Learning to Breathe Again

The gym smelled like chlorine and sweat. Familiar. Comforting, even. That sharp tang of hard work, the squeak of shoes on polished wood. Miya Atsumu loved it. Lived for it. His body now—lean, coiled, explosive—was nothing like the soft, heavy frame he’d carried just over a year ago. But when he bent to tie his shoe, dizziness hit him, greying the edges. He blinked hard, focused on the white laces until the world steadied.

“’Tsumu, you look like shit.”

Osamu’s voice cut through the post-practice chatter. Flat as ever, but with an edge Atsumu knew too well. He forced a grin—the easy, arrogant one that had become his armor. “Jealous, Samu? Maybe if you worked half as hard, you’d look this good.”

Osamu didn’t smile. His grey eyes, so much like Atsumu’s own, scanned him, still and unsettling. “You’ve been drinking water nonstop. And your breath smells like puke again.”

Atsumu’s stomach lurched. He pulled a piece of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it with deliberate calm. “It’s that damn protein shake. Tastes like ass. You want one?”

Osamu didn’t answer. Just turned and walked toward the locker room, shoulders tight. Atsumu watched him go, the gum turning bitter in his mouth.

---

Six Years Earlier

The photograph on the fridge showed a round-faced boy with a gap-toothed grin, clutching a volleyball that looked comically small in his pudgy hands. Atsumu remembered the day—his tenth birthday. His mother had baked chocolate cake, and he’d eaten three slices before anyone could stop him.

“Atsumu-kun, you need to be careful,” the doctor said, peering over his glasses at the growth chart. “Your weight is putting strain on your joints. If it continues, it could lead to serious health problems. Diabetes, heart issues.”

Diabetes. Heart issues. Words that meant nothing to a ten-year-old who only cared about beating Osamu at video games. But the way his mother’s face crumbled, the way she started buying vegetables instead of chips—that mattered.

The diets began. Low-carb. High-protein. Gluten-free. Juice cleanses that left him weak and irritable. He ran laps around the neighborhood until his calves screamed, then collapsed on the porch, gasping. Nothing worked. His body resisted, stubborn as a mule.

And then, volleyball.

Started as a joke. Osamu had joined the local junior club, and Atsumu tagged along out of boredom. But the first time he jumped for a spike, feeling the ball connect perfectly with his palm, something clicked. The sport demanded movement—constant, explosive movement. And slowly, so slowly he almost didn’t notice, the weight began to shift.

But not fast enough.

---

Present Day

The TikTok was a hit.

Atsumu propped his phone against a water bottle, filming himself shirtless in the locker room mirror. The lighting was harsh, catching the sharp lines of his abs, the definition in his shoulders. He flexed, winked, and posted it with the caption: Volleyball diet: sweat, tears, and zero carbs. 💪 #transformation #inarizaki

Within an hour, the comments flooded in.

OMG Atsumu how did you do it?? You look amazing! What’s your workout routine? Please share! From chubby to hottie 🔥

He scrolled through them, a cold satisfaction settling in his chest. The comments about his old self stung less this way. He’d turned the pain into praise. See? he thought. I fixed it. I fixed myself.

But the satisfaction never lasted.

That night, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, staring at his reflection. The boy looking back was gaunt. Cheekbones jutted out sharply, skin under his eyes had a bruised, hollow look. His hair, once thick and glossy, now fell in brittle strands.

He remembered the first time he’d done it. The memory surfaced unbidden, sharp-edged and unwelcome.

---

It had been during his first year at Inarizaki. A senior, some third-year he didn’t even know, cornered him after practice.

“Hey, chubby Tsumu,” the guy jeered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You sure you’re not holding the team back? Maybe stick to the cheer squad.”

Atsumu laughed it off. “At least I can actually play, senpai.” But his hands were shaking.

That night, alone in the dormitory bathroom, he stuck two fingers down his throat.

The first time, it hurt. Eyes watered, throat burned. But when the scale the next morning showed a loss of 0.5 kilograms, something shifted in his brain. A wrong gear clicking into place. He felt lighter, in every sense of the word.

It became a ritual. Every time he felt out of control—a bad practice, a critical word from the coach, a girl he liked turning him down—he’d find his way to the bathroom. The physical act of purging was violent, ugly, left him weak and dizzy. But the scale never lied.

Thirty kilograms. It took him eight months. And when he finally saw the number he’d been chasing, he told himself he could stop. He was in control. He didn’t need it anymore.

He was wrong.

---

Atsumu dropped the toothbrush, gripping the sink to steady himself. His hands trembling. He opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out a small bottle of antacids, chewed three chalky tablets. The acid in his throat barely soothed.

He heard Osamu’s footsteps in the hall.

“’Tsumu? You done in there? I gotta piss.”

Atsumu flushed the toilet for effect, washed his hands. “Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.”

He opened the door to find Osamu leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His twin’s eyes dropped to Atsumu’s wrist, where the veins stood out like blue rivers.

“You’re too skinny,” Osamu said.

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “I’m in shape, Samu. There’s a difference.”

“There’s a difference between being fit and looking like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

“Maybe you should try it sometime. You could lose that spare tire around your middle.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. Low blow—Osamu was lean, built for power and endurance. But he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he said, “How’d you lose it all, anyway? That fast? That much?”

The question hung between them, heavy and sharp.

Atsumu shrugged, a practiced, careless motion. “Volleyball. Diet. Same answer as always.”

Osamu stared at him for a long moment, then pushed past him into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. Atsumu stood in the hall, heart pounding, and realized he was clenching his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms.

---

The fainting happened on a Thursday.

Early morning, before first period. Atsumu had skipped breakfast—he always skipped breakfast now, it was easier that way—and the hallway was crowded with students. He felt the familiar darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. Tried to lean against the lockers, but his knees gave out.

He came to with Osamu’s face inches from his own, grey eyes wide with a terror Atsumu had never seen there before.

“’Tsumu. ’Tsumu, can you hear me?”

Other faces—classmates, a teacher—but Atsumu could only focus on his brother. Osamu’s hand was on his shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise.

“I’m fine,” Atsumu mumbled, trying to sit up. “Just—didn’t sleep well.”

“Bullshit.” Osamu’s voice cracked. He helped Atsumu to his feet, ignoring the teacher’s offers to call the nurse. “We’re going to the rooftop. Now.”

The rooftop was quiet, the morning air cold. Osamu sat Atsumu down against the chain-link fence and stood over him, arms folded, his face a mask of controlled fury.

“I’m not stupid,” Osamu said, quiet and fierce. “I’ve seen the marks on your fingers. I’ve heard you in the bathroom. I’ve watched you get weaker and weaker, and every time I ask, you lie.”

Atsumu opened his mouth, but no words came.

“Tell me the truth.” Osamu’s voice broke on the last word. “Please. I need to know.”

And there, on the cold concrete, with the wind biting at his cheeks, Atsumu felt the wall he’d built so carefully—the wall of smiles and shrugs and lies—crumble.

“I made myself throw up,” he said, the words scraping out like gravel. “For months. Every day. Sometimes twice a day.”

Osamu went pale. “What?”

“After that senior called me fat. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then I tried it, and it worked. I lost the weight, Samu. All of it. I thought—I thought I could stop, but I can’t. Every time I eat, I hear that voice in my head telling me I’m still that chubby kid. That I’ll get fat again. That—that I’m not good enough.”

The tears came then, hot and ugly. Atsumu buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Osamu dropped to his knees in front of him. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he pulled Atsumu into a hug, tight and desperate.

“I’m so sorry,” Osamu whispered, his own voice thick. “I should have—I saw the signs. But I didn’t want to believe it.”

“It’s not your fault.” Atsumu’s voice muffled against his brother’s shoulder. “I lied to everyone. I was ashamed.”

Osamu pulled back, gripping Atsumu’s shoulders. “You need help. Real help. A therapist. A doctor.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going with you. Every appointment. I’m not leaving you alone with this.”

Atsumu laughed, a wet, broken sound. “You’ll miss practice.”

“I don’t care about fucking volleyball,” Osamu said, and the rawness in his voice made Atsumu’s chest ache. “I care about my brother.”

---

The weeks that followed were brutal.

Therapist’s office smelled like lavender and paper. Atsumu sat in a worn armchair, picking at a loose thread, while Dr. Yamamoto—kind-faced woman with grey-streaked hair—asked him questions he didn’t want to answer.

“When did you first feel the need to control your eating?”

“How does your body look to you now?”

“What emotions trigger the urge to purge?”

He answered in monosyllables, gaze fixed on the floor. Osamu sat in the corner, silent, his presence a steady anchor.

The nutritionist, a young guy named Tanaka, set up a meal plan that felt overwhelming. Small meals, frequent. Balanced macros. Vitamins. Atsumu stared at the list of foods and felt the old panic rise.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, after the first session.

Osamu took the list from his hand. “Then I’ll do it with you. We’ll cook together. I’ll make sure you eat.”

And he did. Every morning, Osamu knocked on Atsumu’s door with a bowl of rice and miso soup. When Atsumu pushed the food around his plate, Osamu sat across from him, eating his own breakfast in silence, waiting.

“One more bite,” Osamu would say, and Atsumu would take it. For his brother.

The weight didn’t come back quickly. That wasn’t the goal, the therapist said. The goal was to heal. To separate self-worth from body image. To find joy in food again.

It was hard. Some days, Atsumu would stand in the bathroom, hand hovering over his mouth, and Osamu would appear in the doorway, wordless, and pull him away.

“Not today,” Osamu would say.

And Atsumu would let himself be led.

---

One month into recovery, Atsumu posted a video on TikTok.

He sat on his bed, no filter, no perfect lighting. Hair greasy, face pale, eyes red-rimmed. He looked nothing like the confident setter who grinned for the camera.

“Hey, everyone,” he said, voice hoarse. “I know I’ve been posting a lot about my weight loss. And people have been asking how I did it. I lied. I didn’t lose it through volleyball and diet. I lost it by making myself throw up.”

He paused, swallowed hard.

“It’s taken everything from me. My health. My peace of mind. I nearly lost my brother. I’m getting help now. Therapy. Nutrition. Support. I’m not okay, but I’m trying to be.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “If you’re struggling like I was, please reach out to someone. You don’t have to be alone. And to the people who called me ‘chubby Tsumu’—you can go to hell. But I forgive you. I have to.”

He ended the video there, fist trembling over the stop button.

The response was overwhelming. Thousands of comments—support from fans, teammates, even strangers. Kita Shinsuke commented simply: Proud of you, Atsumu. Suna Rintarou sent a private message: Call if you need anything, asshole. The Inarizaki volleyball team posted a group photo with the caption: We’ve got your back, captain.

Atsumu cried that night, but for the first time, they weren’t tears of shame.

---

Three Months Later

The rooftop had become their place.

Atsumu and Osamu sat side by side, legs dangling through the chain-link fence, watching the sun sink behind the gymnasium. Atsumu’s hands were still a little unsteady, but the tremor was less these days. His hair growing back thicker. He could look in the mirror without flinching.

“I had a relapse yesterday,” he said quietly.

Osamu didn’t flinch. “After the meal with the team?”

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s voice small. “I felt so full. I wanted to—but I called Dr. Yamamoto instead. She talked me down.”

“You called her?”

“I did.”

Osamu leaned over, pressing his shoulder against Atsumu’s. “Progress isn’t a straight line.”

“I know.” Atsumu took a deep breath, the evening air cool in his lungs. “It still feels like I’m climbing a mountain. But I think I’m getting closer to the top.”

Osamu smiled, a rare, gentle thing. “I’ll be right behind you the whole way.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sky turn amber and violet. The first stars appeared, faint pinpricks of light.

Atsumu thought about the boy he used to be—the one who ate three slices of birthday cake, the one who ran laps around the neighborhood, the one who thought purging was the only answer. He didn’t hate that boy anymore. He was learning to forgive him.

“Samu,” he said.

“Hm?”

“Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

Osamu bumped his shoulder. “You’re an idiot, ’Tsumu. But you’re my idiot. And I’m never letting you forget it.”

Atsumu laughed, the sound rusty but real. He looked out at the horizon, at the fading light, and felt something he hadn’t felt in years.

Hope.