The Thread Between Eleven Minutes

The phone call ended with a click. Not a slam, not a shout—just a soft, final sound. Like cutting a thread. Atsumu Miya sat on the edge of his bed, phone still glowing with Sakusa Kiyoomi’s name, the call duration frozen at 11:47. Eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds to unravel four months of careful, fragile intimacy.

It is so hard sometimes to love you.

The words didn’t echo. They carved. Hot blade straight into his chest, bleeding out into the room, staining everything—the walls, the posters of pro setters he’d taped up when he was a kid. He pressed his palms into his eyes until stars bloomed. Didn’t help. The loop kept playing.

Atsumu, you’re being ridiculous.
Atsumu, do you ever think before you speak?
Atsumu, your teasing isn’t funny—it’s exhausting.

He’d been laughing when he said it. A dumb joke about Sakusa’s cleaning habits—Oi, Omi-Omi, you sure you don’t wanna scrub under your fingernails after that high-five? Might catch something.—and the silence on the other end was so loud Atsumu almost laughed again to fill it. Then Sakusa’s voice came through, flat and tired, and Atsumu’s throat closed.

Atsumu.
Yeah?
I have to go.
Wait—
It is so hard sometimes to love you.

Click.

Atsumu’s lip trembled. He bit down hard, the sting grounding him for half a second before the tears came. He hated crying. Hated how his nose clogged and his eyes swelled and he couldn’t breathe right. But the tears came anyway, hot and fast, and he let himself fall sideways onto his futon, curling into a ball as sobs ripped out of him in ugly, ragged gasps.

Why doesn’t he just break up with me?

That thought was poison. If Sakusa found it so hard to love him, why was he still here? Why did he keep picking up the phone, keep showing up, keep letting Atsumu press kisses to his knuckles even when he flinched? Maybe pity. Maybe obligation. Maybe Sakusa was waiting for Atsumu to end it because he didn’t have the guts himself.

Atsumu pressed his face into his pillow and screamed. The sound was muffled, swallowed by cotton and feathers, but the vibration rattled his bones.

He didn’t sleep that night. Lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment he’d been too loud, too brash, too much. The time he’d laughed so hard at practice Coach Kurosu yelled at him. The time he’d teased Osamu until his twin dumped a bowl of rice over his head. The time his middle school teammates rolled their eyes when he bragged about his serves.

It is so hard sometimes to love you.

He whispered it to himself in the dark. It felt like a confession he’d been waiting to hear his whole life.

---

Morning came gray and damp. February in Miyagi. Atsumu moved through his routine like a ghost: brush teeth, wash face, pull on uniform. He didn’t glance at his phone. Three unread messages from Sakusa—he’d seen the previews, short apologies that felt hollow—but he couldn’t bring himself to open them.

In the kitchen, Osamu was already at the table, shoveling rice into his mouth like a machine.

“You look like shit,” Osamu said flatly, not looking up.

Atsumu opened his mouth to snap back—Mind your own damn business, you vacuum cleaner—but the words stuck. He swallowed them. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Osamu’s chopsticks paused for a fraction of a second. Then he shrugged. “Eat something. Practice.”

Atsumu sat down and reached for the rice bowl. He took small bites, chewing slowly, making sure he didn’t slurp his miso soup. He placed his chopsticks neatly across the rim when he was done, exactly parallel. Osamu watched him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.

---

Inarizaki’s volleyball gym was the heart of the beast—sprawling concrete and ambition. Atsumu usually walked through those doors with a swagger, a loud “Mornin’, losers!” that bounced off the rafters. Not today.

He slipped in quiet, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor as he made his way to the bench. No jokes. No laughter. He just started stretching, methodical and silent.

Ginjima noticed first. Exchanged a glance with Akagi, who shrugged. Suna raised an eyebrow from across the gym, his phone momentarily forgotten. But no one said anything. Atsumu had off days.

The change got worse as the morning wore on. During serving drills, Atsumu didn’t whoop when he nailed a perfect jump serve. He just picked up the next ball and did it again. When Osamu sent a pass a little too high, Atsumu adjusted without a word—no sarcastic “Samu, you tryin’ to set the moon?” just a quiet “Got it.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. He jogged over during a water break and grabbed Atsumu’s wrist.

“Oi. What’s your deal?”

Atsumu flinched. Actually flinched, like Osamu had raised a hand to hit him. The reaction was so stark Osamu let go immediately, stepping back.

“Nothin’,” Atsumu muttered. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit.” Osamu’s voice was low, sharp. “You ain’t been yourself all morning. You’re actin’ like someone stole your goddamn personality.”

Atsumu’s eyes flickered. For a second, Osamu saw something raw and scared in them, something that made his stomach drop. Then Atsumu looked away and pulled his wrist free.

“Maybe I’m just tryin’ to be better,” he said, so quiet Osamu almost didn’t hear. “Maybe I’m too much.”

He walked back to the serving line before Osamu could respond.

---

The team noticed. Of course they did. Even Kita, who rarely commented on anything that didn’t affect performance, pulled Atsumu aside after practice.

“You’re holding back,” Kita said, voice even. “Your sets lack fire.”

Atsumu opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because Kita was right. Every toss he made was technically perfect, but hollow. He was so terrified of making a mistake, of being a burden, that he’d stopped trusting his instincts.

“I’ll work on it,” Atsumu said.

Kita studied him for a long moment, gray eyes unreadable. Then he nodded and walked away.

That night, Atsumu opened Sakusa’s messages.

I didn’t mean it like that.
I was tired.
Can we talk?

He typed and deleted a dozen responses. I’m sorry. I know I’m annoying. I’ll be quieter. Do you want to leave me? None felt right. None could fix the hole in his chest.

He didn’t reply.

---

Days passed. Atsumu became a stranger to himself. He stifled his laugh, turned it into a polite cough. Stopped teasing Osamu at lunch—ate his onigiri in neat, careful bites. When someone made a joke, he smiled instead of cackling. When Aran told a story, he listened without interrupting.

Like watching a color drain from a photograph.

Osamu tried everything. Insulted his serving form. Called him a try-hard. Dumped his water bottle over Atsumu’s head in the hallway. Atsumu just wiped his face and said, “You done?” in a voice so flat and hollow it made Osamu’s blood run cold.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Osamu shouted in the locker room after practice, slamming his fist against a locker. “Are you just gonna let everyone walk all over you now? Where’s the Atsumu who tells me to go die in a ditch?”

Atsumu flinched. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hands shaking as he tied his shoes.

“Maybe he was the problem.” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “Maybe everyone’s been puttin’ up with me this whole time. Maybe—” His breath hitched. “Maybe it’s hard to love me.”

The words hung in the air. Osamu’s anger vanished, replaced by something cold and terrible.

“Who told you that?” he demanded. “Who said that to you?”

Atsumu shook his head. Grabbed his bag and left.

---

Practice matches were supposed to be Atsumu’s element. Chaos, noise, pressure—he thrived on it. But today, every pass felt like a test he was failing.

They were scrimmaging against the second-string team, routine warm-up for preliminaries. Atsumu’s sets were safe. He avoided the risky quick tosses Osamu could hit blindfolded, opted for easy, predictable balls. The spikers were frustrated. The rhythm off.

“Miya, push the ball wider!” Coach Kurosu shouted from the sideline. “You’re telegraphing every set!”

Atsumu nodded, sweat dripping down his face. Be better. Don’t screw up. Don’t be a burden.

Next play, the second-string libero sent a shallow receive to the setter. Atsumu moved to cover, mind racing. If I go for the block, I might leave Osamu vulnerable. If I stay back, I’m useless. What if I make the wrong call? What if they get mad at me?

He hesitated.

The ball rocketed past his ear. The spike hit the floor with a deafening thud.

The gym fell silent.

Atsumu stared at the spot where the ball had landed, vision tunneling. A routine ball. A simple move he’d made a thousand times. And he’d frozen. Frozen like a goddamn rookie.

“Miya, what was that?” Osamu barked, sharp with frustration. “You had that! What were you lookin’ at?”

“I—I don’t know,” Atsumu stammered. Chest tightening, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry—I’ll do better—”

“Sorry?” Osamu’s face contorted. “You keep sayin’ sorry! You keep apologizin’ for existing! What happened to you?”

Wrong thing to say. The dam broke.

Atsumu’s knees buckled. He dropped to the floor, hands covering his face as a sob tore out of him—loud and ugly and raw. The entire team froze. Balls rolled to a stop. Conversations died.

“I can’t—I don’t know how to be him anymore,” Atsumu gasped between sobs. “I try to be quiet, I try to be good, I try to stop bein’ too much—but it’s not enough—it’s never enough—he said it’s hard to love me—”

Osamu was at his side in an instant, kneeling on the dusty floor. “Who? Who said that?”

“Omi,” Atsumu choked out. “Kiyoomi. He said—he said it’s hard to love me. And I keep waitin’ for him to leave, waitin’ for everyone to leave, ’cause why wouldn’t you? I’m loud, I’m annoying, I’m a goddamn burden—”

His voice cracked into a wail. “Maybe he’ll leave. Maybe you all will too. You’ll get tired of me like everyone does.”

The gym was dead silent. Suna had put his phone away. Ginjima’s face was pale. Akagi looked like he’d been punched. Even Coach Kurosu stood still, whistle hanging limp around his neck.

Osamu grabbed Atsumu by the shoulders and pulled him into a rough, crushing hug. Atsumu went rigid, then collapsed into it, sobs muffled against his twin’s chest.

“You idiot,” Osamu muttered, voice thick. “You absolute moron. You think any of us are gonna leave? You think I’m gonna leave? We’ve been stuck together since before we were born, you dumbass. You’re not gettin’ rid of me.”

Atsumu shook his head, tears soaking into Osamu’s jersey. “But I’m—I’m too much—”

“So what?” Osamu pulled back, gripping Atsumu’s face with both hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. “So you’re a lot. That’s who you are. That’s who you’ve always been. You think I don’t know that? You think the team doesn’t know that? We like that. That’s Atsumu Miya. Don’t you dare disappear on us.”

Aran stepped forward, voice gentle. “He’s right, Atsumu. We’ve got your back. Always have.”

“Yeah,” Ginjima added, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re annoying sometimes, but you’re our annoying setter.”

Suna smirked faintly. “Don’t let one guy’s bad day make you forget you’re worth a dozen good ones.”

Atsumu’s shoulders shook. He looked around at the team—at Osamu, at Aran, at Ginjima, at Suna, at Kita watching from the edge of the court with quiet approval—and something loosened in his chest. A tiny, fragile thread of hope.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Stop apologizing,” Osamu said, cuffing him lightly on the back of the head. “You’re fine. We’re gonna be fine. Now get up and finish this match. You owe me a good toss.”

Atsumu let out a watery laugh, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He looked a mess—red-eyed, blotchy, still trembling—but for the first time in days, he felt real.

---

That night, after a quiet dinner and a long shower, Atsumu sat on his futon and picked up his phone. The unread messages from Sakusa had grown to seven. He opened them, heart pounding.

Atsumu. Please reply.
I’m sorry I hurt you.
I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.
I was frustrated, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.
I love you. I do. I just... sometimes love is hard. That doesn’t mean I want to stop.
Please. Talk to me.

His fingers trembled as he typed.

I’m sorry too. I’ve been hiding because I was scared you’d leave. I made myself small to try to be easier to love. But that wasn’t me. I don’t want to be small. I want to be loud and annoying and still have you stay.

He pressed send before he could chicken out.

The response came within seconds. A phone call.

Atsumu stared at the screen. Heart hammering. Then he answered.

“Atsumu.” Sakusa’s voice was strained, barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I should never have said that. I was wrong. I love you exactly as you are.”

Atsumu’s eyes burned. “Even when I’m too much?”

“Especially then.” A pause. “You’re not too much. You’re just... you. And I’m an idiot who doesn’t always know how to handle it. But I’m learning.”

Atsumu let out a shaky breath. “Kiyoomi.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t ever say it’s hard to love me again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

They talked until his phone battery died. When the call dropped, Atsumu lay back on his futon, staring at the ceiling. The wound was still there—tender, sore, a scar that would take time to fade. But it wasn’t bleeding anymore.

He let himself feel hope. Just a little.

And in the morning, when he walked into the gym and someone made a dumb joke, Atsumu Miya laughed—loud, bright, unmistakably him.

Osamu grinned. “There he is.”

Atsumu flipped him off. “Shut up, Samu.”

And everything was okay.