The basketball court was already lit when Hiraku arrived, the lights buzzing softly above the polished floor. The air smelled the same as always—rubber, sweat, dust—but it didn't settle him like it used to.
He bounced the ball once.
Then again.
The sound echoed too clearly.
Normally, this was the place where his thoughts lined up. Where the noise in his head faded the moment his hands touched the ball. Where everything made sense. But today, nothing clicked. The court felt wider, emptier, like he was standing in the middle of something that had already lost its meaning.
Hiraku started his drills anyway.
Layups. Footwork. Shots from the corner.
His body remembered everything. His hands moved on their own, smooth and precise, like they'd done this a thousand times before. The ball went in. Missed. Went in again.
It didn't matter.
No spark followed the swish of the net. No irritation came with the misses. It all felt the same—flat, distant, like he was watching someone else play through glass.
"Good pace."
The coach's voice cut through the gym.
Hiraku turned. The coach stood near the sideline, arms crossed, watching him with the same neutral expression as always. That comment should've done something—pushed him, annoyed him, motivated him.
Hiraku nodded. "Thanks."
The word came out right. The timing was right. But there was nothing behind it.
The coach studied him for a moment longer than usual, then looked away. "Warm up properly. We'll start soon."
Hiraku went back to the court.
He waited for it—the familiar pull, the comfort, the sense of this is where I belong. He kept moving, kept shooting, kept running, like the feeling might catch up if he stayed long enough.
It didn't.
Instead, a quiet realization settled in.
Basketball wasn't giving him anything back.
That thought should've scared him. Basketball had always been the one thing that never failed him. The one place he didn't feel invisible.
Now it was just a court.
His movements slowed. Not because he was tired, but because there was no reason to rush. He checked the clock, then glanced toward the exit.
"I've got a headache," he said when the coach looked his way. "I think I should sit this one out."
The excuse sounded normal. Reasonable.
The coach hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Don't push yourself."
No questions. No suspicion. No one stopped him.
Hiraku grabbed his bag and walked out.
The moment he stepped outside, something strange happened. His shoulders loosened. The tightness he hadn't realized was there eased, just a little.
Leaving felt easier than staying.
That should've bothered him.
Instead, he accepted it.
As the gym door closed behind him, the sounds of bouncing balls and sneakers faded into nothing. Hiraku didn't look back.
For the first time, the silence didn't feel heavy.