"You have to get out of here," he says, harsh enough that I trip backwards a bit. It's not what I expected.
"But-" I start, trying to put feelings into words even though I know I won't be able to string together how I feel when I have trouble multiplying double digits.
"But nothing, Bakagami!" he shouts back. We both cringe, waiting to see if anyone's heard us, but in the dark we can barely tell the difference between each other and the shadows.
"Look." He softens his voice, maybe because he senses that I'm hurt, but more likely because he's afraid his stupid girlfriend will catch on if he yells anymore. "You know this isn't me. If I could, I'd come see you every day. But you know what'll happen if Mitsuko sees. It'd all be over."
I nod, not caring if he can see the response. "See you... Sometime, Daiki." At his first name, there's a short intake of breath. I think for just a moment that maybe one of us will grow a pair, say something, end it on a better note, but then Mitsuko is flouncing in, asking 'Dai-chan' if everything is alright, and I'm pushing past her into abnormally muggy air for April.
I'm done fighting with him, for him. It's saying something that lately I haven't had enough energy to let out my frustrations on the court. At this point, even Kuroko could probably edge me out by a point or two. I'm done being pulled back to a greedy coward who wants both me and a normal life.
...
When I finally get around to calling Kagami, the days are getting shorter. Mitsuko and I have been done since late May, and I've been spending all that time wondering if he would even want to see me again. It takes months to come to the conclusion that honestly, who gives a shit. I want to see him. But the first call isn't answered, and neither is the second or third or twenty-eighth, and then I've got it into my head that he's playing hard to get and he wants me to come see him, get him back.
It's between stopping by our court, the one where we met, where we played every day until we were too busy making out every day, or sitting outside his apartment for hours on end in hopes that he might grace the outside world with an appearance. It doesn't exactly take hours to figure out which is the better plan, and maybe it'll be good to get back on the court and see where the months of laying around at home have gotten me.
The temperature requires a bit more than jeans and a tee shirt, but I can't be bothered, because that'll mean I'll have to wait five extra minutes to see him, and I'm really done waiting to see him.
The court is just a mile or two away, and I'm not so out of shape that I can't jog all the way there,
But when I do reach it, I immediately wish I had had to stop and walk for a few minutes so that maybe I would've been too late and missed them. Yes, them. On our court, where we first kissed, where we played game after game after game, there's a familiar boy with shaggy red hair, and one with closely cropped brown that I don't recognize, and when they kiss it doesn't seem at all like it's the first one they've ever shared.