Loving Someone Who Hurts You

The first thing I noticed was the smell—smoke and cheap perfume—when Atsumu slipped through the front door at 2:47 AM. I was curled on the couch with a half-empty glass of milk. Didn’t even need to check the clock. I heard the creak of the hinge, the too-quiet shuffle of his feet, then the click of our bedroom door.

Three weeks now. Three weeks of him coming home with his hair a mess and eyeliner smudged, wearing tops that barely covered anything. Three weeks of him avoiding my eyes over breakfast. Three weeks of silence where we used to bicker over everything.

“He’s gonna get himself killed,” I told Suna the next evening, slumped against the lockers after practice. My voice came out flat, but my hands were shaking around the water bottle. “I don’t know where he goes. He won’t tell me. Just says ‘out’ like I’m his damn curfew monitor.”

Suna leaned beside me, shoulder brushing mine. He didn’t try to reassure me. That’s not his thing. “He’s been wearing makeup. Heavy stuff. And his clothes…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “I saw a bruise on his wrist yesterday. Fingertip shaped.”

My stomach dropped. I’d seen it too. Small, purple, like someone grabbed him hard. He yanked his sleeve down before I could ask.

“I’m gonna follow him tonight,” I said.

Suna turned to look at me, unreadable. “You think that’ll help?”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

He didn’t argue. Just slipped his hand into mine, lacing our fingers. “I’ll come.”

We didn’t end up following him that night. Instead we sprawled on the couch watching some horror movie Suna picked out, volume low so we could hear the front door. Atsumu left at nine—glossy lips, high-waisted shorts, a small black bag over his shoulder. He didn’t say a word. Just let the door click shut.

I couldn’t focus on the screen. Kept staring at the hallway, the shadows pooling in corners. Suna’s hand rested on my knee, grounding.

At eleven, the door burst open.

Atsumu stumbled in, skin gray. His makeup was wrecked—mascara running in dark tracks down his cheeks, lipstick smeared. He was shaking so bad he nearly tripped over the genkan step.

“Tsumu?” I was on my feet. “What the hell—?”

He didn’t answer. He bolted past us, slammed our bedroom door, and I heard the lock click.

I stood frozen. Suna was already at my side, hand on my back. “Talk to him.”

“He locked me out.”

“Then knock.”

I knocked. Soft at first, then harder. “Tsumu. Open the door. What happened?”

Silence. Just ragged breathing on the other side.

“Tsumu.” My voice cracked. “Please.”

Suna squeezed my arm. “Maybe give him a minute. I can go if you need—”

“No. Stay. I’ll—I’ll handle it.” I turned to him, and for a second our faces were mirrors—same fierce, frightened eyes. “I’ll call you later.”

He nodded, kissed my cheek, and slipped out.

I leaned my forehead against the wood. “Atsumu. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll sit right here until you let me in. But I need to know you’re not bleeding out or something.”

A long, shuddering pause. Then the lock clicked.

I pushed the door open slow. The room was dark except for the faint light from the window. Atsumu was curled on his futon, still in his club clothes—a cropped top and ripped jeans—but he’d scrubbed his face clean. He was wearing baggy pajama pants now, an oversized shirt, and he was crying. Not the loud, dramatic sobs he used to throw at Mom during childhood tantrums. Silent, hitching gasps that shook his whole body.

I sat on the edge of the futon. Didn’t touch him. “Talk to me.”

He shook his head, pressing his face into the pillow.

“Did someone hurt you?”

A sharp, wet sob. No answer.

“Atsumu. Please.”

But he just pulled the blanket over his head and curled into a tighter ball. I stayed until his breathing evened out into a fitful sleep. Then I pulled out my phone and texted Suna.

He won’t talk. But something’s bad.

Suna replied instantly: I’m here. We’ll figure it out.

Next morning, Atsumu emerged wearing a hoodie and a thick jacket, even though it was sweltering June. The kind of heat that makes the asphalt shiver. I was already in the kitchen, coffee in hand. Watched him pour cereal, his movements jerky and deliberate. His hands shook.

“It’s thirty degrees out,” I said careful.

He didn’t look up. “I’m cold.”

“Bullshit.”

“Leave me alone.”

Walk to school was silent. He kept his head down, hood up, jacket zipped to his chin. At the gate, Suna fell into step beside us. His eyes flicked to Atsumu, then to me. Silent question. I gave a small shake of my head.

Inarizaki’s gym was stifling. Team running drills, air thick with sweat and shouts. But Atsumu didn’t change into his practice jersey. He sat on the bench, a stack of towels on his lap, and handed them out as players came off the court.

Coach Kurosu frowned. “Miya, you’re not warming up?”

“Just tired, coach. I’ll observe today.” Atsumu’s voice was flat. Hollow.

The rest of the team exchanged glances. Atsumu Miya never sits out. He’s the loudest, the most demanding, the one who screams for perfect sets and won’t accept anything less. Watching him hand out towels like a first-year manager was surreal.

I couldn’t focus on my serves. Kept glancing at the bench, where Atsumu sat motionless, jacket still on, hands twisted in a towel.

During water break, Suna came up beside me. “That’s not just tired. That’s scared.”

“I know.”

After practice, Atsumu shuffled to class like a ghost. I followed a few steps behind, fists clenched. The afternoon sun was brutal, and by third period the classroom was an oven. Fans whirred uselessly. Students fanned themselves with notebooks.

Atsumu was sweating. Beads rolled down his temples, but he kept his hood up, jacket zipped. His face was pale beneath the sheen.

“Miya, you look like you’re about to melt,” the teacher said, glancing over. “Take off your hoodie. You’ll feel better.”

Atsumu’s head shot up. “I—I can’t.”

“It’s a classroom, not a club. Remove it.”

The class went quiet. Atsumu’s hands were shaking as he reached for the zipper. He pulled it down slow, then shrugged off the jacket. Underneath, the hoodie remained.

“The hoodie too.”

“Sensei, please—”

“Now, Miya.”

His breath hitched. He reached for the hem, pulled it over his head, and then—

The class gasped.

His neck was a map of bruises. Purple and yellow and black, stretching from his jawline down to his collarbone. Fingertip-shaped marks circled his throat, vivid and unmistakable. The kind left by hands squeezing too hard.

I shot to my feet. “Atsumu—”

But his eyes were already rolling back. He slumped forward, chair scraping, and hit the floor with a thud.

Pandemonium. Teacher shouting for the nurse, students crowding. I shoved through them, dropped to my knees beside him. He was breathing—shallow, fast—but unresponsive.

“What’s wrong with him?” someone whispered.

I didn’t answer. I was staring at the marks on his neck, at how the skin was mottled and bruised. My hands were ice cold when I touched his face.

Suna appeared beside me, phone already out. “Ambulance is on the way.”

Nurse’s office was small and sterile. Atsumu lay on the cot, oxygen mask over his face, hoodie back on. I sat in the plastic chair beside him, Suna standing behind me with a hand on my shoulder.

A doctor came in—young, tired-eyed, carrying a clipboard. “Are you family?”

“I’m his twin.”

The doctor’s gaze flicked to Atsumu, then back. “We ran some preliminary tests. He has a significant amount of MDMA in his system. Molly. Enough to cause a seizure or a cardiac event. He’s lucky he passed out when he did.”

My blood went cold. “Drugs?”

“Yes. And the bruising on his neck indicates strangulation. Some of those marks are a few days old. Some are fresh.”

The room tilted. I gripped the armrests. “Strangulation?”

“The handprints are clear. I’ve seen them before. This wasn’t a fall or an accident.” The doctor’s voice was gentle but firm. “He needs to talk to someone. And you should consider contacting the authorities.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Suna’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

Later, after our mom arrived—her face white, hands trembling—we sat in a small conference room. Atsumu was awake now, sitting in a chair with a blanket around him, eyes red-rimmed and fixed on the floor.

“Who did this to you?” Mom demanded. Her voice sharp with fear. “I want to press charges. I want that monster in jail.”

Atsumu flinched. “No. No, please, you can’t.”

“Can’t? Atsumu, someone choked you! Someone drugged you! You could have died!”

“I know, I know, but you don’t understand—” His voice cracked. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “It wasn’t—he didn’t mean it. It was an accident.”

I stepped forward. “Who is ‘he’?”

His eyes darted away. He bit his lip, hard.

“Atsumu.” Mom’s voice was steel. “Tell me who did this to you.”

“Kiyoomi,” he whispered. The name fell like a stone. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

My mind blanked. Sakusa Kiyoomi—the setter from Itachiyama? The one with perfect technique and cold, calculating eyes? I’d seen him at nationals. I’d heard Atsumu mention him once or twice, but never like this.

“Sakusa?” I said. “You’re dating Sakusa Kiyoomi?”

He nodded miserably. “We’ve been together for six months. He’s not—he’s not a bad person. He just gets jealous. Gets scared. He doesn’t mean to hurt me.”

“He put you in the hospital, Tsumu,” Mom said, tears streaming. “He put his hands around your throat.”

“It was an accident!” He was sobbing now, doubling over. “He was upset. I went to a party without telling him, and I danced with someone, and he saw. He said he just wanted to shake me, and then—please, Mom. Please, Osamu. You can’t go to the police. He’ll hate me. He’ll leave me. I love him.”

I stared at my twin—this reckless, beautiful, foolish person who’d always been the louder half of our whole. I wanted to shake him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to drive to wherever Sakusa lived and beat him until his hands were broken.

“Love doesn’t leave bruises on your throat,” I said quietly.

His sob was raw. “You don’t understand.”

The argument that followed was a storm of voices. Mom railing, Atsumu pleading, me caught in the middle like a tree in a flood. We didn’t call the police that night. He begged so hard his voice went hoarse, swore he’d never see Sakusa again if we just let it go, promised he’d get help, promised anything.

Mom finally relented, but her eyes were cold with fury. “If I see one more mark on you, I’m calling the police myself. Do you understand?”

He nodded, face buried in his hands.

Later that night, I stood in the kitchen, staring out at the dark street. Suna texted: How is he?

I typed and deleted a dozen replies. Finally: He’s broken. And he’s still protecting the bastard who broke him.

My phone buzzed again. What are you going to do?

I thought about Atsumu’s tear-streaked face. About the bruises on his throat. About the way he’d said I love him like a curse.

I’m going to talk to Sakusa.

Next day, I skipped school. Took the early train to Tokyo, hands shoved deep in my pockets, jaw set. Didn’t have Sakusa’s number, but I knew the address of the Itachiyama training facility from a tournament program I’d kept. Long shot.

Found him at the gym, alone, practicing serves in the empty court. The echoes of the ball striking the floor were sharp and precise.

He didn’t look surprised to see me. Set the ball down, straightened, met my eyes with that cold, unreadable gaze.

“You’re Atsumu’s brother.”

“You know why I’m here.”

His expression didn’t change. “He told you.”

“He didn’t have to. I saw the bruises.”

A long silence. He picked up a towel and wiped his hands with methodical care. “I don’t make excuses for myself. I hurt him. I didn’t mean to, but I did. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t.” I stepped forward, rage coiling in my chest. “If I ever see a mark on him again, I won’t call the police. I’ll handle it myself.”

His eyes flickered—something like surprise, or maybe respect. “You’re protective.”

“He’s my twin.”

“I know.” He set the towel aside. “I’m ending it. I told him this morning. He deserves better than someone who loses control.”

My breath caught. “You dumped him?”

“I severed the relationship. He can’t heal if I’m still in his life.” For the first time, his voice cracked. Just a fraction, but I heard it. “I do love him. That’s why I have to stay away.”

We stood there, opponents in an invisible game, until I turned and walked out.

Two weeks later, Atsumu started therapy. Three times a week, sitting in a quiet office with a woman who had kind eyes and a notebook. He came home quiet, sometimes crying, sometimes just tired. I made him onigiri and we ate in silence on the couch.

The bruises faded. The nightmares didn’t.

One evening, he turned to me and said, “It’s not easy. Loving someone who hurts you. You think it’s a sign of weakness, but it’s not. It’s just… confusing.”

I didn’t have an answer. I just pressed a fresh rice ball into his hand.

“I’ll be here,” I said. “Until it’s less confusing.”

He smiled. Small and fragile, but real.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like we might be okay.