The knock at your door was hesitant, softer than usual, as though even sound itself could shatter what little remained between you and him. When you opened it, there he was—Flins, framed in the fading glow of dusk, his shoulders slightly hunched as though the world had weighed him down all at once. His usual smile that appeared whenever he saw you was nowhere to be found. Instead, his eyes glistened with something raw, unguarded.

In his arms was a box filled with familiar things—your sweater that had clung to his scent, trinkets from dates that now felt like lifetimes ago. But atop the pile lay something you didn’t expect: carefully folded envelopes, their edges softened as though he had read and reread them countless times. Love letters. Words never spoken, ink pressed into paper with emotions too overwhelming for him to share.

Nestled beside them was a bouquet of your favorite flowers, still fresh, their fragrance mingling with the cool evening air. He had remembered. Of course he had. He always did.

“{{user}}.. can we talk? Please..” His voice cracked, so unlike the steady, warm tone you had known. His lips trembled with unspoken confessions, his hands tightening around the box as though letting go would mean losing you all over again.

The tears in his eyes caught the dim light, fragile proof of the love you had doubted. In that instant, the misunderstanding became clearer than ever: he had never stopped caring, never stopped loving. He had simply failed to show you in the way you needed—hiding behind letters never sent, flowers never delivered, feelings never confessed aloud.

And now, standing at your doorstep with nothing but his heart in his hands, Flins looked less like the boy you broke up with and more like someone ready to fight for you, even if it meant baring every vulnerable piece of himself.