Chapter Text
Seido failed to reach Koshien.
We lost to our eternal rivals, Inashiro Industrial.
Just like that, our summer ended.
For the third-years, it was the end of everything we’d worked for — all the sweat, the exhaustion, the late nights, gone in a single game.
The bus ride back was silent. The kind of silence that pressed on your chest until it hurt. Every so often, someone would sniffle, trying to hold it in. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the city lights blur past. I didn’t have the heart to say anything.
When we arrived at school, Coach Kataoka finally spoke.
“Alright, I want all of you to clean yourselves up, then head to the cafeteria for dinner. After that, don’t forget to rest. Dismissed!”
“Yes, Coach.”
Even our voices sounded lifeless. No spark, no fire — just exhaustion.
The cafeteria was just as quiet as the bus. Normally, it’d be filled with laughter and the clatter of trays, but that night it felt… hollow.
My eyes wandered, and they stopped on Sawamura. He was sitting beside Haruichi, his bowl of rice untouched, staring into nothing. That idiot usually never stopped talking — about baseball, pitching, or whatever else popped into his head — but now he looked completely empty.
I could tell what was running through his mind without even asking. He was blaming himself. For that pitch. That one damned dead ball that broke our rhythm.
I clenched my fist under the table.
It wasn’t his fault. I wanted to say it — to tell him that no game is lost by one person alone. But when I opened my mouth, no words came out. Maybe because part of me felt the same. Maybe because I was supposed to be his catcher — his partner — and I didn’t stop it from happening.
So I stayed silent. Just like him.
They called it the Yips.
At first, I didn’t want to believe it. But when Sawamura started flinching every time he tried to throw inside, when his release hesitated — I knew. Something inside him had broken.
“Starting today,” Coach Kataoka said, his tone cold but steady, “you’ll train separately from the others, Sawamura. You’re prohibited from throwing or even touching the ball. I’ll give you a different training menu.”
Sawamura froze. I could see his jaw tighten, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
“Yes, Coach,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
All he did after that was run laps around the field. Over and over, day after day. Sometimes, during breaks, I’d catch him standing still, watching us practice with that same empty stare.
The field didn’t feel the same anymore. Without the third-years, the air was quieter — too quiet. No Isashiki-senpai yelling at the underclassmen. No Yuuki-senpai’s voice leading the drills. Just the sound of cleats on dirt and the occasional thud of a glove.
I missed it. I missed them.
And every time I looked at Sawamura — his back drenched in sweat, his steps heavy, yet refusing to stop — that familiar guilt crept back in.
If I had handled things better as his catcher… if I had been more of a leader… maybe he wouldn’t have broken like this.
But I wasn’t good at showing things like that. Never was.
So I did what I always did — hid behind a smirk and pretended I was fine.
Even if deep down, I wasn’t.
Sawamura still hadn’t shown any signs of improvement.
The fiery spark that used to burn in his eyes — the one that could ignite the whole team — was gone. Now, his gaze was dull, empty. It was as if he’d become a completely different person.
Those eyes... they reminded me of someone.
Chris-senpai.
Yeah… maybe I could ask for his help. If there’s anyone who could pull Sawamura back up, it’s him. I know I can’t support him the way Chris-senpai once did.
A soft breeze swept across the rooftop, bringing a rare moment of calm. I leaned against the railing, letting the wind clear my head — even if just for a second.
Since becoming captain, cleanup hitter, and the team’s main catcher, the weight on my shoulders had only grown heavier. Responsibility wasn’t something I could just shrug off.
Can someone like me really lead this team the way Yuuki-senpai did?
“Miyuki, is there something I can help you with?”
That familiar, calm voice broke my thoughts. I turned around to see him — Chris-senpai, the senior I respected most.
“Chris-senpai, you’re here. Sorry for bothering you during study time.”
“It’s fine, Miyuki,” he said with his usual gentle smile. “So, what’s going on?”
I hesitated for a moment, then exhaled.
“I wanted to ask for your help, senpai. Sawamura… he’s got the Yips. During bullpen practice, he couldn’t throw inside at all. Coach has given him a separate training menu and banned him from pitching for now. I… I don’t know what to do for him.”
The words came out rough, like I was forcing them past the lump in my throat.
Why was it so damn hard for me to express what I really felt?
Chris-senpai nodded thoughtfully. “I might be able to help him. But, Miyuki—what Sawamura needs most right now isn’t just technical guidance. He needs you.”
“Me?” I echoed, a bit taken aback.
“You’re his catcher, his partner,” he continued. “I’ll do what I can for him, but my advice is this — talk to him, one on one. Encourage him. He trusts you more than you think.”
His words hit me harder than I expected.
Was I… failing him all this time?
Had I really been standing by silently, pretending everything was fine, while he was crumbling right in front of me?
If I can’t even reach out to my own pitcher when he’s struggling—
do I even deserve to call myself his partner?
“Senpai, maybe you’ve misunderstood something,” I said carefully. “The one he’s always admired… is you. He’s followed you around ever since the first time you helped him. Honestly, sometimes I think Sawamura might even like you—with the way his eyes light up whenever he looks at you.”
Chris-senpai chuckled softly, his expression calm but kind.
“I understand what you’re trying to say, Miyuki. But it’s not like that. What Sawamura and I have—it’s more like a brotherhood. He looks up to me, sure, but what he’s really been seeking all this time… is your recognition. Your attention.”
His words hit harder than I expected.
For a second, I couldn’t even find a response. My mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
He continued, his tone steady but warm. “Alright, I’ll try working with him later—maybe start by teaching him to throw to the outer zone. But Miyuki, don’t forget what I told you. Sawamura needs your support more than anything right now. I know your new responsibilities are weighing on you, but if you can… take a little time for him.”
I took a deep breath, nodding. “Alright, Senpai. I’ll do that.”
“Good.” He smiled, that familiar reassuring smile that always made people feel lighter. “Then, I’ll head back to class for now. See you later, Miyuki.”
“Thank you, Chris-senpai.”
He only nodded and gave me that soft, knowing smile before turning around. His footsteps faded as he left the rooftop, leaving me alone with the quiet rustle of the wind.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where he’d been.
Your recognition… your attention.
It was easy to say I’d talk to Sawamura one-on-one.
Actually finding the time to do it… that was another story.
Being captain kept me busier than I’d expected — meetings, team schedules, checking on first-years, strategy sessions with the coaches. By the time I looked up, the day was already gone. And every time I did try to look for him, it was like he had vanished.
The once loud, energetic voice that used to echo through the halls — shouting about baseball, about pitching, about everything — was gone.
The silence he left behind made it strangely hard to find him at all.
Late that night, I passed by the bullpen.
Two silhouettes caught my eye — standing close together under the dim light.
Curious, I moved quietly, careful not to be seen. When I got close enough to see their faces, my chest tightened.
Chris-senpai… and Sawamura.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I didn’t need to.
Chris-senpai gently patted Sawamura’s hair, and in that moment, the kid smiled — that same bright, unguarded smile I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.
Ah… so he can still smile like that.
It had been too long since the last time I saw that expression.
For a moment, I just stood there, watching them.
Then, quietly, a thought slipped into my mind — one I didn’t want to acknowledge.
Does he even need me anymore?
With Chris-senpai by his side, maybe Sawamura didn’t need his catcher… not the one who couldn’t help him when it mattered.
I turned around and walked away before they could notice me, a faint ache spreading in my chest.
It was strange.
Was it because I was tired…?
With Chris-senpai around, I had to admit — Sawamura was getting better.
He wasn’t as gloomy as before. The emptiness in his eyes was gone, replaced by that familiar golden spark I thought I’d lost for good.
Seeing that light again — the one that always burned too brightly for its own good — made something in my chest unclench.
I just hoped it would last long enough for him to come back to us.
…Or maybe it was too soon to hope for that.
That afternoon during practice, I caught sight of Coach Ochiai talking to him from a distance. I couldn’t hear their words, but I didn’t like the look on Sawamura’s face — the way his shoulders tensed, how he tried so hard to keep it together.
A few moments later, Coach Ochiai walked off, leaving him alone on the field.
Sawamura stood there for a while, his head low, fists clenched.
Then, before I could even process what I was seeing, he suddenly shifted his stance—
and threw sidearm.
“What the hell is that idiot doing?!”
I was on my feet before I realized it, my pulse spiking. Of all the reckless things to try right now…
“What the hell are you doing, Sawamura?!”
My voice came out sharper than I intended as I rushed toward him. He froze mid-motion, eyes wide, as if he’d just been caught doing something forbidden. The ball slipped from his fingers and rolled across the dirt.
“M-Miyuki-senpai…”
“Don’t ‘senpai’ me. What was that just now? You trying to destroy your arm or something?” I barked, glaring at him.
He bit his lip, avoiding my eyes. “It’s not like that. Coach Ochiai told me… if I want to be useful to the team, I can try pitching sidearm to help the batters during practice.”
“What?” I snapped, disbelieving. “And you just agreed to that?”
He flinched at my tone but stood his ground. “I just— I want to be helpful! I’m not doing anything for the team right now. I can’t throw inside, I can’t pitch in games… what else am I supposed to do, Miyuki? Just stand there and do nothing?”
“That’s not the point!” I shot back, stepping closer. “Do you even understand what could happen if you mess with your throwing form right now? You’re already in a fragile state. One wrong move and you could—”
“—Get hurt?” he cut me off, his voice trembling. “You think I don’t know that?! You think I haven’t thought about it every single day since that damned game?!”
He was shaking now — from anger, frustration, maybe both.
His fists clenched so tightly I thought he’d draw blood.
“I’m trying, Miyuki! I’m trying to do something, anything, instead of just running in circles while everyone else moves forward! But all you ever do is yell at me like I’m some kind of idiot who ruins everything!”
“That’s not what I—” I started, but he didn’t let me finish.
“You always say it’s not what you mean, but it feels like it!” His voice cracked, raw and desperate. “If I’m such a burden, then just say it, Miyuki! Say you don’t need me!”
The words hit like a fastball straight to the gut. I stood there, frozen, my mouth half-open — but nothing came out.
He waited for a second, searching my face for an answer that never came. And when he didn’t find it, his expression hardened.
“…I knew it,” he whispered, voice barely audible.
Then he turned around and ran — past the bullpen, past the dugout, his footsteps fading into the cool evening air.
“Damn it, Sawamura!” I shouted after him, but he didn’t look back.
Kuramochi grabbed my shoulder. "Stop, man. Let him be for now. You're too hard on him. We all know the new coach is really annoying."
"I know, but can you imagine? He could seriously injure Sawamura and end his baseball career!"
"I know, Miyuki. We'll talk to him when we've all calmed down."
"Alright. I'll try to relax first."
What happened earlier still haunts me, keeping me awake. Regret overwhelms me. I think I was too harsh on Sawamura. My worry about him getting injured caused me to take it out on him. Maybe I should let him be for a while before I meet him and apologize. I feel like I need a midnight walk to calm down. I stroll around the field. Tonight feels quiet. The sky is dark, with no moon or stars shining. That suffocating feeling creeps back, reminding me of when I caught Sawamura with Chris senpai.
My steps lead me to the old equipment shed behind the field. The shed, which is usually tightly shut, is slightly open. Wow, why does this feel like I'm in a horror movie? Though scared, I decide to brave a look inside.
The stadium lights help me see the inside of the old shed. What I see shocks me immediately — someone is lying there motionless. Is this a crime victim? I rush closer and recognize that brown hair! It’s Sawamura! Even worse, I smell iron—blood—coming from a deep-looking wide cut on both of his wrists.
"Sawamura, are you listening? Hey, open your eyes!" I cradle Sawamura and try to press his wrists to stop the bleeding.
When that doesn't work, I tear my shirt to bandage his wounds. His face is very pale. He just lies there silently, so different from his usual lively, spirited self. Damn it, I forgot my phone. Reluctantly, I have to leave Sawamura to get help.
I rush to the coaches’ room and bang loudly on the door.
"What’s wrong, Miyuki? You're making a ruckus like—"
Before he can finish, I cut him off. "Coach, this is an emergency! Please call an ambulance immediately. I found Sawamura, and there’s a lot of blood." Coach Kataoka finally notices the bloodstains on my clothes.
“Come on—show me where Sawamura is!”
“Yes, Coach!”
I led Coach Kataoka toward the old storage shed, running as fast as I could. My footsteps echoed through the quiet night, loud enough to wake the nearby dorms. Before long, several students—faces pale with confusion—poked their heads out and began following us.
Kuramochi caught up with me, panting hard. “Hey! What’s going on, Miyuki? Did you see Sawamura? I’ve been looking everywhere for him but—he’s nowhere!”
“Quiet, Kuramochi,” I said sharply. “Just come with us.”
We reached the shed. I stopped in front of the door, my chest burning from the run. “Sawamura’s inside, Coach. I tried to stop the bleeding, but… there was so much blood.”
Kuramochi’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean, Miyuki?! Don’t joke about something like—”
“That’s enough, Kuramochi,” Coach Kataoka cut him off, his voice tight but steady. “I’ve already called for an ambulance. Help guide them here when they arrive.”
Kuramochi froze for a moment, then nodded. “Y-yes, Coach.”
Coach and I stepped into the shed together. The faint smell of dust and metal filled the air. When his eyes landed on Sawamura’s still form, I saw a rare flicker of shock cross his face—especially since he wasn’t wearing his usual dark glasses tonight.
He knelt beside Sawamura immediately, checking his pulse and breathing.
“Thank God,” he murmured. “He still has a pulse. Good work, Miyuki.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My knees gave way, and I sank to the floor beside them.
“I know this must be a shock to you,” Coach said quietly, not looking up. “But the team still needs you, Miyuki.”
His voice echoed in my head, but everything else—the sounds, the lights, even the air—blurred into a dull haze.
I couldn’t remember how the ambulance arrived, or when they took Sawamura away. I didn’t know how I ended up back in my dorm, wearing clean clothes.
All I knew was the image that wouldn’t leave me—the sight of him lying there, pale and silent.
And the sickening thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d been too late.
I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same image: Sawamura lying there, pale and still, his blood soaking into the dusty wooden floor. No matter how hard I tried to push it away, the image kept replaying in my mind — over and over, like a cruel joke I couldn’t escape from.
When the morning sunlight finally crept through the blinds, it didn’t bring relief. It just made everything feel more real. The air in my room was heavy, suffocating. My clean uniform was neatly folded on the chair, as if nothing had happened. But the faint red stains still clung to my hands, no matter how many times I washed them.
I had to face the team.
No matter how much I wanted to disappear, I couldn’t avoid them forever.
The cafeteria was unusually quiet when I walked in. Normally, the morning buzz of voices and laughter filled the room — Kuramochi teasing Furuya, Kanemaru arguing about food portions, the usual chaos that made Seidou feel alive.
But today, silence.
Every pair of eyes turned to me the moment I stepped through the door.
“Miyuki-senpai…” Haruichi’s voice was soft, trembling. “Is it true? What happened to Eijun-kun last night?”
I froze.
Their faces were full of worry, confusion, fear. Some of them probably hadn’t slept either.
I opened my mouth to answer — but no sound came out.
What could I even say? That I found him bleeding to death in a shed while I stood there uselessly, trying to stop the bleeding with my bare hands? That I was the one who pushed him too far?
I clenched my fists. “...He’s alive,” I finally managed. My voice cracked despite how hard I tried to sound composed. “He’s at the hospital now. That’s all I know.”
There was a collective sigh, but the tension in the air didn’t disappear. It only deepened.
Coach Kataoka had apparently told the staff to keep quiet about the details — but rumors travel fast.
And everyone could tell by looking at me that something terrible had happened.
Kuramochi was the only one who didn’t say anything. He just watched me with that unreadable look — not angry, not sad, but… heavy. When the others slowly went back to their food, he stood up and jerked his chin toward the door.
“Miyuki. Outside. Now.”
We walked out of the cafeteria and into the quiet corridor behind it. The sound of the vending machine humming was the only thing between us.
Kuramochi shoved his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”
I didn’t answer.
He sighed, and then pulled something from his bag. A small, worn-out notebook — the cover slightly torn, the edges smudged. My stomach dropped the moment I saw it.
“Where did you get that?” I asked quietly.
“I found it in his bed,” he said, his tone serious.
He hesitated, then added, “I read it.”
I felt a flash of irritation. “You what—”
“Don’t start with me, Miyuki,” he snapped. “I didn’t read it out of curiosity. I had to. You’ll understand when you see it.”
He handed the diary to me. My fingers trembled slightly as I opened the first page.
Sawamura’s handwriting — messy, uneven, but so him.
And the words…
Sometimes I hear them whispering when they think I can’t. They ask why I’m still in the first-string team when I can’t even throw properly anymore. Maybe they’re right.
Maybe I don’t deserve this spot.
My heart pounded painfully in my chest. I flipped to the next page.
I try not to listen, but their words stay in my head even during practice. I know Miyuki-senpai deserves a better pitcher — someone who doesn’t mess up, someone who doesn’t cause trouble.
He’s the reason I came to Seidou. He’s the reason I tried so hard. But if even he starts to believe that I’m not worth it… then what’s left for me?
The next words blurred as I read them.
If I’m gone, maybe things will be easier for everyone. For the team… for Miyuki-senpai.
I don’t want to be a burden anymore.
The notebook slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a soft thud.
Kuramochi bent down and picked it up carefully, his voice low.
“He’s been writing like that for weeks, Miyuki. Every page gets darker. We never noticed.”
I pressed my hand to my forehead, trying to steady myself. “I should have noticed. I was his captain. His catcher. I was supposed to be the one who understood him.”
Kuramochi sighed, frustration and sorrow in his tone. “You’re not a mind reader. You cared — but maybe not in the way he needed.”
His words cut deep.
And the worst part was, he was right.
I clenched my fists. “He… he thought he didn’t deserve to stand beside me. That’s insane. He was the one who kept me going. He’s the one who made catching fun again.”
Kuramochi placed a hand on my shoulder. “Then you need to tell him that. When he wakes up, you have to.”
I nodded slowly, but my throat felt too tight to speak.
As I stared down at the diary, the last lines of his writing echoed in my head like a haunting whisper —
He’s the reason I came to Seidou.