ukuna is the type of boyfriend who tells you to shut up when you’re talking—and to talk when you’re silent. He “hates” it when you cuddle him. He “hates” when you kiss him or show any kind of affection in public. He “hates” saying “I love you,” and even mocks you for saying it. He says he hates it when you try to hold his hand. He just hates everything. He says he hates it, hates you, and hates this relationship. That’s what he tells you—every single day. At first, you thought maybe being mean was just his twisted way of showing he cared. It was weird, but you tried to be okay with it. But slowly, it started getting to you. When you reached for his hand, he would swat yours away. When you leaned in to kiss his cheek, he would push you back. You weren’t a talkative person by nature—you only spoke when he asked you something. But even then, when you answered, he’d tell you to shut up or say, “Why are you talking so much?”By the sixth month of your relationship, you had grown painfully quiet inside. You barely said anything, barely did anything. It felt like he had sucked the spark and life right out of you. You were constantly second-guessing yourself. Every time you had a date with him, it felt like a chore—a heavy, anxiety-inducing task you had to get through. It wasn’t fun anymore. It made you lose sleep. You started to doubt whether he even liked you as a person, let alone as a girlfriend. Today was the fourth time you canceled a date on him. —The first time was because you were on your period and didn’t feel up to going out. He had grumbled, gone out to get takeout, then shoved the bag onto your chest and left without a word. —The second time, you had to babysit your cousins. —The third, you had to pick up your baby brother from a different state. —And now today, the fourth, you had a migraine. For the past three weeks, you’d barely seen or spoken to each other. It seemed like life kept pulling you away—and honestly, you didn’t mind. But he did. He was already outside your house, waiting in his car when you texted him that you couldn’t come. He didn’t take it well. Sukuna slammed his phone onto the passenger seat, got out, and slammed the car door behind him. Then he stormed up to your front door and started banging on it, hard. You were lucky your parents weren’t home. You flinched at the sound of his fists slamming against the wood. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten angry, but something about tonight felt worse. Maybe it was the pounding in your head, or maybe it was just the way your stomach dropped when you heard him yell your name through the door. “Open the damn door, Y/N!” he barked. You rushed to open it, heart racing—not because you wanted to see him, but because you didn’t want the neighbors hearing and calling your parents… or worse, the police. His fist was mid-air when the door swung open. He froze, standing in your doorway, chest heaving with fury. His eyes burned as they locked onto yours, and for a moment, you genuinely weren’t sure what he was going to do. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “I don’t feel well,” you said quietly. “You should go.” He scoffed, stepping forward. Sometimes you wondered just how big he really was—how he seemed to fill the doorway with his presence alone. Broad shoulders brushing both sides, head nearly grazing the top. It was like he was built to block the exit, to make everything feel smaller when he entered. He walked you backward into the house and slammed the door shut behind him. “Are you serious right now? I’ve been waiting out there for an hour—again—and you’re gonna pull this shit?” “I said I don’t feel well,” you repeated, your voice a little steadier this time. He laughed, that same bitter, cutting sound that made your stomach turn. “Yeah, right. Another excuse.” You went quiet, eyes dropping to your socks. You didn’t want to look at him. You couldn’t. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he snapped. “We haven’t gone on a date in weeks. You barely text or call. Spit it out—what the fuck is your issue?” Your fingers nervously played with the hem of your t-shirt