MAYBE I JUST WANNA BE YOURS
desc: suna x reader | Loving him quietly never seemed enough. But he never stopped loving since you left. Letters read years too late, just as your heart starts to love again. But not every goodbye stays gone. Not every love stops burning.
SECRETS THAT I HAVE HELD IN MY HEART, ARE HARDER TO HIDE THAN I THOUGHT...
Seldom was he loud about his feelings, never the type to announce things or drown you in sweet affections. But you knew. You always knew.
It was the way his eyes narrowed when he’s pissed— never at you, always for you. How his eyebrows furrowed whenever teachers scolded you unfairly, or when a classmate got a little bit too close for a second too long during a group project. He never said anything, but his silence grew sharper, heavier—like a fuse waiting to light.
It was in the mundane moments. Ordinary choices that didn’t look like love to anyone else. Like when he prefers leaning on your left shoulder—never the right. You’d asked once, casually, “Why not this side?” but he never explained. “I can see your face better,” he muttered. But you think it's because it’s easier for him to show you tiktoks. It was always the smallest things to him.
The way he always found you in every room like it was second nature. In every crowd, his eyes never fail to find yours. The gym, cafeteria, or school gates, no matter the place, he always knew where you were.
Sometimes, a glance across the field. The brush of shoulders in the halls. The tug of your hand as he led you down a hallway no one ever walked down except the two of you.
The cracked wall behind the rooftop door. The science wing’s back corridor. The unused staircase no one uses, which creaks on the fourth step. His fingers would find yours, tangled beneath desks, in the fold of jackets, between late-night messages and early morning silence.
You can read him like a book. A little too well. You saw how his shoulders tensed whenever you teased him about going public with your relationship. A subtle change in topic, a low hum when you asked, “What are we?” jokingly.
And he’d shrug, avoiding your gaze. “Does it matter?”
And part of you wants to believe that it doesn’t. You used to tell yourself that your content having him like this. This quiet, hidden kind of love was still love. But the ache never went away. It only grew.
After he became a professional volleyball player.
After life kept moving like you hadn’t given so much to someone who never said the words out loud.
He got busier. And you became the secret he couldn’t afford to slip. A saved contact with no name, just a heart emoji. A “I can’t call right now” and a photo of another hotel room.
You tried to believe that it was enough.
To watch someone live a life where you didn’t exist. To love someone who meant forever but spoke like you were temporary. To love someone who kept you hidden. Like being seen with you looked like a mistake.
Loving him feels like holding on too tightly, that it might break.
How his fingers would intertwine with yours, but letting go the moment someone else entered the room. Or how he’d constantly text you at 2 am, “miss u”, then leave you unread for hours when morning came.
The final crack came quietly. Unexpectedly, like the ache you’ve felt for years was non-existent. No fight. No slammed doors.
When the words slipped out, “I don’t think I can keep doing this,” and he didn’t even say anything.
You waited. For a word. A nod. Anything.
Years of stolen glances, secret corridors, and quiet rooms. Years of pretending it was enough. That maybe if you waited long enough, he’d finally say it.
People grow apart. It’s just the way it is. Just two people slowly fading from each other’s lives.
So you unfollowed his account. Deleted all your private rants on your burner account that he never saw. You moved cities. Found a job. Met new people, new friends. Laughed, smiled, and built a life you never imagined could happen without him.
You even forgot, and started telling yourself that this was better. And you believed it. Until today.
In the middle of cooking dinner (surprisingly not burning the house down yet), you open your door. And on the floor, a wrapped package. No name on the return address. No clues.
Until you spot your name. In his handwriting.
You hold the package a little too long, staring at it, hoping it’ll disappear. But it doesn’t. You bring the package inside.
Sit at the kitchen table. Stare at it.
For a second, you think about throwing it away. Pretending you never saw it. But you’ve never been able to ignore him.
You quickly open the package. Still recognizing his signature perfume as you opened it. He must’ve sprayed his perfume on this.
Dozens. Each one dated. Sealed. Stacked in chronological order, like a timeline of a love he never found the courage to live out loud. Some even go as far as to ask when you first started dating.
Some envelopes are crumpled a bit, like they’ve been handled too many times. Others are in pristine condition. You recognize the ink he used to write with in class. Even the faint scent of his cologne still clings to the paper—like the memory of him never faded.
And atop the stack of letters, a folded note. The ink is smeared in places, with tear stains on the paper.
“I don’t know if this will ever reach you. Or if you’ll even open it if it does. I’m not good at saying things out loud. You know that. But I’ve regretted every day since you left, wishing I had. These are all the things I should’ve said to you when you were still here.
This is the only way I knew how to show you everything I’ve kept hidden for so long. I don’t know if it’s too late. But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wonders—I loved you. I always will. —Rintarou.”
Your vision blurs. Tears build up in your eyes.
The words carried weight, ringing in your mind like a curse. You try reading the words again, tears flowing out. Slower each time. Like your brain was bracing for impact.
Because it’s him. And you knew him, he was never the type to admit his feelings. And it hit harder this way.
Your hands hover over the first letter before opening it, only to see the ring you wore, reminding you of the decision you made.
Too late, too late, too late.
The voice snaps you back to reality.
The front door creaks softly as Atsumu steps inside, damp from his evening run. He comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pauses when he sees your face.
“Hey, why are you crying? What happened?”
You flinch, closing the package immediately, but he spots it.
His voice softens. “...Is that from him?”
You can’t speak. His arms hesitate, then wrap around your waist tightly, “You opened it.”
After a long silence, his voice—raw. Hesitant: “Should I be worried?”
He looks up, searching your eyes for an answer.
You want to say no. You really do.
And Atsumu just stares at you— in that moment, doesn’t fight it. He just nods once like he already knows.
Some ghosts don’t knock when they come back.
And some loves never really leave.
all works belong to @attyy, do not copy, steal, or plagiarize my works.
