7. Sun-Kissed Milk

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If this were a manga, right now I’d be sitting in my seat drawn in faded black-and-white lines. …Maybe I should just jump off a building.

“Xiaowei, what’s wrong?” a close classmate asked, taking a bite of her octopus sausage. “Didn’t you just win the high jump competition?”

Several desks were pushed together like tofu blocks, and middle schoolers often share tables like this while eating their lunchboxes. I was sitting among them and, upon hearing this, sighed knowingly.

“Yeah, but I’m thinking about the volleyball match this afternoon.” I picked up a bite of meat floss roll with my chopsticks.

My parents are busy, so I usually prepare my own meals. But since there’s a competition today, my dad made a special victory bento in advance: in the center, he cut the bright yellow, silky tamagoyaki into shapes with cat ears; the tomato ketchup dotted out little eyes, a nose, mouth, and whiskers, all surrounded by a ring of sushi rolls packed tightly around it.

On either side were side dishes for nutritional balance. On the left, three neatly stacked fried pork cutlets with cucumbers and tomatoes squeezed into the gaps; on the right was a mini fruit salad.

Classmate: “Wow—”

Another asked, “Xiaowei, you’re so amazing, why are you still worried about the match?”

I said, “I’m not playing my usual position this time… but I’ll do my best. Want some tamagoyaki?”

Everyone at the lunch table: “Yes, please!”

I shared half of the delicious bento contents, receiving grateful thanks in return.

After eating, I pushed the desks back to their places. Taking advantage of the moment when no one was paying attention, I stuffed a couple more energy bars into my mouth before sitting back down.

Time to hydrate.

As I twisted open the water bottle cap, the girls who always gathered around my desk lowered their voices, glancing repeatedly toward the classroom door with barely contained excitement, whispering, “Hey, isn’t that Yamamoto from Class A?”

My hand froze mid-motion.

“Wow! It really is him…”

“He’s so tall, his head almost touches the door.”

“Didn’t he just finish competing? Why hasn’t he gone home?”

“Eh, he’s looking this way?! Oh no, is my hair messed up?!”

The girls chattered excitedly, their voices rising in bursts of restrained enthusiasm. I turned my head and sure enough, a tall black-haired boy was standing at the classroom door.

He had already changed into his school uniform.

A white shirt, black trousers, and an extra pair of black sports wristbands. The weather must have been hot for him today as well. This sports star had loosened the top button and worn his tie untied, displaying a carefree attitude as if daring the discipline committee to confront him.

I calmly finished drinking my water, the energy bars safely swallowed.

Yamamoto’s searching eyes roamed around.

Then, spotting me, they lit up suddenly.

That joyful expression brightened the slightly furrowed, worried look on his face. Just as my heart started pounding and my scalp tingled, scrambling to think how to handle this situation properly, Yamamoto looked away.

Leaning against the doorframe, he chatted briefly and cheerfully with the boys sitting in front of our class, then waved and left amid many eager stares.

I loosened my unconscious grip on the water bottle.

Around me, the excited chatter continued: “Wow, even closer up he’s more handsome,” “I should’ve gone over to talk to him earlier,” “When’s Class A’s next baseball game?” I heard someone calling me and smiled, responding to each.

…Sigh.

I feel like I’ve been sighing to myself more these past couple of days.

As the topic changed, I accepted my classmates’ encouragement, skillfully braided hair, and helped fellow volleyball players fix their hairstyles. Meanwhile, those recent scenes of collapse kept haunting me. The weight of frustration, shame, and regret sank deeper in my chest.

It’s a subtle, persistent torment.

Even though Yamamoto was far from easygoing, reliable, or understanding at that time, and even though getting emotionally shattered like that and crying helplessly while trying to figure him out was a terrible thing to do, he still only said a few simple words.

And yet, he continued to treat me kindly. Saying he was glad to meet me—who would be glad to meet someone like me after what happened?

He’s terrifying.

I need to find a chance to apologize properly.

I have to let him know that what I said wasn’t true… If he so easily saw through my true self, then what was all my hard work for? Just bad luck?

Yes, I should first apologize sincerely and explain everything clearly.

Then, pretend on the surface that this impulsive mistake never happened, though deep down, whenever I remember it, I’ll be so embarrassed I’ll never want to be human again in the next life.

Sigh…

I’ve kept this up for a long time, so why did I break down today and say everything I wanted to say?

Even the upcoming match feels like a place to hide from everything.

I’m such an idiot.

Always regretting, always trying to make up for things.

The only good thing in my life lately is that next month’s big doujinshi convention is not far away, where I’m eagerly looking forward to buying the “Guardian Sweetheart” Kongmeng doujinshi.

—

Hoshisa Futakuchi, second year of middle school.

Height: 169.5 cm, weight: 56 kg.

Favorite food: ramen; least favorite subject: English.

Current troubles:

1. Too tall, often attracting sideways glances;

2. Older brother tried to attend the parent-teacher meeting in place of my aunt;

3. Quit the girls’ volleyball club last year but somehow signed up for the volleyball match again this year during school activities. The executive committee happily submitted the list before I could object.

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And…

Carrying a small milk box in one hand, Hoshisa Futakuchi glanced over her shoulder. The spring breeze was gentle, but she stood frozen stiff like a popsicle in front of the vending machine.

Then, she let out an awkward, hesitant “Ah.”

4. Having to face the current volleyball team starters in the preliminaries would be bad enough, but of all times, running into them like this in private! This is death!

Although quitting the club was her own choice, there was always some guilt facing those who persisted in training.

Moreover—she swallowed hard, the feeling of having done something wrong grew even stronger—

That was Saiga.

Right from the start of school, Saiga was the strong anchor and the starting libero, but in truth, she was excellent at any position. She had once given the girls’ volleyball club a glimmer of hope. Not only that, she was one of the hardest workers on the team… an outstanding, optimistic, and diligent classmate from head to toe.

Saiga Yamato.

The very same Saiga who had helped me countless times during training.

Just remembering her generous assistance, thoughtful care, and perfectly timed encouragement, and realizing my own cowardice made me want to disappear underground and become roommates with the rumored time capsule buried beneath the school.

Damn it, I shouldn’t have sneaked out to buy milk before the match.

So regretful.

Futakuchi stood there frozen.

She had never been this dumbstruck before; her heart leapt to her throat. She saw Saiga’s gaze come to rest on her. The latter blinked, then casually approached the red vending machine, smiled at her, said something, and finally pressed the button for a sports drink.

Beep.

The bottle dropped with a clatter. Futakuchi suddenly snapped back to reality.

“…Sorry, what?” She felt ashamed realizing she hadn’t heard a word.

Saiga didn’t mind and chuckled twice.

“I was just saying, Futakuchi still loves this brand of milk.” She bent down to pick up the drink, lightly weighing it in her hand, her casual movement graceful. “Are you nervous about the match coming up?”

Futakuchi almost lost her tongue.

“N-not really,” she answered.

Oh god, what a dry answer.

Before she could criticize herself, Saiga cheerfully continued: “Me too. Standing on the court with you again, I feel more happy than nervous.”

Futakuchi was taken aback.

She was taller, so she had to slightly lower her head.

Saiga stood before her, holding the drink, looking up. Her smile always curved her eyes, her fluttering eyelashes reminded one of the dawn breaking over distant mountains.

Sometimes, Futakuchi thought, Saiga was literally born to be a libero: gifted with freedom, skilled at everything she did; if she didn’t know something, she worked hard to learn it quickly and never gave up halfway.

Quick-witted, strong, and stunningly beautiful.

At this very moment, even the sunlight seemed to favor her soft, chestnut shoulder-length hair. It poured a bright, honest glow, loving her jet-black eyes, fluffy lashes, healthy rosy lips, and fair, well-proportioned cheeks.

Her hair was naturally slightly wavy but always impeccably maintained.

The ends were braided into a thick plait, expertly tied tight enough to stay intact even after rolling around on the court. The braid still hinted at youthful charm.

Such a perfect person—she must be God’s final masterpiece.

Futakuchi thought: “If it were me, my tail would be wagging high in the air already, not able to stay so humble and considerate… especially since she has every reason to be proud. Life’s really unfair.”

Even a deserter like me was treated so fairly.

“Ah, um.” Another dry answer.

Futakuchi glanced at the vending machine, then at the deep blue sky, before slowly looking at her upcoming opponent. “I can’t say I’m not nervous, at least.”

“Yeah, everyone is to some extent,” Saiga said. “What position are you playing today?”

In her first year, Futakuchi was one of the top middle blockers in the volleyball club.

She awkwardly murmured:

“…Middle blocker.”

“What?”

“Mid…”

“Hm?” Saiga leaned in to listen.

Futakuchi immediately pursed her lips, leaned back a little, and said in a strained voice, “Mid-middle blocker!”

The chestnut-haired girl laughed, “Actually, I’ve already seen the roster.”

“…” What?!

Futakuchi felt her face shift and couldn’t help but retort, “Then why ask me, Saiga? Are you just fishing for a reaction?”

“Sorry, I wanted to see your expression…”

“You’re actually pretty mean.”

Saiga held her drink bottle and laughed heartily.

Summer was approaching.

The weather was so clear it was almost eerie.

Futakuchi felt hot and stuffy; a tight heat rolled out from the collar of her sports jacket, making her ears burn and giving her the odd sensation of soaking in a hot spring.

This warmth seemed to melt away her initial stiffness.

She held the milk box in one hand, the other touching the back of her neck. Dry and warm.

The laughter of youth floated through the sunny day, passing the reckless flutter of birds’ wings, carrying her briefly back to last summer’s gym.

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The wooden floor. Sweat dripping onto the boards, spreading wet patches; the clock and windows caged behind iron bars like a prison; calls of “ball,” the solid feel of the volleyball hitting her palms.

Ah, no.

Memories I really don’t want to recall.

Futakuchi bit back a smile but couldn’t hold it in, bending over and laughing softly.

The vending machine stood silently between them as the two blocked it with their giggles.

“Unbearable—” Futakuchi spoke first. She straightened up and shrugged, relaxed, “I didn’t expect that our first proper meeting would still be here.”

“This time we’re on opposite sides of the net,” Saiga said.

“Yeah.”

Definitely can’t win—just play casually.

Saiga said, “If you’re thinking ‘I’ll definitely lose,’ I’m going to tell your class president.”

Futakuchi choked, “Do you have mind-reading powers? And are you a kid? Tattling?”

Saiga sighed.

“It’s all written on your face.” She kindly pointed out. “We were teammates once; don’t underestimate me.”

“…”

So hard to fool!

Futakuchi’s cheeks flushed.

She couldn’t quite explain the tangled emotions inside her. Probably a mix of lingering shame, a touch of gratitude, a bit of helpless frustration, and relief that someone else brought up thoughts she couldn’t easily voice herself.

And a tiny bit of subtle sadness she was too embarrassed to admit.

Former teammates.

Once…

No, why think about that now? I chose to quit!

That day during break, Saiga came to Class A and asked her reason for quitting in a tactful way that wouldn’t cause awkwardness. Futakuchi even remembered her own tone then—casual, somewhat troubled, looking up at the sky outside the hallway, she said: “I joined because my brother plays volleyball, and I wanted to see what kind of sport made him so serious. But after trying it… I didn’t find it as fun as I imagined.”

That’s nothing.

Lots of people like volleyball, and lots don’t.

When moving from elementary to middle school, she argued with her brother in a fit of pique and applied to a school in Tokyo instead of Miyagi Prefecture. She lived with her aunt. After a few days of cold war, her brother slowly started messaging her again, asking how she was doing.

Those days… the days she quit training—her brother noticed she was still messaging during practice time and asked if she was too lazy to train.

Futakuchi said she quit.

Her brother picked a weekend to take her home.

“Why quit? Did you have a fight with teammates?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Not really a fight… just the atmosphere was so-so.” She took a spoonful of rice. “Mainly, it wasn’t fun, and playing felt just so-so.”

Her brother laughed at her lack of taste, and they had a small quarrel at the dinner table.

But even he respected her choice and said no more.

That’s normal.

Everyone knows that.

But…

“Though I want to talk more, let’s leave it here for now.” Saiga sipped her drink and screwed the cap back on. “Chatting with opponents before matches would worry our classmates. See you on the court, Futakuchi.”

Futakuchi snapped back: “See you on the court.”

“I’ll give it my all.”

“Oh.”

“If you come at me thinking ‘I’ll just mess around,’ I won’t go easy on you.”

“…Oh.”

Saiga’s eyes sparkled vividly in the sunlight. She stared intently until Futakuchi finally lowered her voice with determination: “Got it. I won’t lose to you easily, Saiga.”

The chestnut-haired girl smiled, “Good, I’ll be waiting!”

Saiga greeted her and left first.

Futakuchi stood there for five minutes.

Fortunately, Saiga didn’t ask why she signed up for volleyball this time.

What a relief.

She couldn’t have answered that question.

If forced, she’d lie and say she was just nominated.

That would ruin the fragile peace between them.

The sun warmed her neck and shoulders like a massage. Futakuchi stared at the milk box in her hand. After a while, she poked the straw in and took a sip. The sweetness, mixed with a slight coolness, flowed smoothly and lightly over her tongue.

“…But why.” She bit the straw, unsure whom she was speaking to, “Why am I actually hoping she’d ask me that question?”