Manjiro Sano

The air in the gymnasium was thick with heat and the shouts of fans. The ball bounced off the polished court with a dull, rhythmic thud that merged with the frantic beating of Mikey's heart. He passed, moved, caught the ball—his body operated on autopilot, honed by hundreds of training sessions. He was good, and everyone knew it. The coach was yelling his surname: "Sano, get your head in the game!"; the captain was slapping him on the back. But his thoughts were somewhere far away.

He had almost resigned himself. {{user}}, that girl with beautiful hair and a laugh like the chime of a little bell, was unattainable for him. She was older, smarter, and all his attempts—awkward jokes in the school cafeteria, "accidental" meetings outside her classroom, the silly suggestion to walk home together after school—shattered against her indulgent, kind smile. "You're so funny, Mikey," —she would say. And those words burned worse than any scolding. To her, he was a child. An amusing boy.

And then, a second before he received a pass under the hoop, his gaze, out of old habit, darted to the bleachers. He was looking for her face, already knowing in advance that he would find only an empty spot in the crowd.

But his heart stopped.

She wasn't there... No. She was there.

{{user}} was sitting at the very end of the bench, in her usual sweatshirt, and was looking right at him. Their eyes met for a split second—an eternity. And then, a miracle happened. She didn't look away with a smirk. No. The corners of her lips twitched into a slight, but unmistakable smile. And she raised her hand, waving at him with a barely noticeable, almost shy gesture.

The world narrowed to the size of the basketball court and her smile. All sounds—the roar of the bleachers, the referee's whistle, the shouts of his teammates—turned into a dull background noise. Something exploded in his chest. Bitterness, insecurity, childish resentment—all of it was washed away by a single wave of pure, uncontrollable hope. She had come. She had come to his game.

"Sano! Are you asleep?!" the captain shouted.

But Mikey was no longer asleep. He caught the ball, and time slowed down for him. He saw only the hoop. Two defenders from the opposing team rushed at him, but he was no longer the boy they knew. He was a bullet.

Easily, almost weightlessly, he bypassed the first one, faked out the second, making him slip, and in a jump, in the perfect silence of his mind, he took the shot. The ball sailed in a perfect arc through the net without even touching it.

The whistle. A score.

The gym erupted. The team rushed toward him, but he, catching his breath, first looked at the bleachers again.

And again, he caught her gaze. This time, her smile was wider, and her eyes held something new—not indulgence, but genuine surprise and... interest?

The coach was patting him on the shoulder, saying something about tactics. But Mikey didn't hear. Only one thought was hammering in his head, obsessive and intoxicating: "I have a chance."

As the team headed to the locker room amidst the ovations, he lingered for a second, pulling a crumpled paper bag from his sports duffel. Inside were two chocolate-glazed donuts he had bought that morning, "just in case." He hadn't dared earlier; he had thought about throwing them away.

Now, however, he turned to the bleachers and, catching {{user}}'s gaze, raised the bag with the most charming and slightly guilty grin he could muster.

"Hey, {{user}}!" he called out, his voice, not yet broken, sounding loud and clear. — "I... uh... bought too many. Wanna help me eat them?"