Cracks in the Pavement

The winter air cut right through Atsumu’s jacket as she walked to school, collar turned up, shoulders hunched. Her gym bag dragged on her shoulder—hoodie from yesterday, spare practice jersey, the same baggy sweatpants she’d been living in for weeks. She counted cracks in the pavement. One, two, three. Anything to keep from catching her reflection in a car window or a puddle.

She hadn’t looked in a mirror since New Year’s.

Two bathrooms in the Miya house. She’d learned to navigate both with her eyes half-shut, or drape a towel over the mirror if she had to shave. But she couldn’t escape the feeling of her own body. Broad shoulders. That jawline she hated. The way her voice dropped when she wasn’t paying attention. Her blazer was two sizes too big, sleeves past her wrists. Didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Osamu walked a few steps ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, breath fogging. He hadn’t said much this morning. Didn’t these days. Atsumu could feel him watching her from the corner of his eye, the way he left food out even when she didn’t eat. But he never pushed. Never. And that made it worse—silence like a wall she couldn’t climb.

Practice. The court was both a sanctuary and a cage.

Suna was already stretching, long legs folded under him, working his hips. Kita sat on the bench with his clipboard, reviewing drills. Aran tossed a ball against the wall, catch, toss, catch—steady rhythm. Atsumu dropped her bag and started changing her shoes, fingers clumsy on the laces.

“Oi, Miya. You look like crap.”

Suna’s voice was flat, but the concern underneath? Unmistakable. Atsumu forced a grin—the same one she’d perfected over six months of growing, gnawing unease she couldn’t name until recently.

“Rough night. Didn’t sleep.”

“You haven’t slept in a month. Maybe see a doctor.”

She laughed. Hollow. Tied her shoes, pulled the practice jersey over her head. Loose, but not loose enough. She could still feel the shape of her chest—wrong, wrong, wrong—and tugged at the fabric, hoping it would hang different.

Kita’s gaze was calm, penetrating. He didn’t say anything during practice. But afterward, he caught her by the water fountain.

“Atsumu.”

She stopped. Her name felt heavy in his voice.

“You’ve been crying.” Not a question.

Atsumu wiped at her face. She hadn’t even realized there were tears. She’d been good at hiding them—turning her back when the ball went out, pretending to cough when her throat tightened. But Kita missed nothing.

“Allergies.”

Kita looked at her for a long moment. Then: “If you need to talk, I’m here. So are the others. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

The kindness almost broke her. She nodded, quick and sharp, and walked away before she could sob.

That was the worst part. People were kind. They cared. And she couldn’t tell them why she was falling apart.

Early March. Atsumu saw it.

Osamu’s hand rested on the back of a girl’s chair. Suna’s younger sister—came to watch a practice game with friends. Pretty, same sharp eyes as her brother. She laughed at something Osamu said. He smiled back, easy and warm, and when she dropped her bag, he bent to pick it up without hesitation.

Atsumu watched from across the gym, throat tight.

Not attraction. Envy. Deep, aching, hollow envy that burned in her chest. She wanted to be seen the way Osamu saw that girl. Wanted to be treated with gentleness, with care—as someone precious and delicate. She wanted to be a girl. She wanted to be her.

She turned away before the tears could come.

That night, she locked herself in the bathroom, sat on the cold tile, back against the tub, knees drawn up. The mirror was covered with a towel. She could still feel the weight of her body, the wrongness of it. She pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars.

I want to be a girl.

The thought had been there for years, buried under volleyball and competition and the easy banter of being one of the twins. But it surfaced last summer, raw and undeniable, and ever since it had been eating her alive. She’d searched in the dark hours, scrolling forums, medical websites, learning words like dysphoria, estrogen, transition. Made a plan. Chickened out a dozen times.

But tonight, she pulled out her phone and opened the browser.

International website. Discreet packaging. No prescription required. She read the reviews—other girls like her, some successful, some not. Dangerous, but the idea of waiting, of going through official channels, of having to explain to a doctor, of having to tell anyone—that was worse. She filled the cart. Entered her address. Clicked submit.

The confirmation email sat in her inbox like a bomb.

She didn’t tell Osamu.

Practice became a battlefield.

Sets still sharp, serves still brutal, but her focus fractured. She’d lose track mid-rally, eyes going somewhere far away, and miss the ball or send it wide. Snapped at Omimi for a bad receive, then apologized immediately, voice cracking. He looked at her like she was a stranger.

Kita pulled her aside after a particularly rough practice. “Atsumu. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Her jaw tightened. She wanted to scream. Wanted to collapse. Wanted to grab his hand and tell him everything, but the words turned to ash. “I said I’m fine.”

Kita studied her with those steady eyes. Then sighed. “Take a few days off. Rest.”

“I don’t need rest.”

“You do.”

Couldn’t argue with Kita. No one could. So she went home that evening, sat in her room, stared at the ceiling. The package of pills hidden in her desk drawer. She hadn’t taken any. Too scared. The estrogen would change her body, but also her life. Questions. Stares. The team would find out. Her parents. She didn’t know if she was brave enough.

But staying like this—in a body that felt like a cage—wasn’t bravery either. It was slow death.

The breakdown came in the locker room.

Thursday. Three days after the package arrived. Practice had been brutal. Aran pushed them hard, muscles aching, but that wasn’t what broke her. It was catching her reflection in the gym’s glass doors.

For just a second, she saw herself clearly.

Broad shoulders. Flat chest. Angular jaw. The face of a boy.

A boy who wasn’t her.

She dropped her water bottle. Echo. The team turned. And Atsumu—Miya Atsumu, the cocky setter, the one who never cracked—felt something inside her splinter and break.

She didn’t remember running. Just ended up in the locker room, crouched between lockers, hands over her face, sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Hot, endless tears. Hated herself for crying. Hated being weak. Hated having to hide.

“Oi.”

Osamu’s voice. Soft. Careful.

Footsteps. Air shifted as he crouched beside her. Hand hovering near her shoulder, not quite touching.

“Atsumu. What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t answer. Shook her head, pressed palms harder into her eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “Talk to me.”

The gentleness in his voice was too much. She wanted him to yell. Get angry. Hit her, so she could hit back, and they could fight, and she wouldn’t have to feel this awful, tangled mess of shame and fear and longing.

“Leave me alone,” she spat, words jagged.

Osamu didn’t move. “I’m not leaving.”

“I said leave me alone!” She shoved him. Hard. He stumbled back, surprise flickering across his face. “Just—just go, okay? You don’t get it. You don’t get anything.”

“Then help me get it,” he said, voice steady.

Breath hitched. She looked at him—her twin, her other half, the one person who’d known her since before she was born—and saw confusion in his eyes, the hurt she’d caused. She wanted to tell him. Open her mouth and let the truth spill out.

But the words wouldn’t come.

So she ran.

Ran home without telling anyone, bag half-packed, shoes still on. Locked her bedroom door, sat on her bed shaking. The package in her drawer. She opened it, pulled out the bottle of pills, held it in trembling hands.

I could take one now. Right now. Start changing. Never go back.

She didn’t.

She put the bottle back, pulled out a piece of paper instead. Wrote a letter.

Dear Osamu,

I don’t know how to say this. I’ve been trying for months. I’m writing because I can’t say it out loud. I need you to know. I need someone to know. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not your brother. I’m your sister. I want to be a girl. I hate my body. I hate the way people see me. I hate pretending. I’m scared. Please don’t hate me.

She wrote more. Pages. Everything she’d held inside for years. When she finished, hand cramping, paper stained with tears.

She read it once. Twice.

Then tore it into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

Didn’t have the courage to give it to him. Didn’t have the courage to do anything.

The final breakdown came on a Saturday night in early April.

Air finally warming, cherry blossoms along the school road starting to bud. Atsumu had spent the day in her room, curtains drawn, phone off. Skipped practice for the third time that week. Kita called. Aran texted. Suna sent a single question mark.

She didn’t respond to any of them.

Sat on her bed, knees pulled up, staring at the wall. The bottle of pills in her hand. She’d been holding it for an hour, turning it over, feeling the weight. All she had to do was take one. Just one. Cross a line she couldn’t uncross. Start.

But what if it didn’t work? What if she was wrong? What if she wasn’t really a girl, just broken?

Tears again. Buried her face in her knees and sobbed.

Didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear Osamu’s footsteps.

Felt his hand on her shoulder, and jerked back, gasping.

“How did you—I locked the door.”

“You think a lock stops me?” He sat on the edge of her bed, still in practice clothes, hair damp with sweat. Must have come straight from the gym. “You missed practice again. Kita’s really worried.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

Grip on the pill bottle tightened. She tried to hide it, shoving it under her thigh, but his eyes caught the movement.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Atsumu.”

“It’s nothing.”

He reached for her hand. She pulled away. He grabbed her wrist, firm but not rough, pried the bottle from her fingers. Held it up. Read the label. His face went pale.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s—” Voice cracked. “It’s estrogen, okay? Hormones. For—for transition.”

Osamu stared. Silence stretched, thick and heavy.

“Transition?” Barely a whisper.

Atsumu couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see disgust, rejection, confusion. Curled into herself, arms around her knees, and started speaking. Words came out broken, like glass shards, each one cutting.

“I’m not—I don’t feel right in my body. Never have. Look in the mirror and don’t see me. See someone else. Someone wrong. I want to be a girl, Osamu. Want it so bad it hurts. Want to wear skirts, have long hair, be called she. Want to be your sister, not your brother. Hate this body. Hate everything about it. Hate waking up every day pretending to be someone I’m not. Hate lying. Hate being scared. Hate that I can’t just—just be.”

She was sobbing now, whole body shaking. “I’m sorry. I know it’s weird. I know it’s wrong. Everyone will think I’m crazy. But I can’t do this anymore. Can’t keep pretending. I want to die, Osamu. I want to die because living like this is worse.”

The last words hung in the air, raw and terrible.

Osamu didn’t move. Sat frozen, bottle still in his hand, face unreadable. Atsumu waited for the explosion. Waited for him to get up and leave, tell her she was sick, call their parents, throw the pills away.

He didn’t.

He set the bottle down on the nightstand. Very slowly, he reached out and pulled her into a hug.

Atsumu stiffened. She didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve kindness. But Osamu held her tight, arms around her shaking frame, chin resting on her head.

“I don’t get it,” he said quietly. “I don’t understand. But you’re my twin. You’re my—you’re my family. And I’m not gonna let you go through this alone.”

Atsumu’s tears soaked into his practice jersey. She clutched his back, fingers digging into the fabric.

“You don’t hate me?”

“Course I don’t hate you. Just—shocked. But I’m not gonna hate you for being who you are.”

“I don’t know who I am,” she whispered.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

They sat like that for a long time. Silence no longer empty, but full of something fragile and new.

When Atsumu finally pulled back, her face blotchy, eyes red. Osamu handed her a tissue from the box on her desk.

“So,” he said, “you’re my sister now?”

Atsumu let out a wet laugh. “If you want me to be.”

“I’ve always wanted a sister.” His voice had humor in it, thin but there. “You’re gonna be a handful, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

Osamu sighed. “We need to keep this quiet for now. Team, parents—it’s too soon. Need to find you a real doctor. Not online pills, you idiot.”

Atsumu’s stomach twisted. “I know. I was just—desperate.”

“I know. But no more taking things into your own hands without talking to me first. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Osamu squeezed her shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be hard, but it’s gonna be okay.”

Atsumu wanted to believe him. Looked at the bottle on the nightstand, then back at her brother—her twin, her ally.

Maybe it would be okay.

Maybe, for the first time in a long time, she could start to hope.

But when she lay down that night, the weight of her secret still pressed on her chest. Osamu accepted her, but the world was bigger than her brother. The team. School. Volleyball tournaments. Parents. Relatives. Strangers on the street. A long road ahead, and she was only at the beginning.

Still, she reached for her phone and sent a text to Osamu in the next room.

Thank you.

His reply came a moment later.

Always, sis.

She read it three times, letting the word sink in.

Sis.

She saved the message and closed her eyes. The fear was still there, a constant companion. But beneath it, something else was growing—a fragile, trembling relief.

She wasn’t alone anymore.