A chunky brown envelope sat on the table; its thickness gave a sense of authority. It had been sitting unopened since nine thirty this morning.

He glanced at the clock on his phone: 7:30 PM. Ten hours had passed since the envelope arrived, and he hadn't gathered enough courage to open it. He had postponed the unveiling, half-hoping that perhaps the envelope would miraculously spill its contents without his help. It wasn't that he lacked curiosity about the sender or the content. He knew exactly who wrote this letter; in fact, he'd been anxiously wanted to read it for two whole months. But now, when the long-awaited response had finally arrived, a strange terror seized him.

He reached for the envelope, and its weight crushed his optimism instantly. He had received envelopes like this far too often. He tried to amuse himself. Maybe this time, it would be different. After countless disappointments, was it too much to wish for something good?

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and ripped the envelope's head. A few things slid from the inside, and one particular item fell onto the table with a heavy thud. A letter caught his attention first. His heart started to throb. He breathed out slowly and began to read the letter.

Fujiwara-san...

He didn't bother with the pleasantries at the header and dove straight into the heart of the matter.

We are sorry to inform you that we are currently unable to...

He had let his hopes soar too high. Again. Without finishing the letter, he knew it carried the same message he'd received countless times over the past years. They all sounded the same, with only some variations in the sentences.

There are elements in your story that may raise concerns...

It may potentially raise conflicts, considering the investigation is still on-going...

We advise you to seek council from a lawyer first because we don't want to take risk...

The sign-offs were always eerily similar: "Best of luck", as if all the editors responding to his letters were, in fact, one person. What he needed wasn't luck, but a chance.

He picked up the bundle on the table. Its edges were slightly curled, a sign that someone had at least taken the time to read it. He folded the rejection letter and went to the storage.

On the bottom shelf sat a big cardboard box, housing bundles similar to the one he held. The top bundles remained clean and crisp, standing in stark contrast to the dusty layers enveloping the ones below. The paper of the lower bundles had yellowed with time. Extracting them, he placed each bundle on the floor, one by one.

He started counting.

Four, five, six. Seven, eight, nine. Ten. Eleven.

His chest tightened with each tally.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Adding the final one... sixteen.

He slumped onto the floor, breathless and overwhelmed. He had promised himself to discard those bundles with each return so he could restart without the burden, but never had the strength to do it. It felt like tossing fragments of himself into the abyss of a garbage bin.

A feeble spark from the tiny candle on the soul altar across the room flickered, casting a subdued glow. His gaze shifted to the photograph resting there, shimmering and capturing the smiling face of a young man. Though he saw that image every day, his yearning to see the person behind it in the flesh never faded. It had been three years since the photo was taken, and his life had never felt the same again.

He folded his knees in a tight embrace, a position that made him felt safe, as if he were being hugged. Tears streamed down from his cheeks, a wordless token of the pain in his heart.

...

I lost my balance, and the puck slipped through the gap between my legs, bouncing off the ice, making a beeline for the goalie. The sound of the whistle filled the rink and I slammed on the hard surface. Ugh. Even with the protection of my padded uniform, slamming into the ice felt like hitting a wall.

"Hirose!" A voice blasted from across the rink. "What the heck are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Coach!" I grunted, trying to use my stick to get up. A wrong choice because it was designed for smooth glides on the ice, not for leverage. Bam! Down I went again.

Laughter erupted from the other players. Tachibana, my teammate turned adversary for the day, couldn't resist a jab. "Mummy's waiting at home, Hirose!"

Coach Yamada approached me, looking absolutely furious. "You've been skating on this ice for five years, and you still struggle! What's wrong with you, boy?"

"I've been trying, Coach."

"Have you? You should be ashamed. Go home!"

"But I want to play."

"Listen, Hirose. This is not rocket science," Coach Yamada's voice was icy cold. "The puck won't miraculously find its way into the opponent's goalie; you gotta make it happen. Do whatever it legally takes to block your opponents. Get physical. Use your frickin' brain! We score more points than them, and we win. That simple. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Knowing all the rules of ice hockey didn't change the fact that my heels were pulsing with pain, making it a struggle to stand up straight. Tachibana had been aggressively tripping me dozens of times during the early game—clearly, a calculated move to sideline me. In a real match, he'd be suspended by the referee.

But telling Coach Yamada about my injuries wasn't an option. Complaints would only made me look as weak in his eyes.

I straightened up, using all my strength not to shiver. "I'll try to do better."

Coach Yamada squinted, looking pessimistic. "I need more than words, Hirose. Your father would disowned you if he saw how you played today."

I often wondered that myself. Coach Yamada wasn't the only one who thought I didn't live up to being my father's son, and even Father seemed to agree. But the mocks, trips, and the constant falls here on the rink was still better than heading home and facing Dad's wrath. The coach was right, Father would kicked me out right away for going home early.

I swallowed my pain and humiliation, dropped on all four and bowing deeply until my helmet touched the ice. As much as I hated to do it, I had no choice.

"Coach, please don't tell my father. I promise I'll try harder!"

"Look at him," Tachibana sneered, "what a loser."

The others joining in laughter.

"Just go home, Hirose," Coach Yamada slid past me without looking. "Ten minutes break, boys! Fujiwara, get the puck!"

Tachibana and the rest of the team cleared out of the rink. Not a single hand came my way to help me up. Real teammates, huh?

"Excuse me."

I felt a light tap on my helmet. I looked up. It was the new kid. He extended his hand.

"Ice hockey players slide on ice, not prostrating like that, Hirose."

Didn't he see? I was practically begging for forgiveness.

"Take my hand," he gave me a friendly nudge. "Get up."

I hadn't known him well; he'd only moved to Misawa a week before joining our middle school. All I knew was that his name was Fujiwara, and he transferred from Sapporo. Rumors circulated about his skill as he waltzed through our club recruitment process. Some said that his performance was one of the best in our school's history. I thought they were overreacting until I saw how this new kid played.

"Come on, now," he squatted next to me. "Take my hand."

I sighed and grabbed his hand. My feet were feeble, refusing to support my weight. Fujiwara pulled me up with a gentle but strong grip. My heels remained uncooperative, and I swayed. He instinctively steadied me by holding my waist, and I found myself clinging to his shoulder for support.

"You hurt your legs, huh?"

I said nothing.

"You should have told Coach earlier and asked for rest."

"I'm fine," I pushed him away with my stick. "I just need help standing up."

"Slow down, Hirose. If you fall again, your heels will break."

"What are you, a doctor?"

"Trust me, you don't want that." Fujiwara winked and squeezed my arms. "I'll let you go slowly now to collect the puck. Do you think you can stand up on your own?"

"Of course! I'm not an invalid!"

"Okay. I'll be right back!"

Fujiwara released my hands, gliding away with a swift movement that appeared almost graceful. Flakes of ice sprayed from the blades of his shoes as he executed a sharp turn and retrieved the puck effortlessly. His body tilted like that of a MotoGP racer— for a moment, I worried he might stumble, but he didn't. He straightened up and zigzagged back to me with lightning speed. Watching him move with such finesse left me feeling embarrassed and jealous. At just fifteen years old, Fujiwara already looked like a pro player, while I felt as clumsy as an elephant on circus.

Trembling, I slid toward the exit. What a snob.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Fujiwara trailed along. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"If something's bothering you, you can talk about it. We're teammates, you know?"

Teammates? "What do you know about this team, new kid?"

"You don't have to be so cynical. I can still lend an ear. We're in this together, after all."

I ignored his attempt at camaraderie and paced toward the changing room.

"Are you having problems with the other teammates? Is that why they left you alone? I saw what Tachibana did to you. He tripped you on purpose, didn't he?" Fujiwara followed me. "Why didn't you tell the Coach? Please say something, Hirose!"

"I said nothing's wrong!" I shouted. "Stop telling me what to do. I'm fine!"

"Falling so many times in every practice isn't normal. You could get seriously hurt."

"Not everyone's a prodigy like you, Fujiwara."

"That's not what I meant." His brow furrowed. "Look, I just want to help, that's all."

I gave him nothing but silence, the weight of my failures heavy on my shoulders. I didn't need pity from this soon-to-be pro player too. 

As Tachibana had said, I was already a loser.