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The game was over. The win was theirs.
Cheers echoed across the field, loud at first, then slowly fading as the team packed up their gear and drifted toward the clubhouse.
Miyuki remained seated on the dugout bench, carefully re-taping a piece of gear he didn’t really need to fix. His hands moved out of habit, just something to keep them busy.
His gaze lifted, and there you were standing at the edge of the field, smiling at him.
Takigawa Chris Yuu.
The older catcher wiped sweat from his brow, listening intently as you spoke. You reached up to fix the strap on his bag, and when his hand brushed yours, the motion was subtle. Familiar. Quietly intimate.
It said everything.
Miyuki looked away.
Neither of you noticed he was still there. And maybe, that was for the best. He wasn’t in the mood to flash a grin or crack a joke. Not today.
Then you laughed. Soft, warm, the kind of sound that stuck in memory. It hit him harder than it should have.
He used to think. Maybe, just maybe. That laugh could’ve been his to chase.
But he’d been too late. Or too dense. Or just not the kind of steady you needed.
And Chris?
Chris was exactly that. Steady. Grounded. The kind of guy who didn’t need to speak much to make someone feel heard.
Miyuki tugged his cap lower over his eyes.
“If she’s happy, then I’m happy too.”
That’s what he kept telling himself. Over and over again.
And maybe he almost believed it.
But then he heard your voice again.
“Yuu—!”
Gentle, calling Chris’s first name and it hit him. That familiar sting. Not quite jealousy. Not quite regret.
Just... emptiness.
Slowly, Miyuki stood, slinging his gear bag over one shoulder. He cast one last glance toward the two of you.
Chris had caught your heart before Miyuki even realized he’d dropped the ball.
So he’d play his part.
The teammate. The joker. The best friend who cheered the loudest, smiled the widest, and never let it show.
And maybe, someday, it wouldn’t hurt like this.
But for now, he walked away before either of you could turn around.
A cool breeze swept through the night air. City lights flickered in the distance. Soft and hazy, like a dream left untouched. It was the kind of quiet that felt like a breath held too long.
Miyuki found Kuramochi already sitting on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling over the side, eating a popsicle like they hadn’t both run on four hours of sleep and five hours of practice.
He didn’t look up as Miyuki dropped down beside him.
“You’re up late,” Miyuki said.
“So are you.”
Silence stretched between them. Comfortable, but heavy with things unsaid.
Kuramochi eventually glanced sideways. “You’ve been weird lately.”
Miyuki scoffed. “I’m always weird.”
“Yeah, but this is different,” Kuramochi said, kicking his feet lazily. “You’ve been extra... fake chill.”
Miyuki froze for a beat. “Didn’t know you were a licensed therapist.”
“I’m not.” Kuramochi crunched the last of the popsicle stick between his teeth. “But I know you.”
Miyuki stared out toward the empty field below. The lights were off now, but he could still picture them standing there.
Chris and her. That moment. The way Chris had said, ‘Not officially. Yet.’
And something inside Miyuki had cracked.
He swallowed hard. “You ever liked someone you knew you couldn’t have?”
Kuramochi paused. The question surprised him. “You serious?”
Miyuki didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Kuramochi let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“It’s not like I planned it,” Miyuki muttered. “Didn’t even realize it until it was already too late.”
“Chris-senpai?”
“Yeah.”
“And her.”
“Yeah.”
Kuramochi leaned back on his palms, exhaling through his nose. “That’s rough, man.”
“Understatement of the year.”
Silence returned, thicker this time. Both of them sat with it, pretending they weren’t feeling what they were feeling.
Kuramochi broke it first. “You gonna be okay?”
Miyuki laughed. Short, bitter, but not unkind. “Eventually.”
“You sure?”
He nodded. “He makes her happy. And she... she lights him up like nothing else ever did.”
Kuramochi didn’t respond right away. Then, softer “You never told her, did you?”
“No point,” Miyuki said. “I’d rather be someone she can laugh with than someone who makes things complicated.”
Kuramochi exhaled, long and low. “You’re kind of an idiot, you know?”
“I know.”
“But a good one.”
Miyuki nudged him with his shoulder. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me now.”
“Please,” Kuramochi snorted. “I’m still gonna roast you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
They stayed there for a while longer. Two idiots under the stars, pretending the world wasn’t shifting beneath their feet.
And when Kuramochi eventually left, Miyuki stayed. The wind tugged at his hair, carrying off his silence. He let it. Because up here, where no one could see him, he didn’t have to smile. Didn’t have to joke. Didn’t have to pretend he hadn’t fallen for someone who had already been caught.
So he sat with the ache.
Let it settle like dust on a glove, worn but hidden.
And he told himself again.
It’s fine.
It has to be.
Because not all losses show up on scoreboards.
Some just live quietly in his chest, long after the game ends.
Everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago, the dorms quiet except for the occasional rustle of sheets or the creak of an old floorboard.
Miyuki sat hunched over his desk, the glow from his reading lamp, the only light in the room.
His fingers hovered over the paper for a long time.
Pen in hand.
Blank page staring back at him.
He didn’t know how to start. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to admit it.
Finally, he began writing.
Hey,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. I guess… because it’s safer than saying it out loud.
You probably don’t see me that way. I mean why would you? You’ve got someone like him. Steady. Reliable. Gentle. Everything I’m not.
And maybe that’s why I never tried. Because I knew. I knew it’d never be me.
I told myself I was fine. That being your friend was enough. But it wasn’t. Not really.
I think I started falling for you somewhere in between all the missed chances. Somewhere quiet.
Maybe in the way you cheered for everyone, but smiled a little softer when it was him.
Maybe in the way you never looked at me the way you look at him.
And that’s okay.
Because he makes you happy.
And you deserve that.
I just needed to say it somewhere. Even if no one ever reads it. Even if it sits folded in the back of a notebook forever.
You’ll never know.
And maybe that’s for the best.
I liked you.
Then, carefully, he folded the letter. Tucked it into his notebook, right between two pages of scribbled plays and catcher strategies.
He didn’t sign it.
Didn’t date it.
Didn’t even glance at it again.
He clicked off the lamp.
And went to bed.
Pretending he hadn’t just written something he could never undo.
Days passed. The locker room was mostly empty by the time Chris finished folding his gear. Evening light filtered through the windows, soft and gold, painting the edges of benches and lockers in a quiet hush.
He wasn’t snooping. Not really.
Miyuki’s notebook had fallen behind the bench. Half open, pages fluttering like wings caught in a breeze. Chris bent down, picked it up carefully. He meant to close it and set it aside.
But something slipped out.
A folded paper, thin and worn at the creases like it had been opened a hundred times and folded a hundred more.
There were no names on it.
Chris hesitated. Just a second too long, then opened it.
He read it once. Then again.
And for the first time in a long time, Chris didn’t know what to say.
He stood there in the half-light, letter in hand, heart strangely quiet.
There was no bitterness in the words. No accusation. Just a quiet surrender.
A confession never meant to be heard.
Chris exhaled slowly. He folded the letter with care, hands steady, almost reverent.
Then, without a word, he slid it back into the notebook. Exactly where he found it.
When Miyuki returned later, nothing was said. Chris nodded at him like usual, and Miyuki smirked back like everything was fine.
They didn’t speak about the letter.
They never would.
But when Chris walked out that evening and saw you waiting for him outside the gates, eyes lighting up the second you spotted him.
He held your hand just a little tighter than usual.
Because he understood now.
That someone else had seen you too.
And let go.
Miyuki knew the second he opened his locker.
Nothing was missing. Nothing out of place.
Except…
The notebook.
It had been closed neatly, not at all how he left it. Half-crammed between textbooks, a corner of the letter just barely sticking out like it wanted to breathe.
Now it was tucked perfectly back in place.
Too perfect.
Miyuki froze. Slowly, deliberately, he opened it. Flipped past the scribbles, the game plans, the half-baked thoughts he never let anyone see.
There it was.
The letter.
Still folded. Still hidden. But the edges were cleaner than before, like it had just been smoothed out by careful hands.
He stared at it for a long time.
A few heartbeats passed before he sat down heavily on the bench behind him, elbows resting on his knees, hands steepled in front of his face.
He didn’t need to ask who.
It wasn’t hard to guess.
Chris wasn’t the kind of person to confront. Or pity. Or say things that didn’t need saying.
Which somehow made it worse.
Miyuki let out a soft breath, then a bitter laugh.
Of course Chris had seen it. Of course he’d read it. And of course he’d left it untouched and unspoken.
Because Chris had always been the kind of person who understood silence better than anyone.
And maybe Miyuki had hoped, in some dumb, self-destructive way, that someone would see it. That the letter wouldn’t stay folded forever. That someone would know.
But now?
Now there was nothing left to do but bury it again.
He pressed the letter deeper into the pages, like that would hide what had already been seen. Like it could erase the vulnerability of it all.
No one mentioned it the next day. Or the one after that.
Chris met his eyes like always. Calm. Solid. Constant.
And when Miyuki caught a glimpse of you laughing beside him.
Even if it cracked something inside his chest.
Even if he never got to be the one.
He smiled.
Because she was happy.
And that had always been the whole point, hadn’t it?
Even if it wasn’t with him.