The Weight of Summer

The summer air in Hyogo was thick and wet, like it was trying to hold you down. The gym at Inarizaki echoed with squeaky shoes and that sharp slap of volleyballs hitting forearms. Atsumu Miya had never felt this heavy in his life.

It started small. His mom got into experimenting over break—rich curry with extra butter, fried chicken with ginger and soy, and those mochi she'd press into his hands with a smile. He couldn't say no. The summer was long, training camp still two weeks off, so he spent most days sprawled on the couch, setting pillows for imaginary hitters and shoving snacks into his mouth.

By the time they boarded the bus for the mountains, his uniform felt different. The shorts hugged his thighs too tight. He ignored it, stared at the map Suna was drawing on his arm with a dry-erase marker.

“Stop moving,” Suna muttered, tracing a line from Atsumu’s elbow to his wrist. “You’re gonna mess it up.”

“What is it even supposed to be?”

“A map to your ego. Thought you might need directions back.”

Osamu snorted from across the aisle. “Yeah, it’s probably shrunk over the summer. Maps ain’t gonna help.”

Atsumu threw a crumpled chip packet at him. “Shut up, Samu.”

But the teasing didn’t stop. During practice, when he went for a jump serve, Suna said the floor shook more when he landed. Osamu laughed. Even Kita gave a soft smile and said nothing. Atsumu grinned, aimed it at them like a serve, and pretended it didn’t sting.

That night, in the dorm, he stood in front of the tiny bathroom mirror and twisted to see his profile. Cheeks rounder. Waist softer. When he turned, his ass—usually compact and powerful—looked like the plump buns his mom made for breakfast.

He slapped his own cheek. It’s just muscle. Squatting. That’s all.

Then the jersey incident broke the lie.

Second day of camp. They had to change into official match jerseys for a press photo. Atsumu pulled his over his head, and it caught on his shoulders. He tugged, twisted, finally forced it down. The numbers stretched across his chest. The shorts were worse—he had to lie on his futon to zip them, and when he stood, the waistband dug into his belly, leaving a red line.

He stared at himself in the full-length mirror near the exit. The jersey used to be loose. Comfortable. Now it looked like it belonged to someone smaller. He turned, and the fabric pulled tight over his ass, warping his name.

“Oi, Miya, you ready?” Aran called from the hallway.

Atsumu didn't answer. Couldn't. His throat locked up, eyes burning. He yanked the jersey off, threw it on the floor, and sat down hard on his futon, head in his hands.

Osamu found him minutes later. They had that twin thing—a nudge, a look, an understanding. But this time Osamu didn't get it. He knocked twice, then pushed the door open.

“Tsumu? You comin’? Kita-san’s waiting—”

He stopped. Atsumu was on the floor now, back against the wall, knees pulled up. The wadded jersey beside him. Not crying loud, but shoulders shaking with those silent, ugly sobs.

“What happened?” Osamu’s voice dropped. He crouched in front of him. “Did you get hurt?”

“I can’t—” Atsumu’s voice cracked. “I can’t fit into my own fucking jersey, Samu.”

Osamu’s face went blank. Then his brow furrowed. “It’s just a shirt, Tsumu. We can get a bigger one.”

“It’s not!” Atsumu shoved his palms against his eyes. “It’s not just a shirt. I’m fat. Everyone’s been sayin’ it. You, Suna, even Ma. Every time I eat, I think about gettin’ bigger. And now I can’t even wear my own uniform.”

Osamu didn’t know what to say. He’d joined in—lighthearted, brotherly jabs. Called his twin a chunky setter once, and Atsumu had laughed. He thought it was fine.

He reached out and pulled Atsumu against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t mean—”

The door slid open. Kita stood there, calm and steady, took in the scene. Didn't ask. Just walked over, knelt beside them, and placed a hand on Atsumu’s head.

“It’s okay,” Kita said softly. “Let it out.”

Atsumu did. Cried into his twin’s collarbone under Kita’s palm, until sobs turned to hiccups, and hiccups faded into silence.

Next day, Atsumu started a new diet.

Woke up, chewed a piece of gum until the flavor was gone. Then a glass of cold water. That was breakfast. For lunch, a single apple, eaten slice by slice, each sliver lasting a full minute. He skipped dinner. When his head spun and knees buckled during practice, he allowed himself half a cucumber. No dressing. No salt.

Osamu noticed. Sat across from him at lunch, watching him nibble the apple core.

“You need to eat more than that.”

“I’m fine. Just not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry anymore. That’s not normal.”

“Maybe I was eatin’ too much before.” Atsumu’s voice sharpened. “Maybe I need to make up for it.”

Osamu reached over and took the apple core. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“Give it back.”

“Eat a proper meal.”

Atsumu’s eyes flashed. “You’re not my keeper, Samu. Drop it.”

He snatched the core back and bit into it, skin and seeds, chewing with defiance. Osamu watched, a stone settling in his gut, but he didn’t push. Told himself it was just a phase. Atsumu was stubborn. He’d come around.

But he didn’t. He doubled down.

Volleyball was twice as hard now. His body screamed for fuel, but he pushed through—set faster, jumped higher, ran suicides until his vision blurred. He lost weight fast. Cheeks hollowed, waist trimmed, thighs thinned. By the end of camp, he could slide into his jersey with room to spare.

Everyone complimented him. Suna said he looked lean. Aran said he was quicker. Even Kita patted his shoulder and said, “Good work, Miya.”

Atsumu smiled. But when he stood in front of the mirror that night, he didn’t see the compliments. Saw loose skin, softness still on his hips, a stomach that wasn’t flat enough. Ran his fingers over his ribs, counting. There were supposed to be more. He needed to be harder. Smaller. Invisible.

Osamu walked in once while Atsumu was flexing, frowning at his reflection. “You look fine,” Osamu said. “Better than fine. You look good.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lyin’.”

“You said I was fat. Remember? Before camp.”

Osamu’s jaw tightened. “That was a joke. I didn’t mean it.”

“But you said it.”

The words hung. Atsumu pulled a hoodie over his head and walked out.

Sakusa Kiyoomi didn’t help.

They’d started dating in the spring—quiet, long-distance, built on texts and calls that were always too short. Atsumu loved him with a fierce, desperate ache, but Kiyoomi’s affection came wrapped in distance. He rarely said “I love you” first. When Atsumu sent a photo after a match, Kiyoomi responded with “Nice block” or “Good form.” Never “You look happy” or “I miss you.” Never “You look beautiful.”

Atsumu would lie in bed, scrolling through their chat history, counting emojis. Depressingly low.

He texted one night: “Do you still think I’m attractive?”

Twenty minutes later: “You’re a professional athlete. That’s not relevant.”

He laughed bitterly, then cried into his pillow.

Told himself to stop. End it. But he couldn’t. Kiyoomi was the only person who made him feel like he had value as a setter, as a partner, as someone worth loving. But the love felt conditional. He had to be good enough. Thin enough. Perfect enough.

So he kept starving.

And when the weight stopped dropping, he found another way.

A dull razor—the kind for shaving, cheap and multi-blade. He sat on the bathroom floor, staring at his thighs, pale and soft under the harsh light. Thought about all the words he couldn’t say, all the love he couldn’t feel, all the fat that clung like a curse. Pressed the blade against his skin. Once. A thin line of red.

It stung. Sharp. The first thing that made sense in months.

He did it again. And again.

Kept the cuts high on his thighs, hidden under his volleyball shorts. Wore long pants even in the sweltering heat. Told himself it was for muscle recovery. No one questioned it.

But Osamu noticed.

Two months into the new school year. Atsumu had stopped the extreme diet—partly because Kita pulled him aside and said, “I see what you’re doing, Miya. Don’t.”—but the eating stayed disordered. Still skipped meals, chewed gum all day, weighed himself four times a morning.

The self-harm became his secret language. Each cut a sentence. Each scar a paragraph. He wrote his failures on his skin with careful precision.

One evening, after a long practice, Osamu came looking for him. The locker room was empty except for a faint light from the bathroom stall. Osamu knocked.

“Tsumu? You in there?”

Pause. “Yeah. Just changin’.”

“You’ve been changin’ for fifteen minutes. Open the door.”

“I’m fine.”

“Open the door, Tsumu.”

The lock clicked. The door swung open. Atsumu stood there, half-dressed, shorts around his knees, fresh welts on his left thigh, still pink and glistening.

The world stopped.

Osamu looked at the cuts. Then at Atsumu’s face, white and scared. Then back at the cuts.

“What did you do?” His voice barely a whisper.

Atsumu said nothing. Hands trembling as he tried to pull up his shorts, but Osamu grabbed his wrist, gentle but firm.

“Don’t. Let me see.”

“It’s nothin’.”

“It’s not nothin’.” Osamu’s eyes were wet. He let go, sank to his knees, stared at the damaged skin. “Tsumu… how long?”

Atsumu’s lip wobbled. The dam he’d built for months cracked. He slid down the wall until he sat on the cold tile, and cried—raw, ugly, animal sounds that echoed off the lockers.

“I’m worthless,” he choked out. “I’m ugly. I’m fat. I’m nothin’. Samu, I’m nothin’. Sakusa don’t even love me. He won’t say it. And I can’t… I can’t look at myself without… without wantin’ to…”

He couldn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

Osamu wrapped his arms around him, pulled him tight against his chest, rocking like they were kids again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I shoulda never said those things. I shoulda seen it. I’m sorry, Tsumu.”

They sat there on the dirty locker room floor until Atsumu’s tears dried and his breathing steadied. Osamu didn’t let go.

“We’re gonna fix this,” Osamu said. “Together. I’m gonna be here every day. You hear me?”

Atsumu nodded against his shoulder.

“And we’re gonna talk to Kita-san. And I’m gonna make you see a counselor. And if Kiyoomi can’t get his head out of his ass, I’ll drive to Tokyo and knock some sense into him myself.”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. “You can’t fight Sakusa.”

“I’ll try. For you.”

The next weeks were hard. Kita handled the counseling arrangements with a quiet efficiency that made Atsumu feel less like a burden. The therapist’s office smelled like lavender and paper. Atsumu spent the first two sessions crying without saying a word.

Osamu went with him. Sat in the waiting room. Brought him onigiri after, which Atsumu would nibble and sometimes finish.

Sakusa found out through a curt text from Osamu: “Atsumu’s been hurting himself. You need to step up.”

The reply came hours later. Simple. Terrified. “Is he okay?”

“He will be. If you help.”

Sakusa called that night. Longest conversation they’d had in months. He didn’t apologize directly, but he said: “I’m not good at this. At saying things. But I am good at loving you. Even if I don’t say it.”

Atsumu listened, silent, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I love you,” Sakusa said. Stilted, raw. “I should have said it more.”

After that, the texts changed. Simple, but there: “Good morning. I love you.” “How was practice? I love you.” “Eat something. I love you.” He started visiting on weekends, showing up with flowers that wilted in the humidity, staying for meals Atsumu couldn't always finish.

Osamu would cook. Onigiri with salmon, miso soup with tofu, rice bowls with vegetables. He’d set them in front of Atsumu and say, “Eat. The volleyball team needs its setter. I need my brother.”

And slowly, painfully, Atsumu ate.

Still had bad days. Days when the mirror felt like an enemy and the cuts called to him. But on those days, Osamu was there. Sakusa would text, not expecting a reply, just to remind him. Kita would check in, calm presence a steady hand.

The scars on Atsumu’s thighs faded from red to pink to white. He learned to look at them without shame, to see them as a map of a war he was still fighting. Learned to look in the mirror and say, “You’re okay. You’re still here.”

One evening, after a practice that felt good—really good—Osamu found him sitting on the engawa, drinking cold water, chewing gum.

“You still doin’ that?” Osamu asked, sitting beside him.

Atsumu looked at the pack. “It’s just habit now. Helps me think.”

“Long as you’re eatin’ real food too.”

“I am.” He turned to his twin, and for the first time in months, there was a quiet smile. “Thanks, Samu.”

Osamu bumped his shoulder. “Don’t mention it.”

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun set over the mountains. The air was cooling. Volleyball season was about to start.

Atsumu’s phone buzzed. A text from Sakusa: “Can’t wait to see you play. I love you.”

He stared at the screen. His throat tightened, but not in pain. He typed back: “Love you too. I’ll try to eat before the match.”

Three dots appeared. Then: “Good. I’ll bring onigiri from that place you like.”

Atsumu laughed out loud, startling Osamu.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He tucked the phone in his pocket. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”

And for the first time, he believed it.