Chapter Text
The house is empty when I get back.
I already knew it would be.
Still, I stop in the doorway longer than necessary, keys still in my hand, like the silence might change its mind and say something.
It doesn’t.
No lights on. No shoes by the door that aren’t mine. No sound from the kitchen. My parents are away again — work, conferences, excuses that don’t need to be explained anymore.
They didn’t ask when I’d be back.
I didn’t tell them.
The door clicks shut behind me. The sound echoes too much in a place this big.
I take my shoes off neatly. Line them up. Habit. Order is easier than thinking.
The air smells stale. Like nothing’s been disturbed in days.
Good.
My room hasn’t changed.
The bed is still made the way I left it. Desk clear. Curtains half open. Everything exactly where it’s supposed to be — as if the house itself understands that movement is unnecessary unless it serves a purpose.
I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the edge of the bed.
There’s no rush.
There hasn’t been one since Blue Lock stopped telling me where to be.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days without whistles, without schedules, without someone watching.
People call it a break.
It feels more like being removed from circulation.
I reach into the drawer and pull out the pack.
Marlboro.
White box. Red chevron. The warning label is creased from how often I’ve opened it. There are only a few left.
I don’t remember when I started.
Somewhere between matches. Somewhere after realizing that breathing normally didn’t do anything anymore.
I open the window before lighting up. Not because I care about the smell — just because smoke needs somewhere to go.
The lighter clicks on the first try.
I inhale.
The burn hits the back of my throat, sharp and grounding. My lungs protest. Good. That means they’re still paying attention.
I exhale slowly, watching the smoke thin out as it drifts into the cold air outside.
Nothing dramatic happens.
Nothing ever does.
Living isn’t worth it.
The thought comes without resistance, like it’s been waiting its turn.
I don’t argue with it.
Arguing requires belief in another option.
I take another drag.
People think thoughts like that come with pain. With sadness. With tears you have to wipe away.
They don’t understand how quiet it actually is.
This isn’t despair.
This is absence.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. There’s a faint crack running from one corner to the other. I’ve counted it before. Traced it with my eyes until sleep came.
Sleep hasn’t been coming much lately.
My phone buzzes once.
A notification. Probably automated. Probably Blue Lock reminding me I still exist in their system.
I don’t check it.
If something matters, it’ll wait.
I smoke until the cigarette burns too close to my fingers, then stub it out in the ashtray by the window. There are more but I don’t reach for them yet.
I don’t deserve habits that feel good.
Later, I go outside.
The field near the house is empty, like always. The goalposts are crooked. The net’s been repaired too many times to pretend it’s original.
I like it better this way.
No audience. No expectations.
Just motion.
The first shot goes wide.
The second hits metal.
By the third, my body remembers what it’s for.
Everything narrows.
Ball. Space. Angle.
I move until my legs shake, until my lungs burn worse than the cigarettes ever did. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging, but I don’t wipe it away.
If I collapse here, no one would notice for hours.
The thought lingers longer than it should.
I lie back on the grass, chest rising and falling evenly, staring up at the sky.
Still here.
I don’t feel relieved about that.
When I get home, it’s dark again.
The house welcomes me the same way it did before — by not reacting at all.
I shower. Eat something without tasting it. Sit on my bed with my phone finally in my hand.
One unread message.
BLUE LOCK PROJECT:
Participants are to return. Neo Egoist League begins.
I read it once.
Then again.
This is where the world gets bigger, they said.
Foreign teams. New systems. Stronger strikers.
I should feel something about that.
Instead, all I think is this:
If this is where I disappear, then at least it’ll be on the field.
I put the phone down.
Outside, the city keeps moving.
Inside, I sit in the quiet and wait for something — anything — to make me feel like staying is a choice, not just inertia.
I don’t know yet that someone will.
Only that when he does, he won’t let me stay empty.