Kirisawa Tsurugi thought that quitting kendo would make the fear disappear. He thought walking out of the dojo, bowing for the last time, and telling Sensei he would "take a break" would calm the shaking in his hands. He thought turning away from the place he'd spent years training would silence the nightmares.
But the fear didn't stay behind.
It followed him home.
The morning after he quit, he woke gasping—his body snapping upright before his mind even caught up. His sheets were tangled around him like restraints, his breath sharp and shallow. The same nightmare replayed itself: Hayato stumbling back, his shinai crashing forward, the sickening impact, Sensei shouting his name. Every detail burned itself into his waking mind. He pressed a trembling hand over his eyes.
"It's done," he whispered to no one. "I'm never going back. It's over."
But saying it didn't change anything.
When he stepped out of bed, he felt the phantom weight of a shinai in his grip. His fingers curled automatically, remembering how to hold it, how to swing, how to strike. The memory alone made him recoil as if the wooden sword had turned into a living thing that wanted to hurt someone again. He shook his hands out violently, as though the memory itself could be thrown away.
No more kendo.
That was his promise.
So he began cutting it out of his life—piece by piece.
First went the shinai. It stood in the corner of his room, leaning casually against the wall, innocent and familiar. But to him, it was a reminder of the moment he lost control. Tsurugi shoved it into his closet, then shut the door with a forceful click, as if locking away a monster. Next went the uniform. He folded his hakama and kendogi, but his hands froze somewhere between the sleeves and the collar. They still smelled faintly of the dojo—sweat, effort, and the faint woody scent of bamboo. He shoved them deep into a drawer, not caring about the wrinkles, not caring about anything except burying them out of sight.
He unfollowed tournaments he used to watch religiously.
Archived every photo of him in competitions.
Stopped replying to group messages from his teammates.
He avoided the street that led to the dojo.
Avoided shops that sold kendo gear.
Avoided even looking at anything shaped like a sword.
But running away from kendo wasn't as simple as erasing a hobby. It was as if the art—its discipline, its rhythm, its identity—was woven into him so deeply that tearing it out left holes everywhere.
At school, he walked around with a hollow gaze. People called his name, but he often didn't hear it, lost in some distant echo of bamboo striking wood. During lunch, he sat with his food untouched, chopsticks slipping from fingers that trembled without warning. His friends joked around him, loud and carefree, but the laughter bounced off him like sound hitting a wall.
"Oi, Tsurugi, you good?" someone asked once.
He forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
That was the only answer he ever gave.
And everyone accepted it.
Because no one knew the truth.
No one knew that every time someone walked behind him too fast, his body tensed as if bracing for a strike. No one knew that whenever he saw two classmates horsing around, his chest tightened until he had to look away. No one knew that in crowded hallways, the distant sound of backpacks bumping or shoes scraping could twist into the memory of a shinai hitting flesh.
He had become a ghost of himself—going through the motions, doing what he needed to survive the day, but no longer living in it.
And yet the world refused to let him forget.
It happened during PE class. The teacher demonstrated a drill using a long wooden baton—not a sword, just a pointer stick—but the moment the wood cut through the air, that faint whoosh sound, Tsurugi froze. His vision blurred. The gym floor seemed to ripple, replaced by dojo mats. The baton became a shinai. The students' chatter morphed into the shouts of sparring partners.
He stumbled back. His foot hit a bench. He caught himself, breathing harshly.
"Tsurugi? You're pale. You okay?"
He couldn't answer. He shook his head once, grabbed his bag, and left without permission, ignoring the teacher calling after him.
He locked himself in the bathroom stall and pressed his forehead against his arms, trying to steady his breath. But each inhale seemed too small, each exhale too shaky.
"I can't do this…" he whispered.
And for the first time, he wondered if quitting had saved him—or broken him further.
Home wasn't much better. His parents didn't understand. How could they? He didn't want them to worry, so he kept everything to himself. When his father asked casually, "Practice today?" Tsurugi froze with his chopsticks midair.
"I quit," he said flatly.
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Just like that?" his father asked. "You've trained for years."
"I'm done," he repeated. That was all he could say—anything more and the trembling would return.
His mother tried to be gentle. "Did something happen, dear?"
"No."
Lie.
But he couldn't explain—not without reliving the moment.
He went to his room immediately, shutting the door and sinking into the floor. He pressed his palms against his face, willing the world to leave him alone. But his memories didn't listen.
At night, he couldn't sleep.
Even when he closed his eyes, he saw Hayato falling.
Saw the terror in his partner's eyes.
Saw his own hands gripping the shinai too tightly.
He tried staying up late with his phone.
Tried playing games.
Tried drowning out the silence.
But the nightmares always came.
And mornings always brought new exhaustion.
The guilt clung to him, a constant weight pressing down on his shoulders. The more he tried to escape kendo, the more it seeped into the cracks he left behind.
He quit the sport…
only to discover that the trauma lived inside him, untouched and undefeated.
Days turned into weeks.
The dojo sent him a message once—a simple "We miss you. Come back anytime."
Tsurugi deleted it immediately.
He wanted to be the version of himself who loved kendo.
But he couldn't.
Because every time he thought of stepping onto the dojo floor again, he felt the same cold dread crawl up his spine. The same fear that if he picked up a shinai, if he swung again, if he trusted himself again—
He might hurt someone for real next time.
So Kirisawa Tsurugi ran.
Ran from the sport he loved.
Ran from the person he used to be.
Ran from the world that once gave him strength.
But no matter how far he ran—
The memories ran faster.