The crowd was deafening, a sea of voices chanting her name, but Atsumu could barely hear them over the pounding in her chest. The stage lights cast her in a warm glow, but inside, she felt cold. She gripped the microphone tighter, forcing herself to breathe.
She wasn’t ready for this.
She had convinced herself she was. She had rehearsed the song a hundred times, had told herself it was just another performance, just another city. But then she felt it—that pull.
Sakusa Kiyoomi was here.
She hadn’t seen her yet, but she knew. She always knew.
The piano notes of Don’t Smile rang through the stadium, and the energy shifted. The crowd recognized the song instantly, but Atsumu wasn’t singing it for them. She was singing for her.
The first words left her lips, soft and trembling.
“Don’t smile because it happened, baby.
Cry because it’s over…”
The murmur in the audience was immediate. They knew. The media had done its job well—every headline, every rumor about their breakup had spread like wildfire. And the whispers about Kiyoomi moving on? Atsumu had tried to ignore them. But now, singing these words, she couldn’t escape them.
“Oh, you’re supposed to think about me
Every time you hold her.”
Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. She scanned the crowd, heart hammering, searching for the only face that mattered.
And then she saw her.
Row five. Dark curls slightly disheveled, arms crossed over her chest. Her face was blank, unreadable, but Atsumu knew her. Knew the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched when she was holding something back.
Her voice caught in her throat, but she forced herself to keep going.
“My heart is heavy now, it’s like a hundred pounds. It’s fallin’ faster than the way you love to shut me down.”
She swore she saw Kiyoomi’s jaw tighten, the flicker of something in her expression. Regret? Pain?
“I think I need a shower, my friends are takin’ shots.
You think it’s happy hour, for me, it’s not.”
She let the words linger, let the weight of them sink in.
The second chorus hit harder, sharper, and she let herself feel it.
“Don’t smile because it happened, baby.
Cry because it’s over…”
Kiyoomi was still watching her. Still listening.
”(I want you to miss me, I want you to miss me)
Oh, you’re supposed to think about me
Every time you hold her…”
Atsumu’s breath hitched. The words were pouring out of her, but it was more than just lyrics now. It was everything she had left unsaid.
She saw the way Kiyoomi’s fingers curled into fists, how her eyes darkened. She wasn’t indifferent.
And that was what scared her the most.
The second verse hit, and it was like she was tearing herself open.
“Pour my feelings in the microphone,
I stay in, and when the girls come home
I want one of them to take my phone.
Take my phone and lose your
Number, I don’t wanna be tempted.”
She wanted to look away. Wanted to turn her back and pretend this didn’t hurt. But she couldn’t.
“Pick up when you wanna fall back in.
You can fake it, but you know I know.
Know I know.”
She sang those words directly to her, daring her to deny it. Daring her to look away.
She didn’t.
The final chorus came, and Atsumu’s voice wavered, thick with emotion.
“Don’t smile because it happened, baby (Don’t, oh).
Cry because it’s over (No, mm, no, no).
Oh, you’re supposed to think about me
Every time you hold her (Mm).”
Her grip tightened on the mic stand as she let the last lines fall, a whisper of something broken.
“Don’t smile because it happened, baby.
Cry because it’s over (Ooh).”
The stadium roared with applause, but Atsumu barely heard it.
Because Kiyoomi was still there.
Still looking right at her.
Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. The song had drained her, left her raw in front of thousands of people, but none of them mattered right now. Just her. Just the weight of her gaze, the silent conversation they were having across the sea of screaming fans.
Then, just as quickly as she found her, she was gone.
Atsumu’s stomach twisted. She barely managed to push through the encore, singing on autopilot, her mind stuck on the fact that Kiyoomi had left. She had expected it—of course she had—but it still sent something sharp through her ribs.
By the time she was backstage, she was a mess. Her hands trembled as she downed a bottle of water, her team buzzing around her, but she barely registered any of it.
“Atsumu.”
She froze.
The voice was unmistakable.
Slowly, she turned.
Kiyoomi stood near the far wall of her dressing room, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She was still in the same dark clothes, but up close, Atsumu could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled against her biceps like she was holding something in.
Atsumu swallowed. “You left.”
Kiyoomi exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I didn’t leave. I just—” She dragged a hand down her face, frustrated. “I needed a second.”
A second.
Atsumu let out a breathless laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah? Well, I needed a lot more than that.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “I know.”
The weight of those words nearly knocked Atsumu over.
She had spent months pretending she was fine, pretending she didn’t care, pretending the thought of her with someone else didn’t feel like drowning. But now she was standing in front of her, looking at her like she was still hers, and it was making her insane.
Atsumu shook her head. “Did you come back here just to stare at me? Because if you’re looking for an autograph, I’m fresh out.”
Kiyoomi’s lips twitched, but she didn’t take the bait. “I came because I heard the song.”
Her pulse jumped. “Oh?”
She stepped closer, her voice quieter now. “And because I need to know if you meant it.”
Atsumu swallowed. She hated how easily she could do this—how she could cut through her defenses with just a few words.
“Which part?” she asked, voice steadier than she felt.
Kiyoomi didn’t hesitate. “All of it.”
Her fingers clenched around the water bottle. “Would it matter?”
Her expression darkened. “It does to me.”
That shouldn’t have made Atsumu’s chest ache. But it did.
Atsumu looked away, suddenly exhausted. “I meant every damn word, Kiyoomi.”
She heard her exhale, slow and measured, like she was trying to keep herself together. “Atsumu—”
“Don’t.” She turned back to her, eyes blazing. “Don’t do that thing where you say my name like it’s supposed to fix everything. It doesn’t.”
She flinched.
Good.
She crossed her arms. “You were supposed to think about me every time you held her.”
Kiyoomi’s jaw tightened.
Atsumu huffed out a bitter laugh. “Did you?”
There was a long silence.
Then, finally, she said, “Yes.”
Her breath caught.
She hadn’t expected her to admit it.
Kiyoomi ran a hand through her hair, looking at her like she was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. “You think I wanted to move on?” She shook her head. “I tried, Atsumu. I tried. But I couldn’t. It’s always been you.”
Atsumu’s throat burned. She hated her for saying that. Hated her for giving her hope when she had spent so long trying to kill it.
“You don’t get to say that now,” she whispered.
Kiyoomi stepped closer, close enough that she could see the way her breathing had gone uneven. “Then when?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
And for the first time that night, she told the truth.
Because she didn’t know.
Not if she could ever let herself forgive her. Not if she could believe her again.
All she knew was that when she looked at her like that, she didn’t feel so alone.