The Scars We Carry

The Inarizaki locker room smelled like sweat, liniment, and the kind of triumph that comes from a good practice. Late afternoon light, that old-honey color, slipped through the high grimy windows and threw long shadows across the tile. Practice noises still rang in their ears—squeak of shoes, thump of a serve, the roar when someone scored. Now it was just zippers and clattering locks, tired conversation, the occasional laugh.

Atsumu Miya sat on the bench in the corner, back against a locker. Jersey off. Staring at his hands, turning them over slow, like he’d lost something and was checking if it was still there. He hadn’t said more than three words since they left the court. That wasn’t weird—sometimes he got quiet after a loss, or when he was replaying a set he’d messed up in his head. But today was good. They won everything. His serves were murder. So why did he look like he was carrying something heavy that had nothing to do with volleyball?

Osamu, two lockers down, was pulling off his knee pads. He glanced at his twin once, then away, jaw tight. He’d been doing that a lot lately—looking at Atsumu like he wanted to say something, then deciding not to.

The rest of the team moved in that comfortable messy rhythm of boys winding down. Suna on his phone, Ginjima complaining about suicides, first-years trying to stay invisible. Normal. Safe.

Then Omimi—quiet second-year, barely speaks—stopped with his shirt half over his head. His eyes caught something on Atsumu’s leg, where the shorts had ridden up.

“Miya-san,” Omimi said, hesitant. “What… what are those?”

The locker room went still. Conversation died. Everyone looked where Omimi was pointing: a patch of skin on Atsumu’s left thigh, just above the knee. Dim light made it easy to miss. But now they were looking—pale, jagged lines, some thin as paper cuts, others thick and raised, running in parallel tracks. Old scars, mostly white with a faint pink undertone. And they didn’t stop at the thigh. Atsumu shifted, and his sleeve slid up, showing more—a lattice on his forearm, some newer, some older, all telling the same story.

Silence stretched. Atsumu didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away or cover up. He just looked up, amber eyes meeting Omimi’s with a calm that was almost unsettling. The usual smirk was absent. Just a flat, neutral expression, like he’d been waiting for this.

“Scars,” he said, steady. “You ever seen ’em before, Omimi?”

Omimi’s face flushed. He looked away, guilt flickering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” Atsumu cut him off, not harsh, but final. “You were gonna find out eventually. Might as well be now.”

Osamu made a sound—a sharp exhale—and turned his back. Started shoving gear into his bag harder than necessary.

Ginjima, closest, took a step forward. Careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “How… how long have you had those?”

Atsumu leaned back, hands on the bench beside him. Looked at the ceiling, counting seconds. “Started in middle school.”

Said it like a fact. Like weather. Like the scars were just part of his body, no more remarkable than his height or hair color.

Nobody moved. Suna put his phone away. First-years stared, wide-eyed, not sure whether to stay or run. Aran, pulling on his jacket near the door, straightened and turned. His eyes met Atsumu’s. Something passed between them—silent acknowledgment, permission.

Atsumu started talking.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he said, waving vaguely at himself. “Y’know, the cocky loudmouth setter everyone loves to hate. Back then I was just… weird. Had this face.” He pointed at his own features with a dry laugh. “Too pretty for a boy. That’s what they said. And I was good at volleyball, but that didn’t matter. Being good just made it worse.”

He remembered it in pieces. First day of middle school, older boys cornered him in the hallway. Called him a girl, pushed him into a wall, laughed when his eyes welled up. He hadn’t even cried—the tears just came, unbidden, and that made it worse. They called him a crybaby on top of everything.

“Osamu got it easier,” Atsumu said, voice distant. “He didn’t have this face. He didn’t talk as much. People like quiet. They don’t like show-offs. And I was a show-off.” Pause, lips thin. “Still am, I guess. But back then I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

Bullying escalated fast. Started with shoves, stolen lunch money, names written on his desk in permanent marker. Then it got physical. First time they held his head underwater in the school pool during free period. Two of them grabbed him from behind, a third held a phone to record. He struggled, swallowed water, felt his lungs burn. They let him up just before blackout, laughing, told him that’s what happens to girls who think they can play boys’ sports.

He never told anyone. Not parents, not teachers. Went home that night and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and for the first time felt a deep, ugly hatred for the face staring back.

“The worst one,” Atsumu said, voice wavering just a fraction, “was when a boy—Takeda—wanted to kiss me.”

Collective intake of breath. Someone muttered a curse.

Atsumu’s eyes went hard. “I said no. Said it a lot. But he didn’t think ‘no’ was something I got to say. Cornered me in the equipment shed after practice. When I kept refusing, he pulled out a blade. Little box cutter. Said if I wouldn’t give him a kiss, he’d make sure nobody ever wanted to kiss me again.”

He lifted his shirt slightly, just enough to expose the side of his waist. There, above his hipbone, was a scar different from the others. Not straight lines. A word, carved in uneven furious strokes: SLUT.

Dead silence. Even breathing stopped.

“He carved that into me,” Atsumu said, flat again. “Then he left me. I had to walk home bleeding.”

Osamu’s shoulders trembled. He still hadn’t turned around.

Aran broke the silence. Crossed the room, sat down heavily on the bench across from Atsumu. Voice low, rough. “I remember that day.”

Atsumu looked at him, something softening. “Yeah. You found me walking down the street. Covered in blood, still crying. You took me home. Told your mom I’d fallen off my bike.”

“I didn’t know what else to say,” Aran said. “I was scared. Didn’t want to make it worse.”

“You made it better,” Atsumu said, simple. “You were the first person who ever did.”

Aran had been at the same middle school, a year older, already a giant known for power and kindness. He’d seen Atsumu on the court and recognized a talent too bright to put out. After that day he made it his mission to be near Atsumu, walk with him, make sure he got home safe. Couldn’t stop the bullying entirely, but made it harder. And Atsumu, who’d never had a protector before, clung to that lifeline without ever saying it out loud.

But the damage was done. The cut from Takeda’s blade healed into a scar Atsumu covered with bandages and long sleeves for months. But the shame, the self-loathing—that didn’t heal. Festered. And one night, in his bedroom, alone, with everything pressing down, Atsumu found a different way to deal.

He didn’t plan it. Just had scissors in his hand, thinking about how much it hurt to be alive, and wondered if physical pain would drown out the other kind. It did. For a few seconds, the sharp bright sting against his thigh was all he could feel. And when the pain faded, there was a strange hollow relief.

“First time I did it myself,” Atsumu said, barely a whisper, “I thought I’d stop after that. Thought I’d gotten it out of my system. But I didn’t. Became a habit. Every time someone called me a name, every time I saw Osamu being liked and I wasn’t, every time I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw… I’d find a sharp thing, and I’d make it hurt somewhere else.”

He showed them his arms, turning them so the scars caught the light. Some thin, almost invisible. Others thick and white, raised like ridges of sea glass. Ran from wrists to elbows, a chaotic map of a war no one knew he was fighting.

“Got good at hiding it. Long sleeves even in summer. Excuses about burns from gym equipment. Osamu knew, of course. Caught me a few times. But I’d just tell him I was fine, and he’d let it go because he didn’t know what else to do.”

Osamu’s voice broke the silence, thick, cracked. “I should have done more.”

“You were a kid too, Samu,” Atsumu said, without looking at him. “We were both kids.”

Team frozen, a tableau of shock and grief. Ginjima had tears streaming, not bothering to wipe them. Suna’s phone dark in his hand, usual sarcasm gone. Even the first-years, who barely knew the Miyas beyond reputation, looked punched in the gut.

“I hit bottom,” Atsumu said, voice cracking. Paused, swallowed, forced it steady again. “There was a day—a bad day. Don’t even remember what started it. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But I was so tired. Tired of being me. And I thought, if I just went to sleep and never woke up, it would all be over. No more pain. No more shame. No more being Atsumu.”

He’d done it in the bathroom. Taken a razor blade from his dad’s old shaving kit, the kind that comes in a pack of ten. Ran a bath, because he’d heard warm water made it easier. Sat down in the tub, fully clothed, looked at the blade in his hand. Then cut.

Not the surface scratches he usually made. This time, deep. Cut across his left arm, where veins run close to the surface, watched the blood well up and mix with the water. Cut again, again, until his arm was a mess of open wounds and the water turned pink, then red, then dark. Felt dizzy, but also light, like the weight he’d been carrying was finally flowing out with the blood.

Closed his eyes and leaned back, waiting for nothing.

But Osamu came home early. Wasn’t supposed to—he had practice too—but forgot his water bottle. Called Atsumu’s name, got no answer, saw the crack of light under the bathroom door. Kicked it open.

“He found me,” Atsumu said, voice shaking now despite his best effort. “Osamu pulled me out of the tub. Wrapped my arm in towels. Called an ambulance. He was screaming, I think. Don’t remember clearly. Just remember his face—so scared. And I thought, ‘Oh god, I did this to him. Did this to the one person who stayed.’”

Osamu finally turned around. Face wrecked—red-eyed, blotchy, composure shattered. “You almost died, Atsumu. You almost died and I couldn’t stop it.”

“I know,” Atsumu said, meeting his twin’s eyes. No blame, just deep weary understanding. “But I didn’t die. I’m here.”

Locker room suspended in that heavy silence, the kind that suffocates if you move too fast. Aran was the first to act. Stood up, walked over, placed a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. Firm, grounding.

“You’re not alone,” Aran said, voice rough but steady. “You never have to be again.”

Atsumu looked up at him, and for a moment his mask cracked fully open. Raw vulnerable thing underneath, a scared kid hiding in the skin of a cocky setter. But he didn’t look away. Let them see it.

One by one, they moved closer. Suna sat down on the other side, not touching, but present. Ginjima knelt in front of him, face wet. Omimi and the other second-years shuffled in, first-years awkward and uncertain, forming a loose circle. No one said anything profound. No one tried to fix it. They just stood there, a wall of bodies against the memory of a past that had tried to kill him.

Atsumu let out a breath he’d been holding for years. Usual smirk flickered at the corner of his mouth, but softer, more tired. “Y’all are making me emotional. That’s not allowed. I have a reputation.”

Someone let out a choked laugh. Tension cracked, just a little.

“We’re getting meat buns,” Ginjima announced, voice still watery but determined. “And you’re coming, Miya. No arguments.”

“Wasn’t gonna argue,” Atsumu said. He stood up, swayed slightly. Aran’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder, steadying. “I could eat.”

They finished changing in a different kind of silence. Not heavy and awkward—warmer. Small quiet gestures: hand on a back, shared glance, pause to make sure everyone was ready. Osamu finished packing his bag and walked over. Didn’t say anything. Just stood shoulder to shoulder with him. That was enough.

As they filed out of the locker room into the cool evening air, Atsumu looked back at the building. Scars on his body ached, familiar phantom pain that never fully went away. But for the first time in a long time, the ache felt like an old wound healing, not an open one bleeding.

They walked in a loose group toward the convenience store, voices low, laughter starting to rise. Atsumu walked in the middle, flanked by his teammates, by his brother, by people who had seen the worst of him and decided to stay anyway.

The scars would remain. Always. Engraved into his skin like a history he couldn’t erase. But as he felt Aran’s hand clap his back and heard Ginjima’s ridiculous joke, Atsumu thought that maybe, just maybe, the scars didn’t have to be his whole story anymore.

Tomorrow would be another practice. Another game. Another chance to be the best setter in the country. And he would face it with his team beside him, the ghosts of the past finally quiet enough to let him breathe.

He smiled—a real one this time—and followed them into the evening light.