Chapter 4:

Chapter 4: “We Were Unbeatable Once.”

"Shuttle Hearts: Love & Badminton"


The courtyard was quiet, except for the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant sound of a first-year getting scolded for running in the hallway.

I sat alone on a sun-warmed bench, nursing a juice box I didn’t remember buying, replaying yesterday’s practice over and over in my mind like a looping video with no pause button.

Reina’s words echoed: “Now you think you can come back like it doesn’t matter. But it does?”

No. I didn’t think that.

But I kind of hoped.

Shunpei

A familiar voice floated in from behind. Ayame’s voice—always casually sharp, like a feather duster hiding a lead pipe.

I didn’t look up as she plopped down beside me, kicking her legs lazily.

“Thinking about her again?” she asked, without needing an answer. “You’re hopeless.”

“…I’m not thinking about her.”

She gave me a sideways glance. “Right. You’re just sitting here looking like a heartbroken protagonist for no reason.”

I sighed and sipped the juice.

Ayame leaned back, hands behind her head. “You two used to be unstoppable, I heard. Reina and Shunpei. I bet it was kind of gross, actually. Like some badminton drama couple out of a manga.”

I cracked a weak smile. “We weren’t a couple.”

“Exactly. That’s what made it worse.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing through the trees.

“You ever gonna tell her why you really left?” Ayame asked, softly this time.

I didn’t answer.

Because the truth is—I didn’t know what to say.

It all comes back like a flicked switch.

Two years ago. That gym. That sound.

That feeling.

The old middle school gym buzzed with energy. Coaches shouted over the squeak of sneakers, shuttlecocks flew like lightning, and in the center of it all… we were there.

Reina and I.

“Back-left drop, Reina!”

“Got it!”

She darted forward, flipping the shuttle right over the net. The other pair lunged too late. I swept around to cover the return and—smash.

Another point.

Another win.

We high-fived mid-court. Our timing—perfect. Our movement—instinctual. Our rhythm—unshakable.

We were good. No—we were unstoppable.

The other pairs clapped reluctantly as we walked off the court.

“That’s seven straight wins,” Reina said, panting lightly. Her short ponytail clung to her neck, and her eyes shimmered like they always did when she was proud.

“Think we’re ready for nationals?” I asked.

She turned to me with a grin.

“No,” she said.

“…No?”

“We’re not ready.”

She stepped in close, held out her pinky.

“We will be. So—promise me. No matter what happens, we’ll go to nationals. Together.”

I blinked. Caught off guard by how sincere she looked. Serious. Determined.

“…That’s kinda dramatic.”

“Take it seriously.”

I smirked and hooked my pinky with hers.

“I’d rather die than break that promise.”

She smiled wide.

And that smile stayed with me for a long time.

Until the day it disappeared.

The next day on the Rooftop. Windy. The sky is full of rolling clouds. The kind of day where everything feels like a goodbye.

I found her up there after school, hugging her knees against the breeze.

“I heard,” I said, walking over.

She didn’t look at me.

“The move?” I added.

She nodded.

An academy in Tokyo. One that didn't have a very good badminton program there. but I had to for reasons I didn't tell her.

“I heard you would have to stop playing when you move.”

“Yeah, but it might not be so bad, I can play it casually, and try new things,” I said.

She looked at me.

“But what about our promise?”

I didn’t let the ache show.

“You don’t need me to shine, Reina.”

“…That’s not the point.”

I forced a grin.

“Maybe we’ll get another chance to play with each other, yeah?”

She didn’t answer.

The next day, I withdrew from the team and school.

Without a word.

Without goodbye.

Because if I had stayed any longer… I wouldn't have been able to go.

I snap back to the present.

My hands clenched around the empty juice box.

Reina’s still here. Still playing. Still climbing.

And me?

I’m just the guy who vanished when things got hard.

Later that evening, I wandered up to the gym balcony after everyone had left. The court below was bathed in the soft gold of sunset through the high windows.

She was still there.

Practicing. Alone.

Her footwork was perfect. Her strokes are clean. But something about the way she moved looked different.

Empty, almost.

Like she was chasing something that was no longer there.

“Still brooding?”

Ayame’s voice again, beside me now.

I didn’t jump. She always showed up like this—quiet and annoying.

“She doesn’t know why you quit,” she said.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I replied.

“Then why do you look like you regret it every time you see her?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I did regret it.

And I didn’t know if I had the right to fix it.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, phone in hand.

An unsent message to Reina sat on the screen.

Just her name.

No words.

I stared at it for a long time.

And then… I deleted it.

I opened my desk drawer instead, reaching for the dusty medal tucked underneath school reports and notebooks.

Regional Doubles Champions — engraved in gold, with both our names.

We were unbeatable once.

But I broke the rally.

And now… I don’t know how to restart it.

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