UNSAID
“If you don’t fight for me, I won’t have anything left to fight with.”
angstober 12
Kunimi was never loud about love.
He wasn’t clingy, or dramatic, or expressive the way others were.
He loved quietly— in lazy smiles, in shared hoodies, in soft mutters of “don’t leave yet”
when you tried to get up from his bed.
But he was quiet about everything else too.
Including the ways he hurt you.
It began with silence— the kind that wasn’t peaceful anymore.
Ghosted messages.
Half-hearted replies.
Plans canceled because he was “tired.” Phone calls ignored because he “fell asleep.”
You apologizing for wanting time together.
And he never said anything was wrong.
He just drifted.
Slowly. Subtly. Painfully.
Like watching someone walk into the ocean and realizing they have no intention of coming back.
You tried not to complain.
Because Kunimi hated fuss.
He hated confrontation.
He hated drama.
But you hated losing him even more.
Tonight, you finally said it. “Akira… are you still in this relationship?”
He didn’t look up from his phone.
A small, uninterested “Mm.”
That alone almost broke you. “Can you look at me?” you whispered.
Kunimi blinked, sighed, and set his phone down like you were an inconvenience—not a person terrified of losing him. “What?”
Your eyes stung.
“Why do I feel like I love you more than you love me?” Kunimi’s expression didn’t change.
It didn’t soften.
He just looked… tired. “You’re overthinking.”
“Am I?” Your voice cracked.
“You don’t call. You don’t reply. You don’t try. I feel like I’m begging for crumbs.”
“(Y/N), I’m just… exhausted. You know that.”
“I know you’re tired,” you said, wiping your cheek. “I’m tired too. But I’m still trying. Why aren’t you?”
Kunimi didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have one— but because avoiding the truth was easier. “I just need space,” he muttered.
“That’s what people say before they leave.”
He looked away, jaw tightening.
You realized then— he wasn’t fighting for you. He wasn’t fighting at all.
Kunimi had chosen the easiest path: let you carry the weight of the breakup he didn’t want to initiate. And it hurt more than if he had just said the words.
“Do you even want me anymore?” you whispered. Kunimi finally looked at you.
His eyes flickered.
Hesitated.
Wavered.
And didn’t say yes.
Your breath caught. “…Okay,” you whispered. “That’s my answer.”
He tensed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You stood, and Kunimi’s eyes widened— the first real reaction he showed all night “Where are you going?”
You forced a smile. “To give you the space you didn’t know how to ask for.”
Kunimi stood too. “(Y/N), wait—”
But he didn’t step closer.
He didn’t reach out.
He didn’t stop you.
And that told you everything. “Goodbye, Akira.”
He swallowed.
His voice cracked for the first time. “…Don’t go.”
You almost broke. Almost ran back into his arms.
But then you remembered how long you’d been hurting alone. “I wanted you to want me,” you whispered.
“I can’t keep wanting for both of us.”
And you walked out the door.
Kunimi didn’t chase you.
He stood frozen, hands trembling, breath uneven—not out of apathy, but out of fear he acted too late.
And when the door clicked shut, when your footsteps faded, when he realized silence finally meant something—
Kunimi sank onto the bed you used to share and whispered the words he should have said when he still had you: “…I didn’t want you to go.”
But by then, the only person who could hear him
was the silence he created.