Emotional weather: 30% snark, 70% unknown turbulence.
Ayumi was sprawled across the floor in the middle of her room, one sock missing, hair undone, and an unopened granola bar resting gently against her cheek like a gift from the Snack Gods.
Her phone buzzed once beside her.
She didn't pick it up.
She'd already unloaded the chaos onto Emi and Mina. That was her usual strategy: text like a hurricane, make people laugh, then vanish before anyone could ask what she actually felt.
That part was harder.
The room was quiet now. Still.
Too still.
She stared at the ceiling fan. It was off. She didn't even remember turning it off. She was usually better at leaving things spinning.
Just like herself.
Her eyes drifted to her tennis bag in the corner. It looked vaguely judgmental.
"Don't you start," she muttered aloud, then sighed and flopped onto her back.
Kenji's face flashed in her mind—tight-lipped, shoulders squared like a math problem trying not to unfold.
He was… weird.
Not in a bad way. Not even in a way she could tease easily. He was weird because he didn't play the game—hers or anyone else's. Most people responded to her, even when they didn't want to. Kenji just… absorbed her like a sponge absorbs noise.
Or maybe a rock. A very judgmental, quietly brilliant rock with emotionally repressed eyebrows.
Why did he get under her skin?
She barely knew him. Three conversations, two practices, one argument about "twirling etiquette."
And yet here she was—replaying moments like they meant something.
Like the way he'd stared at the court after missing that one return, not frustrated, just… focused. Like he'd catalogued the mistake, folded it up neatly, and filed it away in his mental locker room to review later.
Ayumi didn't have a locker room in her brain. Hers was more like a bounce house filled with music and bad ideas.
And maybe that was why Kenji unnerved her.
He didn't try to be liked. He didn't try to win people. He just showed up, did his thing, and left with exactly the same number of feelings he arrived with: approximately zero.
She hated that.
She respected that.
She maybe, a little, wanted to break that.
She blinked at the ceiling.
Then closed her eyes and whispered to herself, just loud enough for the granola bar to hear:
"…If I make him laugh even once, I win. That's it. Game over. Emotional gold medal. Ayumi out."
She reached for her phone again, thumb hovering over the screen.
Paused.
Then set it down.
No more texts tonight.
Tomorrow, she had doubles practice.
And for once, it wasn't just about goofing off or messing around.
It was about seeing if she could reach someone who'd clearly built his whole life to avoid being reached.
Ayumi smiled faintly.
Challenge accepted.