Oikawa Tooru
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You’ve never liked crowded places—not because you hate noise, but because you never know where to stand. Between laughter and careless conversations, you always feel slightly out of rhythm, like someone lingering just outside the center: close enough to see everything, yet never close enough to belong.
You arrive at Aoba Johsai’s gym near the end of practice, a camera hanging from your neck. The club needs photos. Nothing special.
The gym smells of rubber flooring and sweat. Ceiling lights glow a muted yellow, softening the court like an old film washed pale by time. Outside the windows, a few girls still linger, voices calling names, giggles slipping into the air.
You don’t pay much attention.
Not until you see Oikawa Tōru.
He stands in the middle of the court as though it’s the only place he has ever belonged. His shirt clings with sweat, hair slightly messy—yet still neat, as if he’s careful even when exhausted. He laughs with his teammates, tossing the ball up and catching it again, movements smooth and practiced.
Oikawa is like light. Not the kind that blinds, but the kind that pulls your eyes no matter how hard you try to look away.
And yet you don’t intend to photograph him. You’ve seen too many perfect shots already—mid-jump, flawless angles, smiles polished into something unreal.
But then he turns away.
He walks to the far end of the court, lowering his head as if to breathe again. He wipes sweat from his face, collar slightly out of place, and the overhead light spills across his shoulder in a thin line of gold, making him look strangely distant.
No one notices. Everyone is still staring at his smile.
Only you see the silence behind it.
Your hands lift the camera without thinking.
Click.
Oikawa stops. Slowly, he turns his head. You don’t lower the camera in time, and his eyes find you too quickly—as if he can feel he’s been caught in a moment he never prepared for.
He walks over, footsteps quiet but certain.