The house was quiet when I got home.
Mom was at work. My brother was out, probably at a friend's place, probably avoiding me. I didn't blame him. Living with someone who just threw an "impossible pitch" must be weird.
I dropped my bag in the hallway. Kicked off my shoes. Collapsed onto the couch.
The TV remote was on the table. I picked it up without thinking.
And clicked…
…
…the screen flickered to life. A familiar diamond appeared.
"…and for those just joining us, we're replaying yesterday's historic state championship game. Kamakura High's Nozomi Riksuko, the submarine pitcher who stunned the nation with her final pitch."
The footage showed her on the mound. Her left arm swept across her body, that signature shield.
"Here it comes. Pitch 103. The Depth Charge."
On screen, the ball left her hand. Dropped. Landed in the catcher's mitt with that definitive THUD.
"Strike three! Ballgame! And there she is, Riksuko, being mobbed by her teammates. Look at that face. She doesn't even look like she believes it."
The camera zoomed in. On screen, Nozomi stared at her own hand.
"I've been calling baseball for thirty years," the announcer continued. "I've never seen anything like that. And I'm not sure we ever will again."
Riksuko reached for the remote before the announcer could finish his sentence.
"…not sure we ever will again…"
…
…I clicked the TV off.
"I've never seen anything like that."
The words hung in the quiet room. I looked at my right hand. The same hand on screen, the same hand now resting on my knee.
It still ached.
The doorbell rang, and before I could even think about moving, my friend's voice was already bouncing through the apartment.
"I'm coming, I'm coming.…"
The door flew open, and there she was, eyes already wide with that particular look I'd come to recognize over the years. The look that meant she'd seen the videos. Again.
"Riksuko!" She grabbed my shoulders, spinning me slightly as she scanned my face like a concerned mother hen. "How are you feeling? Are you okay? Your arm…"
I let her fuss. Honestly, it was easier than trying to stop her.
"I'm fine," I said, and meant it, mostly. "Just… tired."
She guided me back toward the couch, and I let myself be guided. Her hand found the remote immediately, muscle memory from a thousand visits—and I watched her thumb hover over the power button.
"Don't," I said quietly.
She paused, looking at me with something between concern and curiosity. Then, slowly, she set the remote down.
We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unasked questions filling the space between us. Finally, she tilted her head, that familiar gesture that meant she was choosing her words carefully.
"So," she said, her voice lighter than her eyes, "how does it feel? Being a national hero? Every time you turn on the TV, they're running your news."
I could feel her watching me, waiting for some answer that would make sense of the impossible pitch she caught. And part of me wanted to give her something real. Something true.
(It feels like standing on the edge of something I don't understand. It's like my arm belongs to someone else when the ball leaves my hand. Like I'm more myself in those three seconds than I am the rest of the time.)
But those words wouldn't come. They got stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat, tangled in the exhaustion and the thrill and the sheer strangeness of being *me* right now.
So I just smiled faintly, letting my shoulder slump in a way that I hoped looked casual. The exhaustion was real; muscles I forgot I had been screaming in quiet protest. But underneath it, buried deep where she couldn't see, something else hummed.
Thrill.
Pure, electric, "alive" thrill.
"I did that," I thought, remembering the playback I'd refused to watch. "That impossible pitch, which I have spent six years developing. That was me."
But I kept the smile small and said nothing.
Some feelings are too big for words.
***
The café was crowded for a Tuesday. Tsuyako had insisted on taking me somewhere. "You need to see sunlight," she'd said. So here we were.
A waiter appeared at our table. Young, maybe college age. He had the tired look of someone working a double shift.
"Welcome," he said, not looking at us. "Can I start you with drinks?"
Tsuyako ordered tea. I ordered the same.
The waiter wrote it down. Finally looked up.
His eyes stopped on my face.
Recognition flickered, that moment when someone knows they know you but can't place where. Then his gaze dropped to my right hand, resting on the table. The hand from every highlight reel.
His mouth opened slightly.
I pretended not to notice. I picked up the menu and handed it to him.
"Here," I said. "Thanks."
He took it.
And for a moment, the world felt like it leaned toward him…
…
…His name was Tanaka. He was a third-year literature student working part-time to pay for books he barely had time to read. He hated his job. He hated rude customers. He hated Tuesdays.
But right now, he forgot all of that.
The menu was in his hand. The girl who'd just handed it to him…
He looked at her again. Short hair. Intense eyes. And that hand, resting so casually on the table, was the same hand he'd seen on every sports segment for the past twenty-four hours.
Nozomi Riksuko. "The Depth Charge."
His heart did something stupid in his chest.
"I'll…" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I'll put these in right away."
He walked, didn't run, but wanted to, back to the counter. His coworker saw his face.
"What's wrong with you?"
Tanaka leaned in. Whispered: "Table seven. The girl with the short hair. That's her. That's Riksuko, the pitcher."
His coworker's eyes went wide. They both looked.
At table seven, the girl was laughing at something her friend said. She looked ordinary. She looked tired, someone who probably hated being recognized.
But Tanaka knew what he'd seen.
"She handed me the menu," he said quietly. "Her hand was right there. The hand that threw the impossible pitch."
His coworker grabbed his arm. "No way."
"Way."
For the rest of his shift, Tanaka moved differently. Lighter. Like he was carrying a secret. And maybe he was.
He'd touched something today. A menu. Just a menu.
But a menu that had been held by the girl who refused to quit.
When the order was ready, Tanaka carried the tray to table seven. His hands shook slightly. Tea. Two cups. Simple.
He approached the table. The girl, Riksuko, was laughing at something her friend said. She looked so ordinary. So young.
He set the cups down carefully. One in front of the friend. One in front of her.
The pitcher.
"Enjoy," he managed.
She nodded. Didn't look at him.
But her hand reached out and wrapped around the cup—the same hand that threw the impossible—and Tanaka felt like he'd witnessed something sacred.
He walked away. The menu was forgotten. The moment was over.
But he'd remember this Tuesday for the rest of his life…
…
…The tea was warm. I wrapped my left hand around the cup, my right hand still hidden, still aching.
"What was that about?" Tsuyako asked, nodding toward the waiter's retreating back.
"Nothing."
"He looked at you weird."
"Let him look."
***
After the café, Tsuyako dragged me to a dessert shop.
"You need sugar," she said. "Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"I'm your catcher. Same thing."
I didn't argue. I never argue with Tsuyako.
We found a small table by the window. She ordered a massive parfait with everything on it. I got plain vanilla in a cup. Simple. Safe.
Tsuyako stared at my cup like I'd betrayed her.
"That's not dessert. That's sadness in a bowl."
"I like vanilla."
"You're impossible."
She said it like a compliment. Maybe it was.
We ate in comfortable silence for a while. The parfait was ridiculous—whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and some kind of candy I didn't recognize. Tsuyako attacked it with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn't eaten properly in days.
I knew that look. She'd been worrying about me. Again.
I wanted to say something. Thank you. Sorry. I don't know.
Instead, I held out my spoon. A small bite of vanilla.
"Try this," I said. "It's good."
Tsuyako looked at the spoon. Then at me. Then back at the spoon.
She leaned forward. Took the bite.
And as she did, as the spoon left my hand and entered hers…
…
… The vanilla is cold on my tongue. Simple. Plain. Exactly like Nozomi.
I chew slowly. Not because the ice cream is complicated. Because I need a moment.
Across the table, she's looking out the window. She doesn't know I'm watching her. She never does.
Her right hand rests on the table. Hidden slightly, like always. I notice the way her fingers curl, protective, instinctive. The hand that throws the impossible. The hand that pays for it every single day.
(She'll never know what it feels like to catch her. But right now, tasting her vanilla, I think I understand a little.)
I want to reach out. Touch that hand. Say something.
I never do.
Instead, I say, "Not bad. For sadness in a bowl."
She turns back. Almost smiles.
That almost-smile. I've been chasing it for six years. Since we were eleven, since that first awful practice when she couldn't throw a strike and I couldn't catch anything. Since we sat on the bench together, defeated, and she said, "I'm going to make a pitch no one can hit."
And I said, "I'll catch it."
I've been catching it ever since. Every practice. Every game. Every depth charge that thuds into my mitt like a burial.
I never tell her what it feels like. Those pitches. That weight.
It feels like holding something sacred. Something that might break if I hold too tight or slip away if I hold too loose.
It feels like holding Nozomi's heart.
"You're staring," she says.
I blink. Grab my spoon. Attack the parfait again.
"I'm not staring. I'm judging your life choices."
"My life choices?"
"Vanilla." I point my spoon at her cup. "In a world with chocolate. Tragic."
Her almost-smile becomes a real one. Small. Brief. But real. I file it away. Another almost-smile. Another memory. This is what I do. This is what I've always done. Collect these moments like baseball cards. Store them somewhere safe.
Because one day, her arm will give out. One day, the Depth Charge will stop. One day, we'll graduate, and life will pull us apart.
But I'll still have these moments.
The vanilla bite. The almost-smile. The six years of catching the impossible.
I'll have enough to last a lifetime.
When the bill comes, I grab it first.
"My treat," I say.
Nozomi starts to protest, but I'm already standing, already walking to the register. I pay. Get the receipt. Walk back. At the table, I hold out the receipt and a few coins, change from the bill.
"Here. Your half."
Nozomi reaches out. Takes the paper and coins.
And as the receipt passes from my hand to hers…
…
…I look at the receipt. A number. A date. Ordinary. I pocket it without thinking.
"You didn't have to pay."
"I wanted to."
I look at her. She's already gathering her things, avoiding my eyes.
"Tsuyako."
"What?"
"Thanks. For today."
She doesn't look up. But her voice softens.
"Always."