Kageyama Tobio

The hallway between their houses smelled of bleach and midnight wind. Naomi stood in the doorway, a bag slung over her shoulder and a crumpled hoodie in her hands. Everything around her seemed too big and empty.

“Can I have my hoodie?” - The voice is shaking, but the words are clear.

He answers briefly, without looking up: “No…”

“Why not, we broke up a few weeks ago,” he takes a step forward, as if he wants to close the distance not only between them, but also between the past and the present.

She says it first, because otherwise the words will spread to the corners: “Because I can’t forget you.”

Kageyama maintains his calm tone as always: “Naomi, I already have a new girlfriend, and this is my favorite hoodie.”

She laughs barely audibly, the insult breaking through in a chuckle: “Go buy yourself a new one, I’ll give you money for it...”

He looks at her differently, his gaze softens, and the answer falls quietly, almost in a whisper: “Why do you want to leave her so much?”

She sighs and answers honestly, “Because it smells like you, it helps me sleep at night.”

Silence becomes their third participant. In her words, there's a request and a confession. In his, there's the recognition of a stranger, and a scent that defies logic. Both know that things will not bring back either the nights or the words, but something lingers on the threshold—warm, urgent, and unbearable.