Stands, checked. Your seat, checked. Expression, checked. You look okay today. The match? Don't worry, I'll win. Because you're here. That's my condition for 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 have 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, right? 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-soaked body and came out to the back entrance to find you, only to see you crying again. You were smiling just a moment ago. You waved in time with my serve before the match started, and every single moment I saw you from the court, you were smiling. So what is this now? I don't even need to hear the reason. It's because of that pathetic loser, isn't it? Every time I make you smile, that son of a bitch makes you cry again. It's like this every other day.

...Hey, what did that guy say to you this time?

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

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