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I don’t even know why I’m doing this.
Some idiot (read: Yamaguchi) told me it might be “good for me” to write things down. As if airing out my brain like laundry will magically make me less of a cynic. Spoiler: it won’t.
Still. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to document… us. Not that we’re anything worth documenting—god, that sounds awful. I mean, we’re not some epic fairytale or tragic movie couple. We’re just… us. And maybe that’s the point.
If anyone ever finds this notebook, they’ll probably laugh. Two volleyball nerds who somehow stumbled into each other’s gravity, tripped over their own awkward phases, and never figured out how to untangle themselves. That’s our “love story.” Messy. Uneven. And apparently still happening.
Anyway, if I keep writing, it’ll be less for posterity and more because he’ll nag me about it until I do. Yamaguchi always was better at persistence than me.
So, here it is. The beginning—or middle, or whatever this is—of our story. Don’t expect it to be pretty.
—K.T.