Act I: Spark Again

 |POV: Tsukishiro Yukina|

“Next! The 800-meter race! All runners, please approach the starting line!”
The announcement boomed across the stadium, rolling over the rows of athletes, friends, and families filling the stands.

I stood from the bench underneath a canopy, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it behind me. It landed with a soft flutter, revealing the blue-and-gold KU jersey clinging to my shoulders. My dark brown hair, tied into a ponytail, swung lightly as I made my way toward the familiar stretch of red track. A few of my teammates sat nearby, stretching lazily before their own events.

“Good luck!”
“You got this!”

Their voices drifted past. I offered a small nod in return, then turned my attention back to the lanes ahead, eight numbers. Eight people fighting for the same spot.

I inhaled deeply. Exhaled. Then stepped into my lane, stopping in front of the white cone marked with a bold five. Around me, the other runners settled into position, bodies angled and alert, waiting for the signal.

My gaze traced the curve of the track ahead, the first bend already promising exhaustion.

“On your marks.”

We moved automatically. Arms bent. Muscles coiled. Eyes locked forward. Every face around me was steady, composed, sharp. Focused. Calm. Dangerous.

I wondered what mine looked like.

The official cap pulled low over his eyes, raising the starter pistol. The barrel glinted against the sun.

We all tensed.

BANG.

The world snapped into motion.

My legs launched forward, body falling into a rhythm—fast, but not frantic.

Two laps. Eight hundred meters.

The pack surged together, a single mass of motion as we passed the first set of stands. Elbows brushed. Shoes clipped dangerously close. Everyone angled toward lane one, fighting for position. I slid into the middle of the pack without resistance.

I didn’t fight for more.

One hundred meters vanished beneath my feet. My breathing sharpened, but my body felt fine. I checked my position out of habit.

Four runners in front. Three behind.

Directly in front of me, Akasaka Nina. Her white ponytail snapped side to side, pace unyielding.

Typical.

Reaching four hundred meters, I pushed. Not because I believed it would change anything, but just because that was what came next. Everyone responded the same way. No one gave ground.

At 600-meters, Akasaka surged. She didn’t just speed up; she flew, overtaking the third and second runners with ease. I winced at her power. How did she still have that much in her?

My heart was hammered. My lungs burned. But the race wasn’t done. And the gap was only growing as Akasaka Nina kept pushing forward.

We rounded the final bend.

My stride unraveled. My legs felt hollow, my arms heavy and unresponsive. Each breath dragged, thick and labored, as if the air itself had turned against me.

I already knew.

The straightaway stretched out in front of me, and behind me came the sound of footsteps closing in. Two runners surged forward, their drive louder than anything I felt.

They slipped past.

But it didn’t matter.

Just like the last meet.
And the one before that.

I couldn’t do it.

There was no panic, no last burst, no spark to reach for. I crossed the line because that was what I was supposed to do. Because stopping would raise more questions than finishing.

Whatever it was that once made me want to run felt impossibly far away.

~~~

The orange glow of sunset washed over the field as the stadium emptied. Tents came down one by one, the circus-like scene fading into scattered equipment and tired footsteps. I sat alone at the edge of the stands, watching.

My eyes followed the white-haired girl as she walked with her teammates toward their bus.

A sigh slipped from my lips—until a heavy smack hit my back and knocked the air straight out of me.

“There’s our resident loner!” a painfully loud voice boomed.

I nearly choked as I turned, suddenly surrounded. Tatsumi towered over me, all muscle and ridiculous confidence, flexing like he couldn’t help himself. Broad-shouldered and built like a linebacker, he wore the same blue-and-gold KU jersey I had on, though he looked about one breath away from tearing it. His chestnut hair stuck up from the wind, dark brown eyes bright with that usual, infuriating cheer.

I frowned up at him. “One wrong move and you’ll injure me. I’m not built like you guys.” I gestured to my arms and legs. Lean, not bulky.

“Oh, c’mon. With more weight training, you could definitely squat something decent!”
Benio grinned, her sturdy frame carrying quiet strength. Her light brown hair caught the glow of the sunset, and her dark colored eyes sparkled with mischief as she stepped forward.

I grimaced at the thought of squatting their usual weights. Ridiculous. No runner needed that much muscle unless they were switching sports.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“So, how’d you do?” Benio asked gently.

I considered making a joke, but the words wouldn’t come. “Same as the last meet. I couldn’t beat her even if I tried. Heck, at this point maybe I won’t be beating anyone,” My jaw tightened. “I don’t think I can...” I forced my shoulders to relax as I held my breath before finishing that line. “What about you two?”

Tatsumi puffed out his chest. “Nailed it! Those chumps were nothing!”

Benio rolled her eyes. “The muscle-head is built differently from the rest of us,” she said, patting her braced knees. “I did alright. With more training and actual rest—I’ll get there.”

I reached out and gave her shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Nationals are still months away. As long as you don’t push yourself too hard, you’ll get the results you want.”

I stood and headed toward the coaches gathering at the bottom of the stands.
“Come on.”

The siblings hesitated, then followed, looking at me like I was included in my own words.

I wasn’t sure I was.

~~~

Loud ringing filled my ears. I tried to drown it out by dragging a pillow over my head, but the sound drilled straight through the fabric. With a groan, I reached toward my nightstand and squinted at my phone. Stop or Snooze. My thumb hit Snooze without hesitation.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. A thin strip of morning light cut through the gap in my curtains, dividing the room into light and shadow.

There wasn’t much to look at—there never had been. Ever since I moved out of my parents’ place freshman year, I hadn’t bothered to add anything. A few books, half-empty shelves, a closet packed with track gear, and mismatched jackets and jeans I barely cared about. Everything looked like it belonged to someone just passing through.

Practice.

The word surfaced, dull and heavy. Not something I dreaded. Not something I looked forward to. Just something that existed.

I lay there for another ten minutes, arguing with myself, before finally ripping the sheets off and heading toward the closet. Before I even reached the door, a soft ping made me turn.

My phone screen lit up. I read the name and message.

Chiaki.

>>Are you free today?

I blinked, still half-asleep.

<<I have practice in the morning.

The reply came quickly.

>>But today’s Saturday?

I paused and glanced at the calendar. My eyes widened a little. Right. Saturday. Somehow I’d lost track again. The tension in my shoulders loosened, the idea of practice fading from my mind as I tapped back.

<<What’s the plan?

About thirty minutes later, I’d changed into a light brown sweater and dark jeans—simple, but acceptable. I could still hear Chiaki’s voice nagging me through the phone earlier:

“Don’t wear your usual stuff, okay? At least try to look presentable. They’re a bit strict about dress code in theatres.”

Presentable, huh. I tried not to think about what that implied about my normal clothes. Ignoring that little sting, I waited in front of the convenience store near our apartments.

Chiaki lived alone too, though not because of a scholarship like me. She’d worked a ridiculous number of part-time jobs in high school—despite it being against the rules and saved enough to support herself. I always admired her for that, even if I never said it out loud.

A light tap on my right shoulder made me glance left. Chiaki stood there, smiling, dressed in a dark blouse with her black hair pinned and neatly braided. Light slacks, flats, clean, stylish, put-together in a way only she could manage.

“That old trick doesn’t work on you anymore, does it?” she laughed.

I stared at her outfit, then looked down at my sweater. “When you said ‘presentable,’ I didn’t think you meant ‘business casual.’ Are we going to a play or a corporate meeting?” I muttered, eyeing her up and down. Only fashion majors could make a play look like a runway.

She just grinned. “Relax. You’ll blend in fine. Really.”

That didn’t make me feel any better.

“I’m going back to change—” I turned, but she grabbed my collar before I could take a single step.

“Oh no you don’t! I am not missing Koba Natsuki’s play because you suddenly got self-conscious.” She tugged me back beside her. “You’re wearing that. End of discussion.”

I groaned, shoulders slumping, but followed her anyway as we made our way to the station. The theatre was about twenty-five minutes away by train.

It had been a long time since I’d stepped inside a venue like that. By the time we arrived, a line of people stretched out the front doors, covering the posters for the play—Spark Again.

For a moment, I just stood there, watching everyone’s excited expressions, feeling strangely out of place.

I wasn’t very familiar with the acting world—only that Koba Natsuki, a famous actress, was performing tonight. The closer we got to the entrance, the more the air buzzed. Every person we passed wore some shade of excitement, and it only seemed to grow as we stepped deeper into the building.

“I’m really glad you came with me, Yukina,” Chiaki said, her voice soft but carrying something earnest beneath it. I glanced over, unsure why she sounded almost relieved. She rubbed her arm, eyes flicking away before she continued, “I know it was sudden, asking you like that,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “But… I thought it might be nice. A change of pace.” Her small smile felt strangely warm, as if she were offering something I didn’t quite know how to accept. I blinked, trying to understand, then gave her a quiet nod. It was the best I could manage.

The line moved steadily until we finally reached our seats. The stage was massive up close. A wide set draped in props and shadows, surrounded by rows of filled seats. The sight made my chest tighten unexpectedly. It reminded me of the track, the stands full of people, all their eyes waiting for something from me.

I sank into my seat beside Chiaki. “Acting in front of this many people must be nerve-racking,” I murmured.

She nudged me lightly. “Oh, c’mon. Is it really that different from running on the track? You’ve had crowds twice this size cheering for you.”

She was sort of right, cause I knew they weren’t cheering for me. I nodded, though the agreement felt hollow.

The lights faded, conversations softened into nothing, and a single spotlight cut through the darkness. Instinctively, my attention sharpened. I kept my eyes on the stage, almost without thinking.

As the story unfolded, something in my chest shifted—the kind of quiet ache you only notice after it’s already lodged itself inside you. The main character, a young woman struggling to hold onto something she once loved… her voice cracked when she spoke about losing her reason to keep going.

Losing herself.

It stung. More than I wanted to admit.

Her doubts echoed things I had whispered only in my own head:
“Why should I keep going?”
“Why is this happening to me?”

Why, indeed.
Questions I had never found the courage or the answer to face.

I bit my lip, frustration tightening beneath my ribs. Yet I couldn’t look away when another character stepped forward—Koba Natsuki, taking the stage as the one who guided the protagonist through their journey. Her blonde hair caught the light as she moved, the air seeming to shift with her presence. And for a brief, breathless moment, it felt as though her gaze settled directly on mine.

Her voice carried across the room.

“People are going to talk no matter what you do. But their words aren’t the story of your life. One loss, ten losses. None of that erases what you’ve built. What you’ve done still matters. You still matter. And I know you’re scared. Anyone would be. But fear is something you have to face yourself. Even if your first step is small. What you want is still there. And you’re still allowed to reach for it.”

My breath caught. The words hit too close, like they were meant for me and me alone. My eyes burned, vision blurring at the edges. My hands curled tightly over my thighs, grounding me, steadying me.

But I couldn’t look away.

Onstage, the main character lifted her head, the music swelling gently beneath her. She stood with a quiet kind of strength. Not dramatic, not triumphant, just… ready. Ready to begin again, without anyone else’s expectations weighing her down.

And watching her, I felt something stir within me.