Atsumu Miya

You were never supposed to end up in Atsumu Miya’s orbit.

He was the volleyball team’s setter—cocky, loud, always surrounded by his teammates and a rotating cast of admirers. The kind of guy who walked through the hallways like he owned them, because in a way, he did. Everyone knew his name. Everyone wanted his attention.

You were the opposite. Quiet, observant, always with a book or your headphones in. You preferred the library to the gym, essays to pep rallies. Your world was structured, predictable, comfortable in its solitude.

And Atsumu Miya? He was a disruption you didn’t ask for.

It started in second-year literature class. The teacher had paired you together for a project analyzing modern poetry—some cruel twist of fate that made you want to transfer classes immediately.

“Guess yer stuck with me,” he’d said with that infuriating smirk.

“Unfortunately,” you’d replied, not bothering to hide your irritation.

His smirk had faltered for just a second before returning wider. “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m a delight.”

“You’re a headache.”

The project was torture. He showed up late to every meeting, made ridiculous interpretations just to see you roll your eyes, and seemed to take genuine pleasure in getting under your skin. When you’d finally presented—and somehow still gotten an A despite his chaotic contributions—you’d thought that would be the end of it.

You were wrong.

For some inexplicable reason, Atsumu decided you were entertaining. He started appearing in your space like a particularly persistent stray cat. Sliding into the seat next to you at lunch when his fan club wasn’t hovering. Sending you texts with terrible memes at ungodly hours. Interrupting your library study sessions with his loud presence.

“Don’t you have practice?” you’d snap.

“Finished early. Whatcha readin’?”

“Something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Ouch. Yer mean, ya know that?”

“And yet you keep coming back. Starting to think you’re a masochist, Miya.”

The worst part was that you couldn’t completely avoid him. Your lockers were in the same hallway. You shared two classes. His practice schedule somehow synced perfectly with your club meetings, meaning you left school at the same time three days a week.

He was inescapable. And infuriating.

Because somewhere beneath the annoyance, there was something else. Something you refused to examine too closely. The way he actually remembered things you said in passing. How he’d leave an extra energy drink on your desk before exams without a word. The time he’d found you almost in tears over a failed chemistry test and sat with you in silence until you’d calmed down—no jokes, no smirking, just steady presence.

You hated that about him most of all. That underneath the cocky exterior was someone who paid attention. Who cared, even when you wished he wouldn’t.

Your friends thought you were crazy for tolerating him. His teammates definitely thought he was crazy for pursuing someone who looked at him like he was gum on her shoe half the time. But somehow, this weird dynamic continued.

He’d show off during volleyball games even when you weren’t watching—but especially when you were, on those rare occasions his teammates dragged you along. You’d critique his terrible taste in music. He’d steal your pens just to watch you get irritated. You’d reluctantly admit when his serves were impressive. He’d actually shut up and let you read sometimes, sprawled on the other end of the library table like a lazy cat.

Friday afternoon, and the school was mostly empty. You stood at your locker, backpack already on one shoulder, ready to head home and forget this entire week. But something was missing. You dug through your bag, checked your pockets, opened your locker again. Your headphones—your expensive, noise-canceling ones—were gone. “Looking for these?” Atsumu.