Post by Shloe on Jan 14, 2007 15:02:06 GMT -5
Wahahahaa, I'm so sorry, Silver Pairrr!!! T___T
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Good Bye
I hear my voice shouting. What the hell am I doing? Chotarou looks at me with disbelief. I spot a tear roll down his cheek as his head tilts down. And with that, he runs away, far away. As he does that, it begins.
“Which?”
“Rough.”
The racket spins and lands upside-down.
One set match! Shishido to serve!
The next day I walk up to Chotarou to say hi. He doesn’t respond but rather glares at me with a hatred that I can’t understand. Walking away, I keep an eye on him as the truth hit me.
I serve the ball, a light one to go easy on him. He hits it back hard and swift, with the instincts of a pro. I stagger and look at him with disbelief.
Walking back home, I try to think of ways to get back to him – to make him like me again. But what is there to do? I go to my computer and send him an email saying that I am sorry for what I said earlier in the week. It sends and I wait.
I serve the ball again, this time ready for the return. Chotarou hits it back with a great force, but my forehand conquers it as the ball passes the net. It makes contact with my racket and rockets off of the strings. I wait for the next shot to come to me.
In ten minutes, an email appears. Chotarou had replied! Opening it, my palms are sweaty with anticipation. I read it aloud to myself. “Shut up! You have no right to apologize.” I freeze with dread filling every part of my body.
Chotarou hits my superior forehand back. My backhand now catches it and makes it go flying to the other side of the court.
After dread is anger. Loathe boils up inside of me as I type these exact words: Fine! Then I won’t apologize! I can’t believe you’re so stupid!
This rally is amazing.
Chotarou replies back. “What you said was too harsh! I hate you!!” I just stare.
He finishes the point by hitting it deep into the left corner. “Love-30!” the umpire calls.
I confront Chotarou the next day at school. My face shows signs of sleeplessness over the night, but he doesn’t care. The silver-haired boy just stands tall against me and asks, “What do you want?” I answer, “You bastard! You wimp!” He shoves me out of his way and walks past. “Look who’s talking,” he says without even glancing at me.
I serve and volley. At the net, he gives his fiercest strokes. I defend my place as each and every one of his shots is returned. He is still going, alive and strong.
“What the hell? You have always looked up to me and have always followed me. Now you call me a wimp? Have you gone crazy??” I sneer, without actually knowing what I’m saying. His back is still turned, but I know I’ve gotten to him. He continues walking away.
I throw my best forehand volley at him into the deepest and most open corner there is. Trying to catch up with the ball, he falls and I win the point. “15-30!”
During lunch, he comes up to me. I ask, “What?” He replies with a hateful glare. “Whoever said I looked up to you? Whoever said I followed you wherever?” he inquires with disgust in his voice. He turns and goes back to his table. I sit there in shock.
It’s now time for him to come up to the net. I’m not ready, and he volleys the ball with great speed, force, and angle onto the boundary line. “15-40!”
School has been let out, and I walk slowly out of the school. Chotarou rushes past me, hitting me unnecessarily on the shoulder. “Hey! You hit me! Watch where you’re going, punk,” I shout at him. He turns to face me and says, “Don’t call me punk, idiot. My name is Ohtori Chotarou, if you didn’t know.” He looked at me with those eyes burning with anger and returns to walking home.
His strokes have gotten stronger and stronger. My racket blasts out of my hand as I watch the ball wiz by. The second-year gets another point, finishing the game. “One-love! Change court!”
The next day, Chotarou comes up to me. I just stare up at him. He’s so tall even though he’s a year younger. He mutters, “If I look up to you, then I wouldn’t be taller than you.” He sneers. Anger rises within me, but there’s nothing I can say back to him.
Chotarou hits the Scud Serve, and it flies by me. Another point lost. “15-love!”
He’s walking away when I shout at him, “I’m your senior. You’re supposed to treat me with respect, brat.” The boy looks back at me, with obvious disrespect, and yells, “You suck at everything. I can beat you in tennis, academics, music, anything. You name it!” Sadly, all that he says it true.
Chotarou is winning this game. In just five minutes, he gains two points, making it 40-love.
I don’t know what to do. He really can do all those things he said, and I don’t have anything else so heartless to say to him. At the same time, I dare not lay a finger on him. All this time, he is beating me as I just stay back and pretend everything is alright.
My opponent quickly wins two games. “2-love!” It’s still his turn to serve.
At tennis practice, usually we work together, but today it is different. I stay on one side of the tennis courts while he on the other. Oshitari asks me why, and I answer with a glare.
People start to gather around our match. Is it really that appealing?
Soon everyone notices what’s going on, and I can’t just glare anymore. I have to think of something else. But what?
The crowd is huge.
Practice is finally over. I go into the lockers to be the first one there, but I see Chotarou there. Our eyes meet, but nothing is said. I lower my eyes so that they lay on my stuff, which is behind him. I walk past him, head high. An awkward silence fills the room.
Our rally goes on for 15 minutes – a new record.
“Why don’t you say something?” Chotarou asked, mockingly. I just turn my head towards him and ask the same, “Why don’t you say something, Chotarou?” We’re both glowering at each other. “I HATE YOU!” The younger boy screams, and I am shocked. I had never known him to ever say those words to anyone. He walks out of the room as the other team members enter. They look confused as to what has happened.
Chotarou gains yet another point. “15-love!” I’m losing terribly. The audience is mumbling about something. I wonder what?
Three days later, I bump into Chotarou at the food market. We just glance at each other. Nothing more. Then I see this attractive girl. She looks at me with fluttering eyelashes, and I think to myself that this could be my chance to hurt Chotarou.
I know it is not allowed, but I’m desperate. I need something to help me win. Anything!
Wrapping my arms around her, I speak loudly, “Hey, hottie. How’s it goin’? Wanna get something to drink?” I press my face close against hers. She laughs that horrible laugh and answers yes. We walk past Chotarou, who has a blank face on. Guilt fills every part of me.
I can’t believe I do it. I know it’s forbidden; I had made a promise never to do that against Chotarou, but I needed to win at least one game. “2-1! Change court!” It’s now my turn to serve.
I go out with the girl, whose name is Kanako. Taitsumo Kanako. But I don’t love her. I don’t even like her. I ask myself how I ever got myself into that situation. I’m walking back home, when I run into Chotarou, again. He starts laughing softly and asks in a sneering tone, “So, how was your little “date”?” My face shows anger and a fierce fire. I answer back, smirking, “It was the best I’ve ever had…” Walking past him, he just stands there, with an expression I can’t describe or name. I win this time.
We’re exchanging volleys, both at the net. The rally is a long one, taking 25 minutes. Finally, my strategic thinking surpasses his, and I win the point. “15-love!”
Our fight goes on for days, which then extend into a week. Sometimes I win argument; other times Chotarou does. I feel depressed, but I wonder what he feels?
Our game goes on as we gain points, losing and winning against each other. I am tired, and I want this match to end, but I know it won’t until one of us wins.
And then that day comes.
After 20 minutes, the score is 6-5; 40-30, Chotarou serving and in the lead. We’re both panting with sweat dripping down our chins. The sun is starting to set, casting an ominous shadow made by our bodies.
It’s the weekend, and, thankfully, there is no tennis practice. But for some reason, I want to play a bit of tennis, so I head towards the street tennis courts. Arriving, I notice that not many people are there. But there is one person. His hair shone in the bright sun, giving him a rather angelic appearance. I walk closer, just to find out that it’s him. Chotarou stares back at me.
We rally back and forth, facing each other boldly. Our spirits stay strong, and our instincts tell us not to lose – not to let up even the slightest.
He just stares as I glare back at him. “Wanna play?” he says, not smiling. “Anytime.” We take our rackets out, anticipating the match as a good one. However, there is only going to be one winner.
As we play and play, I start thinking about how this came to be. I start thinking of the beginning. And then I ask myself, will our relationship ever be the same?
I serve first, and we play the game. I don’t know how much time passed, but I know that it is an intense match. People gather around us, watching and pointing and whispering. The score is 6-5; 40-30. Chotarou serves this time, and the game is still going on.
I begin thinking about when I first shouted out those words to him. My thoughts follow the story, and I find out that nothing will ever be the same.
My legs are on fire as I run around the court.
I try to catch up to the ball, but it’s no use. It hits the line, and the umpire yells, “7 games to 6! Chotarou!”
I lose.
I lay there, panting and sweating. I lost, I lost, I lost, I lost… Chotarou stands next to me.
“I win.”
He walks away.
I stay in my position, thinking.
We’ll never be with each other again.
Good bye, Ohtori Chotarou.
-----------------
Hm, I was wondering. Did I spell Ohtori correctly? >_<
---------------
Good Bye
I hear my voice shouting. What the hell am I doing? Chotarou looks at me with disbelief. I spot a tear roll down his cheek as his head tilts down. And with that, he runs away, far away. As he does that, it begins.
“Which?”
“Rough.”
The racket spins and lands upside-down.
One set match! Shishido to serve!
The next day I walk up to Chotarou to say hi. He doesn’t respond but rather glares at me with a hatred that I can’t understand. Walking away, I keep an eye on him as the truth hit me.
I serve the ball, a light one to go easy on him. He hits it back hard and swift, with the instincts of a pro. I stagger and look at him with disbelief.
Walking back home, I try to think of ways to get back to him – to make him like me again. But what is there to do? I go to my computer and send him an email saying that I am sorry for what I said earlier in the week. It sends and I wait.
I serve the ball again, this time ready for the return. Chotarou hits it back with a great force, but my forehand conquers it as the ball passes the net. It makes contact with my racket and rockets off of the strings. I wait for the next shot to come to me.
In ten minutes, an email appears. Chotarou had replied! Opening it, my palms are sweaty with anticipation. I read it aloud to myself. “Shut up! You have no right to apologize.” I freeze with dread filling every part of my body.
Chotarou hits my superior forehand back. My backhand now catches it and makes it go flying to the other side of the court.
After dread is anger. Loathe boils up inside of me as I type these exact words: Fine! Then I won’t apologize! I can’t believe you’re so stupid!
This rally is amazing.
Chotarou replies back. “What you said was too harsh! I hate you!!” I just stare.
He finishes the point by hitting it deep into the left corner. “Love-30!” the umpire calls.
I confront Chotarou the next day at school. My face shows signs of sleeplessness over the night, but he doesn’t care. The silver-haired boy just stands tall against me and asks, “What do you want?” I answer, “You bastard! You wimp!” He shoves me out of his way and walks past. “Look who’s talking,” he says without even glancing at me.
I serve and volley. At the net, he gives his fiercest strokes. I defend my place as each and every one of his shots is returned. He is still going, alive and strong.
“What the hell? You have always looked up to me and have always followed me. Now you call me a wimp? Have you gone crazy??” I sneer, without actually knowing what I’m saying. His back is still turned, but I know I’ve gotten to him. He continues walking away.
I throw my best forehand volley at him into the deepest and most open corner there is. Trying to catch up with the ball, he falls and I win the point. “15-30!”
During lunch, he comes up to me. I ask, “What?” He replies with a hateful glare. “Whoever said I looked up to you? Whoever said I followed you wherever?” he inquires with disgust in his voice. He turns and goes back to his table. I sit there in shock.
It’s now time for him to come up to the net. I’m not ready, and he volleys the ball with great speed, force, and angle onto the boundary line. “15-40!”
School has been let out, and I walk slowly out of the school. Chotarou rushes past me, hitting me unnecessarily on the shoulder. “Hey! You hit me! Watch where you’re going, punk,” I shout at him. He turns to face me and says, “Don’t call me punk, idiot. My name is Ohtori Chotarou, if you didn’t know.” He looked at me with those eyes burning with anger and returns to walking home.
His strokes have gotten stronger and stronger. My racket blasts out of my hand as I watch the ball wiz by. The second-year gets another point, finishing the game. “One-love! Change court!”
The next day, Chotarou comes up to me. I just stare up at him. He’s so tall even though he’s a year younger. He mutters, “If I look up to you, then I wouldn’t be taller than you.” He sneers. Anger rises within me, but there’s nothing I can say back to him.
Chotarou hits the Scud Serve, and it flies by me. Another point lost. “15-love!”
He’s walking away when I shout at him, “I’m your senior. You’re supposed to treat me with respect, brat.” The boy looks back at me, with obvious disrespect, and yells, “You suck at everything. I can beat you in tennis, academics, music, anything. You name it!” Sadly, all that he says it true.
Chotarou is winning this game. In just five minutes, he gains two points, making it 40-love.
I don’t know what to do. He really can do all those things he said, and I don’t have anything else so heartless to say to him. At the same time, I dare not lay a finger on him. All this time, he is beating me as I just stay back and pretend everything is alright.
My opponent quickly wins two games. “2-love!” It’s still his turn to serve.
At tennis practice, usually we work together, but today it is different. I stay on one side of the tennis courts while he on the other. Oshitari asks me why, and I answer with a glare.
People start to gather around our match. Is it really that appealing?
Soon everyone notices what’s going on, and I can’t just glare anymore. I have to think of something else. But what?
The crowd is huge.
Practice is finally over. I go into the lockers to be the first one there, but I see Chotarou there. Our eyes meet, but nothing is said. I lower my eyes so that they lay on my stuff, which is behind him. I walk past him, head high. An awkward silence fills the room.
Our rally goes on for 15 minutes – a new record.
“Why don’t you say something?” Chotarou asked, mockingly. I just turn my head towards him and ask the same, “Why don’t you say something, Chotarou?” We’re both glowering at each other. “I HATE YOU!” The younger boy screams, and I am shocked. I had never known him to ever say those words to anyone. He walks out of the room as the other team members enter. They look confused as to what has happened.
Chotarou gains yet another point. “15-love!” I’m losing terribly. The audience is mumbling about something. I wonder what?
Three days later, I bump into Chotarou at the food market. We just glance at each other. Nothing more. Then I see this attractive girl. She looks at me with fluttering eyelashes, and I think to myself that this could be my chance to hurt Chotarou.
I know it is not allowed, but I’m desperate. I need something to help me win. Anything!
Wrapping my arms around her, I speak loudly, “Hey, hottie. How’s it goin’? Wanna get something to drink?” I press my face close against hers. She laughs that horrible laugh and answers yes. We walk past Chotarou, who has a blank face on. Guilt fills every part of me.
I can’t believe I do it. I know it’s forbidden; I had made a promise never to do that against Chotarou, but I needed to win at least one game. “2-1! Change court!” It’s now my turn to serve.
I go out with the girl, whose name is Kanako. Taitsumo Kanako. But I don’t love her. I don’t even like her. I ask myself how I ever got myself into that situation. I’m walking back home, when I run into Chotarou, again. He starts laughing softly and asks in a sneering tone, “So, how was your little “date”?” My face shows anger and a fierce fire. I answer back, smirking, “It was the best I’ve ever had…” Walking past him, he just stands there, with an expression I can’t describe or name. I win this time.
We’re exchanging volleys, both at the net. The rally is a long one, taking 25 minutes. Finally, my strategic thinking surpasses his, and I win the point. “15-love!”
Our fight goes on for days, which then extend into a week. Sometimes I win argument; other times Chotarou does. I feel depressed, but I wonder what he feels?
Our game goes on as we gain points, losing and winning against each other. I am tired, and I want this match to end, but I know it won’t until one of us wins.
And then that day comes.
After 20 minutes, the score is 6-5; 40-30, Chotarou serving and in the lead. We’re both panting with sweat dripping down our chins. The sun is starting to set, casting an ominous shadow made by our bodies.
It’s the weekend, and, thankfully, there is no tennis practice. But for some reason, I want to play a bit of tennis, so I head towards the street tennis courts. Arriving, I notice that not many people are there. But there is one person. His hair shone in the bright sun, giving him a rather angelic appearance. I walk closer, just to find out that it’s him. Chotarou stares back at me.
We rally back and forth, facing each other boldly. Our spirits stay strong, and our instincts tell us not to lose – not to let up even the slightest.
He just stares as I glare back at him. “Wanna play?” he says, not smiling. “Anytime.” We take our rackets out, anticipating the match as a good one. However, there is only going to be one winner.
As we play and play, I start thinking about how this came to be. I start thinking of the beginning. And then I ask myself, will our relationship ever be the same?
I serve first, and we play the game. I don’t know how much time passed, but I know that it is an intense match. People gather around us, watching and pointing and whispering. The score is 6-5; 40-30. Chotarou serves this time, and the game is still going on.
I begin thinking about when I first shouted out those words to him. My thoughts follow the story, and I find out that nothing will ever be the same.
My legs are on fire as I run around the court.
I try to catch up to the ball, but it’s no use. It hits the line, and the umpire yells, “7 games to 6! Chotarou!”
I lose.
I lay there, panting and sweating. I lost, I lost, I lost, I lost… Chotarou stands next to me.
“I win.”
He walks away.
I stay in my position, thinking.
We’ll never be with each other again.
Good bye, Ohtori Chotarou.
-----------------
Hm, I was wondering. Did I spell Ohtori correctly? >_<
