, but I’d like to say it out loud. Some of it you probably pierced together on your own anyway, though I really believe it'd do me some good to get over the ever-growing lump in my throat.
There’s a lot I could say.
That I avoided the team’s nights out for a long while. That every time I talk to someone I end up dissecting everything I said and hating it, and hating me. That whenever I'm alone I sit on the cold floor and try not to think about how much I managed to make everything I had and loved into a singular anxiety-inducing swirl.
Or I could just say that things have been hard and that I'm tired of being ashamed of it and that if you wanna ask, you can ask. That there's no more need for subtle hums or fleeting, concerned glances over the doorway when you pass by to leave food. That it'd be fine, probably, if you hugged me next time. That I love you and I need you and that if you need me back, you can tell me. You should tell me.
And please, please, don't ever thank me.
“A story, after all, is a kind of swallowing. To open a mouth, in speech, is to leave only the bones, which remain untold.”
― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous