Punching Bag Philosopher
(A/N: Thinking about making a JJK fanfic since the ones I always like either havent gotten an upload in months or get deleted out of nowhere. Would anyone be interested in one?)
I trudged through the bustling streets, my mind replaying the scene with Hina on an endless loop. The way she'd looked at me, the almost-kiss, the panic in her eyes as she fled.
Maybe I should just give up on her. But I couldn't shake it. It wasn't just the teacher-student thing holding her back. There was something else, something deeper.
Was it Natsuo? Or maybe another ex? Some ghost from her past that she couldn't shake?
I shook my head, trying to clear the thoughts. It didn't matter. She'd made her choice. I had to respect that, right?
But a part of me, a dark, possessive part I didn't want to acknowledge, whispered that maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should fight for her, show her what she was missing.
The familiar neon sign of the ramen shop came into view, a welcome distraction. I spotted Natsuo through the window, already seated at our usual table.
As I slid into the seat across from him, Natsuo raised an eyebrow. "You look like you've been through the wringer, man. Everything okay?"
I forced a smile. "Yeah, just... thinking."
"About?"
"This song I'm trying to write," I lied, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Can't seem to get the lyrics right."
Natsuo nodded, but I could tell he wasn't buying it. He opened his mouth, probably to call me out on my bullshit, but I cut him off.
"So, how's your day been?" I asked, desperate to change the subject.
Natsuo shrugged, letting it slide. "Same old, same old. Classes, homework, trying to avoid Rui's cooking experiments."
I laughed, grateful for the distraction. "That bad, huh?"
"You have no idea. Last night, she tried to make some Italian fusion thing. I think my taste buds are still in shock."
As Natsuo launched into a detailed description of Rui's culinary disaster, I felt myself relax. This was good. Normal. No complicated feelings, no ethical dilemmas. Just two friends sharing a meal and some laughs.
But even as I nodded along to Natsuo's story, a part of my mind kept drifting back to Hina. To the way she'd looked at me in that classroom, like she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.
I clenched my fist under the table, pushing the thoughts away. I had to let it go. Had to focus on my goals, my music, my training.
But even as I told myself this, I knew it was a lie. I wasn't giving up on Hina. Not by a long shot.
I just had to figure out what was holding her back. And then... well, then I'd show her exactly what she was missing out on.
***
I pushed open the gym door, my muscles still aching from the dojo session. The place was empty, except for one person - Mikasa. She was going at a punching bag like it had personally offended her, each strike precise and powerful.
I realized I'd never actually spoken to her, despite seeing her here almost every day. Now seemed as good a time as any.
"Hey," I called out, approaching her. "You seen Sensei around?"
Mikasa stopped mid-punch, turning to face me. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like she was sizing me up.
"He left early. Family emergency."
I nodded, unsure what to say next. The silence stretched between us, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning.
"You're the new guy," Mikasa said suddenly. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, that's me. Kazuya," I replied, offering a smile. "You're Mikasa, right? I've seen you around."
She nodded, her expression unreadable. "Your form's improving. But your left side is still weak."
I blinked, surprised by her blunt assessment. "You've been watching me?"
"I watch everyone," she said, shrugging. "It's how you learn."
I couldn't argue with that logic. "Any tips?"
Mikasa raised an eyebrow, like she was surprised I'd asked. "Work on your footwork. You're too rigid. Fighting isn't just about strength, it's about fluidity."
"Huh," I said, mulling it over. "Thanks. Mind if I join you? Could use some pointers."
For a moment, I thought she'd say no. But then she nodded, stepping back from the punching bag.
"Show me what you've got."
I squared up to the punching bag, Mikasa's words echoing in my head. Fluidity. Footwork. Left side. I took a deep breath, then let loose.
Jab. Cross. Hook. I danced around the bag, lighter on my feet than usual. My left side still felt a bit awkward, but I pushed through, focusing on keeping my movements smooth.
After a minute, I stepped back, wiping sweat from my brow. Mikasa watched me, her expression unreadable.
"Better," she said finally. "Your left hook's still sloppy, but you're getting there."
I grinned, oddly pleased by her backhanded compliment. "Thanks. Mind showing me how it's done?"
Mikasa nodded, stepping up to the bag. Her movements were like water, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. I watched, mesmerized, trying to absorb every detail.
"How long have you been training?" I asked when she finished.
"Since I could walk," she replied, grabbing her water bottle. "My dad's a martial arts instructor."
"No kidding? That's cool. Must've been intense growing up."
Mikasa shrugged. "It was normal for me. What about you? Why'd you start?"
I hesitated, unsure how to answer without revealing too much. "Just felt like I needed a change, I guess. Wanted to challenge myself."
"Hm," Mikasa said, eyeing me curiously. "You're not bad, for a beginner. But you've got a long way to go if you want to compete in the tournament."
"You planning to enter?"
She nodded. "I win every year. This time won't be any different."
I couldn't help but laugh at her confidence. "We'll see about that. I might surprise you."
"You can try."
I wiped the sweat from my brow, catching my breath after another set. Mikasa was already back at the punching bag, her fists flying with machine-like precision. I couldn't help but admire her focus.
"Hey," I called out, grabbing my water bottle. "You ever do anything besides train?"
Mikasa paused, turning to face me. "What do you mean?"
"You know, hobbies. Things you do for fun."
She frowned, like the concept was foreign to her. "This is fun."
I laughed, shaking my head. "No, I mean like... I don't know, reading? Movies? Video games?"
Mikasa shrugged, grabbing her towel. "Not really. I'm focused on making it to the UFC. Everything else is a distraction."
"Seriously? Nothing else?"
She hesitated, then said, "I like to cook sometimes. It's... calming."
"No shit? What kind of stuff do you make?"
"Simple things. Rice, fish, vegetables. Nothing fancy."
I grinned. "Man, you should meet my neighbor. She's always trying these crazy fusion recipes. Nearly burned down the building last week."
Mikasa's lips twitched. "Sounds dangerous."
"Tell me about it. So, UFC huh? That's pretty badass."
She nodded, her eyes lighting up. "It's been my dream since I was a kid. My dad used to watch the fights with me. Said I could be there one day if I worked hard enough."
"And here you are, working your ass off," I said, gesturing to the gym around us.
We fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Then Mikasa stepped back up to the punching bag.
"Come on," she said, glancing at me. "Let's see if you can keep up."
I grinned, cracking my knuckles. "You're on."
I wiped the sweat from my brow, chest heaving. "Damn, Mikasa. You don't mess around."
She shrugged, barely out of breath. "Neither do you. You're improving."
"High praise," I grinned. "Same time tomorrow?"
Mikasa nodded, grabbing her gym bag. "Don't be late."
We headed out, parting ways at the gym entrance. I watched her disappear down the street, shaking my head. That girl was something else.
I checked my phone. 7:05 PM. Still early.
I could knock out some homework, get ahead for next week. But the thought of cracking open another textbook made my brain want to shrivel up and die.
My fingers twitched, itching to wrap around my guitar neck.
Screw it. I deserved a night off.
I picked up the pace, my apartment building coming into view. A hot shower, some food, and then... music.
The idea sent a jolt through me, waking up parts of my brain that had been dormant all day. Lyrics started forming, snippets of melody weaving through my thoughts.
I bounded up the stairs, two at a time, barely noticing the burn in my muscles. My key scraped in the lock, the door swinging open.
Home sweet home. I tossed my gym bag in the corner, making a beeline for the shower.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged feeling human again. I grabbed a protein bar from the kitchen, unwrapping it as I headed for my prized possession.
My guitar sat in the corner, gleaming in the soft lamplight. I ran my fingers over the smooth wood, feeling the familiar curves and edges.
"Hey there, beautiful," I murmured. "Miss me?"
I settled onto the couch, pulling her onto my lap. My fingers found the strings, muscle memory taking over.
The first chord rang out, clear and true. I closed my eyes, letting the music wash over me.
For the first time all day, my mind quieted. No more thoughts of Hina, or Chizuru, or the mountain of schoolwork waiting for me.
Just me and the music.
Estado de energía semanal
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