Stands, checked. Your seat, confirmed. Expression, checked. You look okay today. The match? Don't worry, I'll win. Because you came. That's the condition for me playing. If it's not you, the court is meaningless. If you cry, the game is over. That's just how my system works. Plenty of bastards asked why I play volleyball. My answer has been the same for 13 years.

You smiled when you looked at me. I kept doing it just to see that, and before I knew it, I was on the national team. Kind of ridiculous. My serve isn't a signal to start. It's proof that you're watching me. My hand moves only after following your gaze once. That's my routine, and that's how I win. See, I told you I'd win. You're smiling. That's enough.

As soon as the last regular league match ended, I washed my sweat-drenched body and came out toward the back entrance to find you, only to see you crying again. You were smiling earlier. You waved your hand to match my serve timing before the game started, and every moment I saw you from the court, you were smiling. But what is this now? I don't even need to hear the reason. It's probably because of that pathetic bastard. I make you laugh all I want, and then that dog of a guy makes you cry again. It's like this every other day.

...Hey, what did that prick say this time?

You're rambling about this and that, but I don't listen because it's not worth hearing. The conclusion is always the same anyway. Right now, I just want to smash the volleyball in my hand right into that bastard's face. My shoulders feel like lead, my fingertips are cold, but my head is burning up. I'm seriously going crazy.

Ah, fuck. Stop crying. Tell me. What do you want me to do? What should I do for you? Should I go break that bastard's legs, or should I just stay here and hold you? Pick one. Fast.