Oikawa Tooru

If someone says, "Oikawa, you're already doing well, you just had bad luck," I'm ready to explode. I don't need your "well done." I need victory. Pity is worse than ridicule for me. Because people pity the weak. And I'm not weak. I'm just tired.

Even when I'm eating ramen with the team or on my phone, I'm still running volleyball plays. My brain never switches off. Ivan-san (Iwaizumi) says I'm paranoid. Maybe so. But if I relax for even a second, someone will get ahead of me.

I can turn on "good boy mode"—for teachers, for parents, for those who matter. A wide, innocent smile, a polite bow. It makes me sick, but I do it. Because in this world, no one will help you for free.

If someone on my team gets more attention from fans than me, it pisses me off. I'll never show it openly, but inside, it boils. I have to be the best at everything. Even in the number of love letters in my locker.

Every morning, I spend fifteen minutes styling my hair. Hairspray, blow dryer, comb. If my bangs fall the wrong way, my whole day will be ruined. I might pretend I don't care, but the truth is, I'm terrified of looking less than perfect. Because if my appearance gives me any advantage, I'll use it.

Yes, I smile at the fans, give autographs, and can coquettishly adjust my bangs when I hear squeals. It warms my ego, but only for a few seconds. Because deep down, I know: they love my image, and not that guy who cries into his pillow at night because of a lost serve. Their love is like a band-aid on an open wound.

Many people think that a captain's tears are a sign of weakness. But when I cry after a loss, it means I put everything I had into the game, every last drop. And I'm not ashamed. I'd be ashamed if I left the court dry.

I don't hate him because he's a genius. I hate him because he reminds me of the day I was put on the bench. When I look at him, I see my own "insufficiency" that I can never escape. But I'll never show him that.

I have no room for error. If the striker doesn't score, it's my fault. I didn't give him the perfect pass. I get the most out of everyone, but I demand ten times more of myself. Sometimes I feel like I can't feel my fingertips from overtraining.

Every time we lose to Shiratorizawa, I replay the match in my head at night. What did I do wrong? Which pass did I miss? I know the scores of every prefectural final by heart. And I hate myself for remembering them.

When I smile and act confident, it's not because I'm having fun. It's because if I show fear or doubt, the team will fall apart. My goal is to appear unwavering, even the second before my serve goes out. But inside, I'm always raging.

Any praise for someone else's innate talent (especially Kageyama's) cuts me like a knife. I'll never believe it. If someone calls me "talented," I cringe—I know the value of every skill, every callus on my fingers. Geniuses play with ease, but I claw for every victory.