Chapter Text
You’re in your second year of college now. A business major, just like your parents encouraged. The family bakery sits tucked on the corner of a quiet street—its sugar-dusted counters and warm lights still feel like home, but they don’t feel like enough anymore. Not since him.
Spring break arrives and you're spending your evenings behind the register again, hair cut to your shoulders now—neater, cleaner. A version of you that’s harder, more grown. But the red ribbon still ties atop your head like muscle memory. It doesn’t make sense anymore. You say it’s for convenience, that it keeps your bangs out of your eyes when you work. But your heart knows better. You never stopped hoping. Not really.
Sometimes, on slower days, you sit behind the register and rest your chin in your palm—just like you used to. But you don’t look at the door anymore.
Not really.
Because he never came back.
You’ve been waiting ever since for him to come back and mean it —to come back and say “I’m ready.”
At first, you woke up every morning half-expecting him to be outside your door. You kept his matches on in the background, eyes drifting to the screen anytime his name was mentioned. You whispered soon under your breath like a prayer.
But time passed, and the silence stretched too long.
Hope, it turns out, can sour.
And waiting turned you bitter.
You stopped watching his games. You stopped reading articles about him. And somewhere along the way, you stopped believing he ever meant what he said.
You tell yourself you don’t miss him.
But some part of you is always wondering where on this earth he could be.
It’s warm tonight—the kind of early summer air that softens the sky and makes the sidewalk hum beneath your shoes. You’re walking home from class, just swinging by the bakery to say hello before your schedule gets too tight to breathe again.
The convenience stores on your walk have TVs hanging just inside their glass windows. The news is playing highlights of the Schweiden Adlers’ most recent match. His match.
You don’t stop walking.
You don’t look.
Crowds of people pause to cheer at the screen, hands clapping, voices full of admiration. You roll your eyes.
Still winning, huh?
Figures.
You reach the bakery a few minutes later, the bell above the door jingling faintly as you step in. The place smells like cinnamon and rice flour, and your parents look up from behind the counter—eyes warm, proud, a little tired. The TV is on again, mounted high in the corner of the shop for customers, and this time…
…it’s him.
“Ah! Perfect timing, sweetheart. Look, it’s Ushi—”
The remote is already in your hand.
Click.
Silence.
You don’t say a word. You walk past them, up the narrow stairs to your childhood room, and close the door behind you. The quiet that follows is heavy. Familiar. Your parents sit still behind the counter, the now-black screen reflecting their faint reflections. They don’t say anything either.
They saw the way you used to light up at the mention of his name. The way you’d wait—chin in your palm at the register, stealing glances at the door like maybe, just maybe, today was the day. They watched that light dim day by day. Watched your voice change from soft to sharp every time his name came up. The way your ribbon stayed, but your smiles didn’t.
They never asked.
But they always knew.
“Congrats on your win, Ushijima!” the host calls brightly, leaning into their mic. “Is there anyone special back home—or maybe in the crowd today—you want to shout out?”
There’s a subtle hush. The crowd knows what’s coming.
He shrugs, calm and steady as ever.
“Well… again, I don’t know if she’s watching. But, [name]—this win was for you. I’ll be visiting later this month on my break. I hope to see you there.”
The audience lets out soft oohs and scattered applause. The interviewer smiles knowingly.
Ushijima simply nods at the camera—direct, unflinching. Like he meant every word.
And he did.
What he doesn’t know is that you’re no longer watching. You turned it off just seconds before the screen carried his voice to your ears. You missed it—again. Not by accident, but by choice.
You’ve built a wall out of disappointment.
And he’s still standing at the place where you left him.
Still waiting.
Still unmoved.