Bang chan {volleyball ver}

The tension between {{user}} and Chan had never really made sense to anyone else.

They had known each other since their first year of high school. At first, they had actually gotten along. They were both competitive, both stubborn, and both the kind of people who hated admitting when they were wrong.

Then came the tournament.

During an important game, Chan had made a mistake that cost their team the win. {{user}} had been the only person who stayed behind afterward, trying to tell him that one mistake didn't define him.

Chan, embarrassed and angry with himself, had snapped.

"Stop acting like you know me."

{{user}} had walked away.

Neither of them ever apologized.

After that, everything became a competition.

Who could get the higher grade. Who could win at training. Who could ignore the other for longer. Every conversation became an argument, every glance a challenge.

And somehow, neither of them seemed capable of simply leaving it alone.

---

The volleyball court was loud that afternoon.

Shoes squeaked against the polished floor. The coach shouted instructions from the sidelines. The ball flew back and forth over the net as Chan's team fought through another practice match.

{{user}} sat several rows up in the bleachers.

They weren't there to watch Chan.

At least, that's what they told themselves.

Their friend Jiwoo was playing on the opposite side of the court, and {{user}} had promised they'd come watch. So that was exactly what they were doing.

Mostly.

Chan was on the other team.

And every few minutes, {{user}} caught him looking over.

The first time, {{user}} ignored it.

The second time, they frowned.

The third time, they finally looked back.

Chan immediately turned away.

{{user}}'s eyebrows pulled together.

What was that?

The game continued.

Chan dove for a ball, got back onto his feet, and glanced toward the bleachers again.

This time, {{user}} was already watching.

Their eyes met.

Neither moved.

For a moment, the noise of the gym seemed distant.

Chan's expression was unreadable. Not angry exactly. Not annoyed.

Just intensely focused.

Then someone on his team called his name.

Chan broke eye contact and turned back toward the court.

{{user}} leaned back against the bleacher.

"Okay," they muttered under their breath. "What is your problem?"

---

It happened again the next day.

And the day after that.

Chan would look.

{{user}} would notice.

They'd meet eyes.

One of them would look away.

Neither ever mentioned it.

Until Friday.

Practice had ended late, and most of the players had already left the locker room. {{user}} had gone inside to grab the jacket they'd accidentally left there earlier.

They stopped when they saw Chan.

Alone.

Chan was sitting on one of the benches, tying his shoes.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

For once, neither of them looked away.

{{user}} walked toward their locker.

"What?" Chan asked.

{{user}} paused.

"What?"

"You keep looking at me."

{{user}} let out a short laugh.

"You've got to be joking."

"I'm not."

"You're the one staring at me during every practice."

Chan stood.

"I wasn't staring."

"You absolutely were."

"So were you."

"I was watching Jiwoo."

Chan's jaw tightened.

"Right."

{{user}} turned toward him.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"No, say it."

Chan shook his head.

"This is exactly why I don't talk to you."

"Because you can't answer a simple question?"

"Because you always turn everything into a fight."

{{user}} stared at him.

"You've been picking fights with me for years."

Chan looked away.

The silence stretched.

Then {{user}} said quietly, "Ever since that tournament."

Chan's expression changed.

"Don't."

"You blamed me for trying to help you."

"I know."

"You told me I didn't know you."

"I know."

"And you've acted like you hate me ever since."

Chan finally looked at them.

"I don't hate you."

{{user}} went still.

The words seemed to surprise Chan as much as they surprised them.

Chan rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated.

"I don't know what my problem is, okay?"

{{user}} said nothing.

Chan continued, quieter now.

"Every time you're around, I feel like I have something to prove. And when I can't figure out what I'm supposed to be proving, I get angry."

"At me?"

"Mostly at myself."

That silenced {{user}}.

Chan looked toward the floor.

"I kept thinking you'd eventually stop looking at me. Stop noticing when I messed up. Stop caring."

{{user}}'s expression softened slightly.

"I did care."

"I know."

Another silence.

Then Chan gave a small, humorless laugh.

"And apparently I cared that you cared."

{{user}} didn't know what to say to that.

For years, they'd thought their tension came from resentment.

Maybe it had started there.

But somewhere along the way, something else had gotten tangled into it—pride, guilt, curiosity, and all the things neither of them had ever been willing to say out loud.

Chan picked up his bag.

He walked toward the door, then stopped.

Without turning around, he said, "I'm still not apologizing for the tournament."

{{user}} almost smiled.

"Good. Because I'm not apologizing either."

Chan glanced back.

For the first time in years, there wasn't anger in his expression.

Just the same strange, unresolved tension.

"See you Monday."

"Yeah."

Chan left.

{{user}} stood alone in the locker room for another few seconds.

Then they shook their head.

"Still impossible," they muttered.

But they were smiling.