Haru's POV
The clubroom smells like wet polyester and regret.
I find Aoi curled in the equipment closet, knees drawn to her chest, Mirai's old tournament jacket wrapped around her shoulders like a shroud. Rain lashes the windows in diagonal sheets, turning the tennis courts outside into a watercolor smear of greens and grays.
Her sketchbook lies open between us—a half-finished drawing of Mirai mid-serve, the pencil strokes so violent they've torn through the paper in places.
"Were you ever really my partner?" Her voice is raw, like she's been screaming. "Or just hers?"
The truth presses against my teeth:
I came for Mirai.
I stayed for you.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot the difference.
Instead, I say: "Does it matter?"
Aoi moves faster than she does on court. Her fist connects with my sternum—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to knock the air from my lungs.
"Liar!" The word shatters between us. "You looked at me and saw her! This whole time, you—"
Thunder drowns out the rest. The lights flicker. In the sudden darkness, I see it—the exact moment she breaks.
Aoi folds like a bad hand of cards, her fists clutching my shirtfront. The first sob wrenches out of her, violent and gasping. I catch her before she hits the floor.
We sink together onto the dusty mats, her tears soaking through my jersey. My arms tighten around her—one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressing between her shoulder blades where Mirai used to thump her after wins.
"I have to tell you something," I murmur into her damp hair.
She stiffens.
Flashback - August 15, 3:02 PM
The call came during lunch break at Osaka Sports Medical.
Mirai's voice was tinny through the hospital phone, but her laugh still punched me right in the ribs. "Haru! Guess who just got early acceptance to the national training camp?"
I spun a tennis ball on the reception desk. "Let me guess—your amazing partner?"
"Future partner," she corrected. There was a rustling sound, like she was turning pages. "Listen, I need a favor. There's this tournament in November—mixed doubles. I want you to meet Aoi before then."
The ball toppled from my fingers. "You're seriously still on about this trio thing?"
A pause. When she spoke again, her voice had that quiet intensity that meant business. "I need to know you'll look out for her. No matter what."
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. When's your next match? I'll—"
"Promise me, Haru."
Something in her tone made my stomach drop. "Mirai?"
Her exhale shuddered through the receiver. "Just... promise."
Present Day
Aoi pulls back just enough to see my face. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her breath coming in hiccuping gasps.
"Mirai called me that afternoon," I say. The words taste like rust. "Made me swear I'd..."
I can't finish.
Aoi's fingers dig into my arms. "What?"
The storm outside reaches a crescendo. Rain drums the roof like thousands of tiny serves.
"She knew," I whisper.
Aoi goes perfectly still.
"That something was wrong. With her heart." The admission hangs between us, poisonous and inevitable. "The doctors told her after Osaka. She didn't want anyone to know—especially not you."
Aoi's grip slackens. I watch the realization dawn—the missed practices, the sudden fatigue, the way Mirai had started letting her win their final matches.
"You knew," she breathes. "All this time, you knew."
The clubroom door bangs open.
Coach Kubo stands silhouetted in the doorway, water dripping from his cap. "Well?" he says, like he's been listening the whole time. "You gonna honor that promise or what?"
Lightning flashes. In the sudden glare, I see Aoi's face—not angry, not betrayed.
Relieved.
Because finally, after four years of silence, someone else remembers Mirai wasn't perfect.