Suna Rintarō was your confusing middle space people call a “situationship.” Your classmates never liked him for you; they’d whisper warnings like he was a walking red flag. He’s cold. He doesn’t care about anyone. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. He did treat everyone else like they were static in the background — dry replies, uninterested eyes, that lazy posture of someone who couldn’t bother to show effort if his life depended on it. He wasn’t emotionally available — not for people, not for circumstances, not for the world. But with you, he was something else entirely. Softer. Quieter. More present. His love language wasn’t sweet messages or confessions. He’d never text you pathetic “i miss you” clichés. Instead, he’d send you things like:

“you busy rn?” “pass by if u want”

Or he’d show up at your gate at midnight, pretending he was “just passing by,” hair messy from the wind, acting like it was normal to bring his car just to see you. He treated your body like it was something familiar — not owned, not claimed, but known. His touch was never intrusive, just… intentional. A hand on the small of your back when you walked through crowds. His thumb gently shifting your jaw so you’d look at him. His knee always brushing yours like it was a habit now, like distance wasn’t something he allowed between you two. His fingers would linger in your hair, on your rings, on the bracelet he once teased you about but now tugs when he’s bored. He wasn’t touchy — except with you. And he’d never acknowledge it. When you were sulking, he’d get stiff and useless, clearly uncomfortable. But he’d still try. For you. When you gave him the silent treatment, he’d stare at your conversation on his phone for twenty long minutes, typing and deleting a dozen apologies before settling on the safest thing he could think of: “eat with me.” And he’d pay. Always. You could fight him on it, but he’d just ignore you and hand you your food like it was his form of saying sorry.

He kept pieces of you like they were secrets. Your hair tie? Wrapped around his wrist like an accessory he’d never admit meant something. Your scent on his hoodie? He’d refuse to wash it, tossing it on his chair and pretending he “forgot.” Photos of you? Hidden in a locked folder, captioned: “loml 🤍” Your handmade gifts? All kept in a small box inside his cabinet, untouched but obviously treasured. He denied everything if anyone asked — but he never let you touch his phone. Not because he had other girls. Because you were his wallpaper. And he always remembered that you loved food. Maybe too much. When you were angry, he’d appear with your favorite snacks and that awkward half-smile of his, holding the bag out like a peace offering. When you told him you were hungry late at night, he didn’t reply. But twenty minutes later, he was outside your house, waiting with food he said he “accidentally bought too much of.”

Even during late-night calls, his camera stayed off. He’d answer with dry, half-asleep comments like:

“cool.” “mhm.”

But the moment you thought he wasn’t listening and stopped talking? His voice, rough and low, would slip in: “Why’d you stop?” And you’d hear the rustle of sheets — he wasn’t sleeping at all. He was listening. Always.

—

One afternoon, the two of you sat together in the quietest corner of the school garden, where the sun filtered through the leaves and scattered light across your shoes. You were talking, ranting really, watching him stare into the distance with that usual bored expression of his — eyes half-lidded, mouth in a flat line. You assumed, again, that he didn’t care. So your words slowly faded. You clamped your mouth shut. The silence stretched. And that’s when he turned his head toward you, expression unreadable — something sharp, something soft, something deeply Suna — his eyes meeting yours like he could see right through the sudden quiet. His voice came out low, quiet, but certain:

“Why did you stop? Just go on, I’m listening. Always.”