reay

________________________

SUNA

❥ Almost, Maybe, Yours

Almost

Maybe

Enough

Yours(Bonus)

❥ After the Silence

Teaser

Chapter 1 — "Two Lines"

Chapter 2 – “The Ones Who Stay”

Chapter 3 – “Unsaid”

Chapter 4 – “Truth in the Gaps”

Chapter 5 – “The Question”

Chapter 6 — “Things That Were Never Said”

Chapter 7 — “The Letter He Wasn’t Meant to Read”

Chapter 8 — “Unsent, Unspoken”

Chapter 9 — “Fracture Line”

Chapter 10 — “Letters That Should’ve Burned”

Chapter 11 — “Knocks and Consequences”

Chapter 12 — “What Comes After”

The envelope stayed unopened on the table.

Neither of them touched it that night. Y/N fell asleep on the couch without saying another word. Rin sat nearby, awake long past midnight, afraid to leave and more afraid to stay.

In the morning, she was gone.

Just a note on the kitchen counter in her handwriting:

“Went for my check-up. Don’t worry — baby’s fine. Don’t text. Just show up where it counts.”

No "love," no signature. But not a locked door either.

---

Rin did show up.

To the courthouse.

To his lawyer's office.

To the long, drawn-out conversation where every word felt like reliving a version of himself he’d tried to bury. He didn’t flinch when the footage was shown. He didn’t deny the swing or the shouting or the flash of red that had blanked out his better judgment.

But he clarified one thing.

“I didn’t push him into traffic,” he said clearly. “I shoved him. I regret that. But the step into the street wasn’t mine.”

It wasn’t enough to erase it. But it was enough to be heard.

By the end of the hearing, no formal charges were placed — just court-mandated therapy and a public mediation hearing with the other party. The term “voluntary agreement” hung in the air, but Rin knew better. Nothing about this was voluntary anymore.

When he walked out of the courthouse, his mother was waiting.

She didn’t hug him. Just looked at him like she was seeing a son she hadn’t recognized in years.

“You’re not a child anymore,” she said. “But it’s time you start acting like a father.”

He didn't say anything back.

---

He returned that night to Y/N’s apartment. Not with flowers or promises. Just with groceries and a steady knock.

She opened the door slowly. Her eyes scanned the bags in his hand.

“You brought... vegetables?”

“I brought dinner,” he corrected. “And your favorite juice. And whatever brand of crackers you keep beside the bed.”

A long pause. Then she stepped aside.

He cooked. She watched, not speaking much. But she didn’t stop him, either.

After they ate — quietly, separately, like people figuring out how to share space again — she finally spoke.

“Therapy?”

“I start Friday.”

Y/N nodded. “And mediation?”

He hesitated. “Next week. If they agree to it.”

She nodded again.

Another pause.

Then, almost casually: “I told my parents.”

He looked up. “About me?”

“About you being around again. About... trying.”

His heart stuttered. “What did they say?”

She shrugged. “That it’s my choice. That they’ll support me. That they hope I’m not setting myself up for heartbreak again.”

She didn’t say it with bitterness. Just quiet, cautious honesty.

“I won’t disappear this time,” he said.

“You’ve said that before.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until it’s true enough for you to believe it.”

Her eyes met his across the dim kitchen.

“I want to believe it,” she whispered.

He walked toward her, slow and sure, like he knew rushing would ruin it. He didn’t touch her — just stood close enough for her to feel the gravity of what hadn’t yet broken between them.

“You don’t have to believe it yet,” he said. “But can I be here while you figure it out?”

Y/N’s hand found the edge of the counter, steadying herself.

And after a long moment —

She nodded.

---

That night, she let him sleep on the couch. Again.

But in the middle of the night, when a sharp cramp woke her — not dangerous, just the kind of discomfort that came with late pregnancy — Rin was already awake.

He was beside her in seconds. Not panicked. Just there.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

And when she leaned into him, arms trembling slightly as the pain passed — he didn’t let go.

They stayed like that, cocooned in something quiet and unfinished.

Not healed. Not whole.

But something.

A beginning. Again.

End of Chapter 12.

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Chapter 11 “Knocks and Consequences”

“It’s Officer Tanaka.”

Y/N’s voice was quiet, flat — like a warning.

Rin stood immediately. Every nerve in his body lit up like a live wire. His legs moved before his thoughts did.

“Let me—”

“No,” she said, hand still on the doorframe. “You sit.”

Her tone left no room for argument. Not anymore.

Rin obeyed.

She opened the door just enough to show her face.

“Officer Tanaka,” she said, not quite cold, not quite polite.

The officer, older than Rin remembered, offered a curt nod. “Miss Y/L/N. I apologize for coming unannounced, but it was the only address we had on record.”

Y/N didn’t blink. “He’s here.”

Tanaka’s eyes moved past her. “May I come in?”

She held his gaze for a second longer, then stepped aside.

Rin’s chest tightened as the officer entered, every step toward him heavy and echoing with the weight of a choice made in anger — a night that hadn't stayed buried. A night that had dragged itself back to the surface on tired, bloody hands.

Officer Tanaka stopped just short of the table, gaze sharp but not unkind. “Mr. Suna.”

“Officer,” Rin said, rising halfway from his chair.

“You got the voicemail, I assume.”

Rin nodded slowly. “I did.”

Tanaka waited. When no elaboration came, he exhaled through his nose and pulled something from the inside of his jacket. A folded envelope. Official seal. A beat of silence passed as he placed it on the table.

Y/N hadn’t moved from the door.

“This isn’t an arrest,” the officer said, “but it is formal notice. The other party has filed to reopen the case. Not just for assault. For endangerment.”

Rin blinked. “Endangerment?”

Tanaka’s tone didn’t shift. “The curb was next to a road. The impact pushed the victim partially into the street. There was a car turning. It swerved. No crash — but it was recorded on a nearby dashcam. They’re arguing your action could’ve endangered more than one person.”

Y/N made a small sound — a quiet inhale that nearly stopped Rin’s heart.

“I never meant—” Rin started.

Tanaka held up a hand. “This is not the place. The court will decide if it goes that far. Right now, you’re being asked to make a voluntary appearance next week. The date and time are inside.”

Silence fell.

Then: “I’ll be there,” Rin said.

“Good.” Tanaka looked at him a beat longer, then turned to Y/N. “Miss Y/L/N, you are not expected to participate. Your name only appears on his emergency contact form. But if you are asked to testify—”

“I won’t,” she said flatly.

The officer nodded, like he expected that. “Understood. I’ll leave you both to it.”

Y/N opened the door again. Tanaka stepped out without further ceremony.

But just before the door shut, he paused.

“You know,” he said, addressing Rin without turning around, “not everyone gets the chance to explain themselves before it’s too late. Use it wisely.”

The latch clicked.

Y/N stood there a second longer, back to him. Then she shut the door and turned slowly.

Her eyes were unreadable.

She didn’t speak. She walked past him instead — into the kitchen, where she opened the fridge like she hadn’t just watched the wreckage of his past land in their living room.

Rin followed, but only halfway. “Y/N...”

She reached for a glass. Filled it. Drank. Then finally turned to face him.

“You kept it from me,” she said. “Again.”

“I was trying to fix it on my own.”

“And that worked so well last time.”

Her voice wasn’t yelling. But it didn’t need to be. It landed harder than any scream.

“I wanted to protect you—”

“From what?” she snapped. “The truth? The risk of knowing what kind of storm was still following you around while I’m carrying your child?”

Rin’s chest ached. “I didn’t think it would come back.”

“Newsflash — it never left. You just didn’t look.”

A pause.

He took a careful step closer. “I meant what I said. I’m not hiding anymore.”

Y/N shook her head slowly, one hand resting on the edge of the counter, the other unconsciously brushing over the curve of her belly.

“You keep saying that, Rin. But this—” she gestured between them, at the table full of letters, at the envelope from the officer, at everything unspoken “—this isn’t something that disappears with one courtroom visit and a half-sincere apology.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

He exhaled shakily. “I’m trying.”

She blinked hard. Her voice cracked at the edges. “So am I. Every day. I’m trying not to hate you. I’m trying not to remember how long I waited for a call that never came. I’m trying to figure out how to raise a human being when I can barely carry the weight of what you left behind.”

Rin looked down.

Then —

“I never stopped loving you,” he said softly.

Her head lifted.

“But I stopped believing I could be good for you,” he added. “That’s not the same.”

She didn’t reply. Just stared at him. Eyes wide. Tired. Torn.

Then, slowly, Y/N walked to the couch. Sat down heavily, like her bones were done holding her up. She looked at him again, more fragile now than furious.

“Will you be here after the hearing?” she asked.

He nodded. “If you’ll let me.”

Y/N didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no.

She just looked at him like it might be the last time she could still afford to believe in maybes.

And then, quietly — so quietly he barely heard it — she said:

“Then don’t screw it up.”

End of Chapter 11

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Chapter 10 — Letters That Should’ve Burned

“There is a difference between hiding the truth and refusing to face it. You’ve done both.”

Rin slept on the couch that night.

If he slept at all.

The creak of Y/N’s bedroom door didn’t come once. Not for water. Not for pain. Not even when the wind made the old balcony shutters bang softly against the rails.

He stared at the ceiling, replaying the message over and over again.

“Further legal action will be pursued.”

He hadn’t responded.

He couldn’t.

Because saying anything would mean dragging Y/N into it for real. Not just as an accidental emergency contact. Not just as the woman who picked up the voicemail. But as a witness to how deeply broken he was that night. How much he’d let spiral. How much he still didn’t know how to fix.

And now… now she knew something. Just not everything.

But she would. Soon.

Morning came quietly, slipping into the room with streaks of muted light and the low hum of distant traffic. Rin sat up with a groan, every bone in his back cursing the couch. He looked toward the hallway.

Still no sound.

He stood slowly and padded into the kitchen, the floorboards cool against his feet. He didn’t expect to find her there.

But she was.

In the oversized hoodie she’d worn since college — the one that still said “PROPERTY OF MY BAD DECISIONS” across the chest — she was perched at the dining table with a pen in one hand and something else beneath it. Dozens of papers. Torn pages. Some stained. Some clean. Some folded like she couldn’t bear to reread them.

Her hand stilled when she noticed him.

His mouth went dry. “Y/N...”

She didn’t look up. “You should’ve told me everything from the start.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve responded to the police.”

“I know.”

She slid a piece of paper toward him without looking. Her voice, when it came again, was flat.

“I started writing these when I realized I was pregnant. Most I never finished. Some I couldn’t even read again.”

Rin approached the table slowly, eyes on the pile.

“You wrote me letters.”

She nodded.

“I didn’t plan to. It just... started happening. Every time I felt something I couldn’t say out loud — to my parents, to my best friend, to the baby — I wrote to you instead. Not to send. Just to feel less... erased.”

Rin sat down across from her, heart pounding.

He picked up the top letter.

“You’re not here, and I hate you for that. But worse — I miss you. And I know that makes me pathetic. I feel like an idiot for still reaching for my phone at night like you might’ve remembered me. Like you might’ve remembered us.”

He felt his throat close.

“You kept them.”

She finally looked up. Her eyes were glassy, but hard. Like sea glass — beautiful, worn, dangerous to touch.

“I kept them because I didn’t want to forget how it felt. I didn’t want to let myself rewrite the pain just to survive it.”

Rin said nothing. There was no apology big enough. No version of him clean enough to undo the absence he’d left behind.

“How many did you read?” she asked.

He hesitated. “All of them.”

Y/N flinched, but not like she was surprised. Like she'd prepared herself for this.

Then she reached for a different envelope.

“This one I almost mailed,” she said, her fingers grazing the edge of the flap. “It was two days after the second ultrasound. I thought… maybe if you knew the baby had your nose, it would change something.”

Rin stared at the envelope, then at her. “Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged. “Because by the time I finished writing it, I was already bleeding. I thought I was losing her. And I told myself you didn’t deserve to know either way.”

His whole body stilled. “You… what?”

“It was a scare. She’s fine,” she said, as if it were no big deal. “But I wasn’t. I was terrified. And alone.”

“I would’ve come.”

“You didn’t even call.”

“I didn’t know.”

She looked at him like that was the point.

“I was trying to protect you from me,” Rin said, his voice raw now. “You have no idea what that night did to me. What I was capable of when I wasn’t thinking.”

She folded her arms. “Then tell me.”

He blinked.

“You want me to trust you again? Start by telling me what really happened. Not the edited version. Not the ‘bar fight’ line you’ve been feeding me. Tell me why the police are still following up months later.”

He looked at the floor.

Y/N’s voice softened, but didn’t break. “If I’m going to let you anywhere near our child — if I’m going to let you into my life again in any capacity — I need to know who I’m dealing with. I need to know the full story.”

He swallowed hard.

“There was a guy,” he said slowly. “He recognized me from high school. Started mouthing off — something about you, about the divorce. I tried to ignore it. But then he said something... something that pushed a button.”

“What did he say?”

Rin’s eyes darkened. “He said you were better off now. That you looked free. He laughed about it. Like I was a joke. I don’t remember the exact words anymore — just that they made me feel like I’d failed you in every possible way. Like he was right.”

He paused.

“So I snapped. I shoved him. I didn’t punch him — but he wasn’t expecting it. He hit the curb. His head bled. It wasn’t... bad. But people saw. Someone called it in.”

“And you ran.”

“I didn’t want to end up on the news. Or in court. Or be a scandal on some sports site. I’d just lost you. I couldn’t lose everything else too.”

Y/N exhaled slowly.

“You let pride bury everything.”

“I let shame do it.”

A pause.

Then she asked, “What now?”

“I’m going to the station. I’ll take whatever comes.”

She stared at him.

“And me?” she asked. “What happens to me? To her?”

Rin reached across the table, fingers brushing hers. “I’m not asking you to forgive me yet. I’m just asking you not to give up on the idea that I’m still learning how to be the man you deserved the first time.”

Silence.

Y/N didn’t pull her hand back.

But she didn’t hold his either.

Then—

A loud knock at the door.

Y/N stood quickly, startled. She walked over, peeked through the peephole — and froze.

“Y/N?” Rin asked.

She turned slowly.

“It’s Officer Tanaka.”

End of Chapter 10.

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Chapter 9 — Fracture Line

Y/N hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes.

She hadn’t touched the plate of food she reheated or taken her eyes off the far corner of the room, like staring long enough might unlock a secret. Rin sat a few feet away, arms resting on his knees, saying nothing — because what could he say?

The voicemail from Officer Tanaka had rewired the air between them.

April 17th.

That date lived like a scar beneath her skin.

She had been numb back then. Post-divorce. Floating. The day was forgettable for her — but now, it pulsed with meaning. And Rin wasn’t giving her any of it.

She finally broke the silence. “Why would the police be calling me about you?”

Rin didn’t look at her right away. His jaw clenched. “It’s nothing serious.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then tell me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Something happened that night,” he said eventually. “A guy came at me outside a bar. It was stupid. I shoved him. He fell harder than I meant. There were witnesses. Someone called the police. I didn’t stay.”

Y/N’s stomach turned.

“You ran?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Rin said, his voice low. “I panicked. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t high. I was just... done. The divorce was final. I’d just signed the papers. And I didn’t want to be around people.”

Her heart squeezed. “So you got into a fight?”

“I didn’t start it.”

“You still left.”

Silence.

She stood slowly. “And you didn’t think I’d find out?”

“I thought they wouldn’t follow up. I didn’t want to drag you into something that happened when we were already over.”

Y/N felt like the ground was tilting.

“You’re still listed as my emergency contact,” Rin added quietly. “I forgot to change it. That’s why they called you.”

The room rang with irony.

“You forgot to change it,” she repeated, her voice distant. “But you changed everything else.”

He flinched. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “You just keep leaving messes for me to clean up. First our marriage. Then your absence. Now this.”

Rin took a step closer. “I came back.”

She looked at him — really looked. There was exhaustion in his eyes, sure. Regret too. But regret couldn’t patch holes in the dam anymore.

“You came back after everything,” she whispered. “But only because you missed a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Silence stretched.

And then her phone buzzed again.

Another voicemail.

Tokyo Metropolitan Police.

She let it ring.

The baby — now almost six months along — kicked again, but she didn’t flinch. She was too tired for symbolism.

“I’ll call them tomorrow,” she said tightly, heading toward the bedroom.

Rin followed her with his eyes, voice low. “You don’t trust me anymore, do you?”

She turned at the hallway, resting a hand on the wall.

“I don’t know if I ever should’ve.”

She disappeared down the hall.

Rin didn’t follow.

---

The camera would’ve cut here, but it doesn’t.

Instead, Rin stays , sitting alone in the living room.

He pulls out his phone and scrolls past dozens of unread messages. One sits at the top — a name not saved, just a number. A message unopened for weeks.

He finally taps it open:

“Mr. Suna, we urge you to contact us. This is regarding the April 17th incident. The man involved has filed new charges. If you do not respond, further legal action will be pursued. — Officer Tanaka, TMPD.”

Rin’s thumb hovers over the screen.

And then another message arrives.

From Y/N’s best friend.

“I thought you said you were going to tell her everything.”

End of Chapter 9.

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Chapter 8 — “Unsent, Unspoken”

Something felt off.

Y/N knew it before she even unlocked the front door. The hallway felt colder than usual, too quiet, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

She stood with her keys in hand, staring at the wood grain of the door, suddenly hesitant. She wasn’t afraid — not really — but something itched under her skin. A whisper in her bones.

Click. The door unlocked.

She stepped in slowly.

Her apartment looked normal. Shoes by the mat. Jacket hanging on the hook. Lights off, the way she’d left them. Even the faint scent of vanilla from her candle lingered.

But something was wrong.

There was an energy in the room that wasn’t hers.

Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach — not for protection, but reassurance. The baby was quiet tonight. Or maybe just calm, unlike her.

She walked slowly through the living room, checking each corner, even glancing into the kitchen.

Everything looked untouched.

Until—

She stopped. Blinked.

The letter box.

It sat half-closed on the shelf by the bedroom door. It was supposed to be locked.

She stepped forward. Slowly.

The box was wooden, aged. She’d kept it since college — old letters, receipts, scribbled drafts of poems and apologies she never sent. But since her pregnancy, it had become something else entirely.

It had become him.

All the letters she’d written and never meant to send. All the nights she sat alone, writing down what she couldn’t scream into the silence. Anger. Hurt. Fear. Bitterness. Memories. Her grief in ink.

She reached for it. The latch was loose.

One envelope peeked out — slightly crumpled, her handwriting a little slanted from the night she wrote it, hand shaking and tears falling fast.

A memory surfaced.

“Rintarou, I can’t breathe. I keep trying, but it’s like everything I am is suffocating under everything you left behind.”

That letter. She remembered that one.

She had burned with rage when she wrote it — not just at him, but at herself. For loving him so much it made her sick. For crying in the shower where no one could hear her. For pretending she didn’t check her phone every five minutes in the first weeks after the divorce.

She never thought anyone would read it.

But now… the box was open.

Something behind her moved.

Her chest went tight.

Slowly, she turned—

And froze.

Rin was standing by the window. Holding her letters.

The skyline of the city glowed faintly behind him, casting shadows over his face. He wasn’t looking at her — not yet — just flipping slowly through the stack in his hands.

One by one. Like he was reading her soul out loud in his head.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

He looked up.

His face wasn’t angry. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t even sad.

It was destroyed.

“You wrote all of these?”

She couldn’t speak. Her tongue felt like lead.

“You were hurting this much and you didn’t call me?”

Still, nothing.

“You wrote to me instead of reaching out?” His voice cracked. “What the hell was I to you, Y/N?”

That snapped her out of it.

“You left me,” she said. “You walked out.”

He stepped forward, holding one letter in particular — one she remembered too well.

“You called me a coward.”

“I meant it,” she said, voice trembling now.

“You said you hated me for taking your peace.”

“I meant that too.”

“You said—” His voice broke off, eyes searching hers. “You said you didn’t want the baby to have someone like me.”

She flinched.

“I wrote that the night I thought I was miscarrying,” she whispered. “I was alone. I was terrified. I hated everything, including myself.”

A long silence stretched between them. Heavy. Cracking at the edges.

Then he looked down.

“There’s a letter here you wrote the day I left. You said you didn’t understand why I stopped fighting.”

His shoulders shook slightly.

“You think I wanted this?” he asked, louder now. “You think walking away from you was easy for me?”

“You didn’t stay.”

“I didn’t know you needed me to.”

“I shouldn’t have had to beg!” Her voice broke, sharp and raw.

“I was drowning too, Y/N,” he said softly. “But you never looked back.”

She wanted to scream. Cry. Run.

Instead, she shook her head.

“This was never about you,” she said. “This—these letters—they were for me. I wrote them to keep going.”

His eyes softened, just barely.

“Do you regret any of it?”

She hesitated.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But not all of it.”

Her phone buzzed on the table behind her.

Neither moved for a moment.

Then it buzzed again.

She reached for it, expecting a text from her best friend.

1 New Voicemail.

Unknown Number.

She hit play.

“Miss Y/L/N, this is Officer Tanaka from Tokyo Metropolitan Police. We need to speak with you about Mr. Suna Rintarou in connection to an incident on April 17th. Please return our call at your earliest convenience.”

Her entire body went cold.

She turned toward Rin slowly, phone still in hand.

He’d gone pale.

“…What is that about?” she asked, voice eerily calm.

Rin didn’t answer.

He just stared at her — silently — like he was deciding what truth would hurt her less.

End of Chapter 8.

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Chapter 7 — “The Letter He Wasn’t Meant to Read”

The silence after Suna left wasn’t peaceful.

It was the kind that screamed.

Thick. Suffocating.

The kind that made the baby inside her twist like he could feel her storm.

Y/N stood in the dark for too long after the door slammed. Long enough that her legs gave up and she sank to the floor — back against the wall, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around the one part of her that hadn’t abandoned her.

Her child.

“It’s just us again,” she whispered.

---

The next morning, she didn’t get up when her alarm rang.

Didn’t brush her hair.

Didn’t even check her phone until the sun had already moved past her window.

When she did, there were three texts from Suna.

All unread.

All unseen.

And all deleted.

She didn’t want words. She wanted him not to destroy her peace again.

---

Her best friend came over later that day — uninvited but forgiven.

“I didn’t tell him to file anything,” she said. “I only told him to show up. That was it.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t have the energy.

She was tired of people making decisions on her behalf — for her “own good.”

Tired of being the soft landing.

Tired of being the one everyone thought could hold it all together.

She wasn’t holding it together. She was fraying.

---

That night, something pulled her to the bottom drawer again.

She didn’t want to reread them.

She never reread them.

But her fingers didn’t ask for permission. They found one of the earliest ones — still angry, raw, and too sharp to forget.

---

Letter #4

(One month after the divorce papers were signed.)

Dear Rintarou,

You left the dishes in the sink again.

And the towel on the bathroom floor.

And the silence in my chest.

I think I hate you.

No, wait.

I think I hate who I was when I loved you.

I told you I needed you. You said you needed space.

I asked for honesty. You said “later.”

I begged you to talk to me, and all I got was the sound of your car pulling away at 1 a.m.

Did you think that silence wouldn’t echo?

Because it did.

It echoed in every test I took alone.

In every doctor’s appointment I had to explain why the “father” slot was left blank.

In every time someone asked, “Are you doing this by yourself?”

Yes.

I am.

By choice now.

Not yours.

Mine.

I don’t know why I still want you to read this.

Maybe because there’s a part of me — the traitorous part — that still thinks you’d care.

But you don’t.

Do you?

—Y/N

---

She folded the letter slowly. Delicately. Like it might shatter.

Then she lit a match.

Watched it curl into ash in the sink.

But still — she felt it in her chest.

The words never really left. They just sat in her ribs, rusting.

---

Meanwhile — across the city.

Suna stared at his phone.

Still nothing.

He hadn’t meant for her to find out about the divorce delay that way.

He hadn’t meant to screw up again.

But he always seemed to, didn’t he?

He replayed her voice in his head. That hurt buried beneath fury.

He couldn’t stop seeing her — hand over her stomach, whispering to their baby like he wasn’t even real to her anymore.

Like he’d already been cut out of the picture.

---

Flashback — One Year Ago.

“You shut down every time I talk about kids,” she said, blinking too fast.

“Because I’m scared of ruining them,” he’d said back. “The way I ruin everything.”

He didn’t mean her when he said it.

But maybe that was the beginning of the end.

---

Back to present.

Suna stood outside her apartment again. Didn’t knock this time. Didn’t move.

He could see the faint light from her window.

Could almost pretend she was just a few steps away.

But even now, the distance felt impossible.

Until—

The door opened.

And it wasn’t Y/N.

It was her best friend. Coat on. Bag in hand.

She froze when she saw him.

“You need to stop showing up like this.”

“I just want to talk.”

“She doesn’t want to hear you right now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then you better get used to cold concrete.”

She brushed past him.

But just as she reached the stairs—

“Is she okay?” he asked.

She didn’t turn around.

“You should’ve asked that before you broke her.”

End of Chapter 7.

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Chapter 6 — “Things That Were Never Said”

Y/N wasn’t expecting company.

She especially wasn’t expecting him.

Not standing at her front door, not holding a bag of groceries, not with that same damn expression he always wore — like he wanted to say a thousand things but didn’t know where to start.

Suna Rintarou.

Her almost-husband. The man she hadn’t seen in months. The man who had walked out on her. The man she had once planned a life with.

“Did you forget how knocking works?” she asked, leaning on the doorway like her bones were tired.

“Your best friend gave me your address,” he said. “Said you’d kill her for it.”

“You were gone long enough to know how true that is.”

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he held up the bag like a peace offering.

“Can I come in?”

“Why now?”

“Because I don’t want to pretend anymore. I’ve been doing that for too long.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He looked thinner.

Older, maybe.

More tired than she’d ever seen him.

Inside the apartment, the air felt warmer. Close. Familiar.

He looked around, taking in the tiny signs of a life moving on without him.

The books she never finished reading.

The unopened crib box in the corner.

The faint scent of chamomile and loneliness.

“It’s not much,” she said, folding her arms.

“It’s still more than I deserve,” he replied quietly.

They didn’t speak for a while.

He helped her unpack the groceries. Said nothing when he found the prenatal vitamins. Said nothing when she winced while reaching for a plate. Said nothing when she rubbed her belly absentmindedly and whispered something under her breath.

But then he did speak.

“You’re… how far along?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.”

“Y/N—”

“You walked away. You don’t get to be shocked now.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Her voice cracked at the edges.

“You knew, Rintarou. You knew I was late. You knew I was scared. And you still left.”

He stood there.

Useless.

Mute.

“I wrote you letters,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“Unsent. Unread. Unimportant. Just words I threw into the void because I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I want to read them.”

“They’re not for you.”

Her voice was hard now. Ice around fire.

“They were for the version of you I needed. Not the one I got.”

A beat passed.

And then another.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said, softer this time.

“You didn’t ask.”

“I would’ve stayed.”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare say that. Because if staying was an option, you would’ve done it the moment I begged you to.”

The room spun. The emotions were circling the drain, faster and faster.

He stepped closer.

So did she.

Not willingly. Not calmly.

But like gravity pulled them into the center of something that couldn’t be undone.

“Why now?” she whispered.

“Because I haven’t stopped loving you.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s a start.”

“It’s too late.”

Then it happened.

The baby kicked.

Hard.

Right against her ribs.

She gasped — not from pain, but from the shock of it.

She staggered back, hand on her stomach.

He froze.

Eyes wide.

“Was that—?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he… okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“He?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she muttered, lowering herself onto the couch.

“Can I…?”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t stop him, either.

He kneeled in front of her slowly, hands hesitant.

When he placed one hand on her stomach, he was shaking.

Then — another kick.

A solid one.

He exhaled, like something holy had just struck him in the chest.

“He’s strong.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, barely audible. “He didn’t get that from you.”

They stayed like that for a while.

Something suspended in the air between them — not peace, not love, but something broken trying to heal itself.

And then—

Her phone buzzed.

Y/N reached for it instinctively.

One new message.

From her lawyer.

She frowned. Opened it.

And the blood drained from her face.

“You need to be aware: Suna has filed to pause the finalization of the divorce.”

She dropped the phone.

Suna’s hand fell away.

“Y/N…?”

“You filed something?”

“I… I wanted time. I thought—”

“You what?” she stood up, nearly knocking over the table. “You went behind my back?”

“I thought if I could just talk to you—”

“You don’t get to play legal games with my life!”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You already did!”

He stood too.

Faster now.

Panic flaring in his eyes.

“I just needed you to hear me out. That’s all. I didn’t mean to control anything.”

“But you did. You always do.”

The room was boiling over now.

No space left for grace.

“You walked away from me when I was bleeding,” she said, voice shaking. “And now you want to put everything on pause just so you can feel better?”

“No—Y/N, please—”

“Get out.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Get out.”

He stared at her.

Her eyes were glassy.

Her shoulders trembling.

His hands clenched at his sides.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

“You already did.”

Door slams.

Scene ends.

And just before the screen fades to black —

Y/N looks at the discarded phone. Then down at her belly.

Then slowly walks to her bedroom.

Opens the drawer.

Pulls out a stack of letters.

And whispers to herself:

“Why does it still hurt like this?”

End of Chapter 6.

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Chapter 5 – “The Question”

She had just stepped out of the shower when her phone buzzed.

Still wrapped in a towel, she reached for it, heart already dropping at the sight of his name on the screen.

Rintarou Suna

1 Message

Her thumb hovered.

She wasn’t ready.

She opened it anyway.

Are you Pregnant?

Three words. That was it.

Her towel slipped an inch lower as she stood there, frozen — the condensation still clinging to the bathroom mirror.

For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

No punctuation. No name. Just the question.

But it was a scalpel.

She felt sliced open.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

She hadn’t moved.

Still standing barefoot, phone in hand, staring at the message like it might detonate if she responded.

The air felt thinner in the apartment.

Like it knew something she didn’t.

By the time her best friend walked in — keys jangling, grocery bag on one shoulder — Y/N was sitting on the edge of the bed, towel long since replaced with an oversized hoodie.

Still staring.

Still silent.

“Okay,” her friend said slowly, setting the bag down. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Y/N just lifted her phone wordlessly and passed it over.

Her friend read.

Then sat down beside her, hard.

“...Shit.”

No other words.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was hot. Smothering.

“How?” Y/N whispered. “How does he know?”

Her voice cracked halfway through.

“Did you—?”

Her best friend didn’t answer immediately.

Y/N turned to her, voice sharper now.

“Did you say something?”

A pause.

Too long.

“I didn’t tell him,” her friend said finally. “I just… maybe I implied something.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“He was asking around, Y/N. Checking stories. Quiet, but persistent. He already suspected. I just—God, I didn’t mean for him to message you. I thought if he knew, he’d… I don’t know. Try. Do something.”

“You had no right.”

“And you have no idea how hard it is to watch you suffer in silence.”

The words cut.

Deeper than they should have.

Y/N stood up, every muscle in her body tense.

“You weren’t there the day he left,” she said, voice trembling. “You didn’t see what it did to me. And you think just knowing will fix this? You think I haven’t imagined him showing up at my door every night since I found out?”

Her best friend stood too, hands open, soft but firm.

“Then why are you so afraid now?”

That question.

That one broke her.

Y/N couldn’t answer.

Because she was afraid.

Not of Suna knowing.

But of what he would say.

Of what he wouldn’t.

Of what his voice might sound like — too calm, too detached, too careful — when he realized the baby was real.

And that it had been growing without him.

And that she hadn’t told him.

The baby kicked then — soft, low.

Her hand instinctively pressed to her stomach.

Her eyes stung.

She couldn’t do this again.

Not with him.

Not for him.

She needed air.

Needed movement.

Something.

She walked out without her bag.

Just keys and phone.

The city felt sharper that night.

The cold wind sliced through her sleeves as she wandered blocks without direction.

She found herself in front of her old apartment.

The one she used to share with him.

What was she doing?

Why here?

She didn’t know.

But her hands moved on their own — unzipping her hoodie, reaching into her pocket.

She had a page. One of the letters. Folded, worn at the edges.

She’d brought it to shred, not deliver.

But instead — she slipped it into his mailbox.

Rin,

It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you.

It’s that I wanted you to care enough to ask.

And now that you have, I don’t know what to do with the grief of it.

Because I’ve lived every day preparing to raise this child without you. I built a life where your absence was the only constant I could rely on.

If you show up now — I don’t know who I am anymore.

—Y/N

She didn’t wait.

Didn’t linger.

Didn’t cry.

[Suna – Hours later]

The letter was in his mailbox. No name on the outside. Just folded clean, pressed thin.

But he knew it was her.

The moment he opened it, something in him broke.

He read it twice.

Then a third time.

His hands shook.

He sat down on the stairs, phone in hand.

Typed.

I want to see you.

Waited.

Then added:

Please.

Sent.

Then he stared at the screen.

Watched the message turn to "Delivered."

Watched her profile light up green.

She’s online.

His phone rang before he could breathe.

His name on her screen.

She watched it ring.

One.

Two.

Three.

She let it go to voicemail.

Then she did the one thing she swore she wouldn't do.

She turned off her phone.

Packed her small emergency bag.

And walked out the door.

End of Chapter 5.

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Chapter 4 – “Truth in the Gaps”

“She didn’t tell you, did she?”

The message sat on Suna’s screen like it had weight.

He stared at it, phone balanced on his knee, the room dim and quiet around him.

He read it three times. Didn't respond. Couldn’t.

His ears were ringing — not literally, but like something inside him was trying to scream.

Because if she didn’t tell him…

And there was something to tell…

Then what had he missed?

What had she been carrying, alone?

---

He typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Tell me what you mean.

The reply came too quickly.

No. If you really care, ask her.

You don't get to play shocked after disappearing for months.

That one hit harder.

Because it was true.

He had disappeared.

Not because he stopped caring.

But because caring felt like a luxury.

And because being around Y/N — watching their marriage slip through his fingers while pretending it wasn’t his fault — had started to feel like bleeding out in slow motion.

But still… if what he suspected was real…

If she was—

No.

He wouldn’t think it.

He’d know.

---

[Y/N – Earlier That Day]

She couldn’t eat again.

The nausea had come back — sudden and unfair, after a full week of manageable calm.

She curled into the couch, her best friend beside her, rubbing small circles over her spine.

“Maybe it’s just the anxiety,” her friend whispered.

“Maybe,” Y/N croaked, “or maybe it’s guilt.”

“Don’t. Don’t go there again.”

“What if he finds out?” she whispered.

“Then he finds out. And you deal with it then.”

---

But Y/N’s stomach was already coiling.

Because for all her strength, there was a part of her that still feared one thing:

Being seen.

And worse — being asked, Why didn’t you tell me?

Because she didn’t have an answer that didn’t make her sound broken.

---

That night, she wrote again.

A shorter letter. The kind you write when you’re too exhausted to bleed more words.

---

Rin,

Every day I make the choice not to tell you.

And every day it costs me something.But I can’t undo what you already decided. I won’t crawl back to you with news that should’ve been shared in joy.

You don’t get the joy. You gave that up.

I’m learning how to be two people — for me, and for them.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

—Y/N

---

She didn’t fold this one.

She just tucked it into the drawer, slowly, like it might explode.

---

[Suna – Later That Night]

He opened her contact.

Typed.

Paused.

He didn’t want to ask.

Didn’t want to know.

But he also couldn’t sleep with this gnawing in his gut.

Finally, he sent it.

Are you pregnant?

The moment it delivered, he regretted it.

He waited.

Five minutes. Ten.

No reply.

Until —

Typing...

Then it stopped.

No message.

No response.

Just silence.

---

End of Chapter 4.

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Chapter 3 – “Unsaid”

It had been a week since the appointment.

She hadn’t written.

Hadn’t cooked.

Hadn’t cried.

Not because things were better — but because everything inside her had gone quiet.

She didn’t even notice how cold the floor was until she slipped on spilled water and caught herself on the counter with a breathless grunt.

That was when it cracked.

Not loudly.

Not all at once.

But like a pipe in the walls — subtle, slow, seeping until everything underneath felt rotten.

---

Y/N sank to the kitchen floor with her back against the cupboard, knees pulled to her chest. She could still feel the faint thrum of her baby’s heartbeat from the scan monitor. That sound should have comforted her.

Instead, it made her feel hollow.

Because there was no one beside her when she heard it.

No hand in hers.

No warm shoulder.

No stunned, teary smile.

No Rintarou.

He was gone.

Not dead. Not unreachable.

Just... absent.

By choice.

He chose to miss this.

That hurt more than anything.

---

She stared at her phone for twenty minutes.

Not to call. Not to text.

Just to ask herself, what would he even say if I told him?

Would he be relieved?

Angry?

Would he come back out of guilt?

Would she let him?

Would she forgive him?

Her throat ached with the pressure of all those questions.

She didn’t unlock the screen.

---

That night, she finally wrote again.

Not because she wanted to.

Because if she didn’t, the silence might eat her alive.

---

Rin,

I had to hold my own hand at the appointment.

I wish that sounded poetic. But really, it was just pathetic.

My palms were sweating. I didn’t even wear mascara because I knew I’d cry. And I did.

I cried the moment I saw the heartbeat. It was real. You’re really not here.

And I wanted to scream. Not because I miss you — I mean, I do — but because I am so angry I could drown in it.

You walked away. But I still feel like I’m the one who’s been left behind.

Do you even miss me, Rin? Do you even know what you left?

You left a version of me you’ll never meet again.

You left the version that loved you blindly. That would’ve forgiven anything.

She’s dead now. And I’m the one learning to live in her body.

Don’t come back.

Don’t come back unless you can carry this with me.

Because I am so tired of holding everything you dropped.

—Y/N

---

She didn’t cry after writing it.

She didn’t fold the page either.

She tore it.

Straight down the middle.

And for a moment, it made her feel powerful again.

Until the quiet returned.

---

[Suna – Later that night]

He hadn’t touched alcohol in weeks. Not out of discipline — just because everything tasted wrong.

His apartment was clean. Organized.

Cold.

He liked it cold now. He didn’t know why.

Maybe because warmth reminded him of her.

---

The story popped up by accident — a tagged post from someone he hadn’t muted yet.

A blurry group photo. Someone’s couch. Board games. Snacks.

And in the back — half-lit, barely in focus — her.

Y/N.

Sitting small on the edge of the couch. One hand on her stomach.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t subconscious.

It was cradling.

Suna’s mouth went dry.

He zoomed in.

His thumb froze over the screen.

There was no caption. No tag. Just a moment someone had carelessly uploaded — not realizing what it could mean.

She wouldn’t—

She didn’t—

He closed the app.

Opened her old texts.

Still nothing.

Still that last message: “I’ll send the signed copy tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

---

He stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Then his phone lit up again.

New message — from her best friend.

She didn’t tell you, did she?

End of Chapter 3.

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Chapter 2 – “The Ones Who Stay”

She told them on a Wednesday.

Her parents had come over with lunch and kind voices, asking how she was holding up in that tone only parents can master — not too pushy, not too light. She tried to fake-smile through the meal.

But when her mother said gently, “You seem... tired,” something snapped in her chest.

“I’m pregnant.”

No soft lead-in. No gentle curve to the truth.

Just those two words, flat and quiet.

Her mother froze. Her father blinked slowly, setting down his spoon.

“It’s Rintarou’s, I assume,” her mother asked, already knowing.

“Yes.”

Her voice didn’t tremble. But her hands did — under the table, clenched around a napkin she hadn’t used.

“And have you… told him?”

Y/N shook her head once.

“I’m not going to.”

Silence.

Not disapproval — just silence heavy enough to wrap around her throat.

Her father finally spoke.

“Then you don’t have to,” he said, simply.

Her mother reached across the table, placed a hand over hers.

“We’ll help. Whatever you need.”

It didn’t make the pain disappear.

But for a moment, she wasn’t drowning.

---

That night — her best friend’s apartment

“Okay, let me get this straight,” her best friend said, pacing with an uneaten muffin in hand. “You’re pregnant. You haven’t told him. And you’re planning to do this whole thing solo?”

“Yes.”

“Y/N, that’s insane.”

“I know.”

“And you’re really not going to tell him?”

“No.”

A pause. Her best friend sat beside her, voice softer now.

“Why?”

Y/N looked away.

“Because if I told him, he might come back out of guilt. Or duty. Or habit. And I want someone who wants this. Who wants me.”

“Not just someone who left when it got hard.”

“I’m not going to beg him to stay.”

She cried again later — not loudly. Just quiet tears into her pillow, like her body knew the schedule now.

And then she reached for her notebook.

Rintarou,

I told them today. My parents. And her. The ones who still know how to sit in silence without making me feel like I’m wrong for it.

They didn’t ask too many questions. Maybe they saw it coming before I did.

They said they’d help. They didn’t ask me to forgive you. Didn’t ask me to tell you.

You’d think that would make it easier.

But I still wanted to hear your voice today. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember if it still made me feel safe.

I didn’t call.

I won’t.

Because this baby deserves someone who shows up without needing to be begged.

And so do I.

—Y/N

She folded the letter more neatly than usual.

Almost as if it mattered.

---

[Suna – That same night]

He didn’t know why he was checking the weather in her city.

Maybe because he knew she always hated this time of year — cold mornings and too-warm afternoons. Her migraines always flared.

He scrolled through his messages.

Still no word from her. Not since the final documents.

He almost typed something — Hey. Just wanted to check in.

But what would that even mean.

He couldn’t just walk back into her life.

He was the one who left.

He was the one who made it final.

He was the one who broke it.

So why did it still feel like something unfinished was trying to reach him?

He closed the screen.

Didn’t see the unread message that had just landed in a mutual friend's group chat:

“lol Y/N’s cravings are getting wild. we just drove across the city for pickles and mango juice 💀 i love her”

His name wasn’t tagged.

But something in his chest twitched anyway.

End of Chapter 2.

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Chapter 1 — "Two Lines"

It was pink.

Faint. Soft. Stupidly delicate, for what it meant.

Y/N sat on the bathroom floor, the cold tile pressing against the backs of her thighs. She held the test in both hands like it might turn to dust if she looked away.

Two pink lines.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t even blink.

She just thought:

Of course.

---

The silence in the apartment didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like abandonment.

There was still dust in the corners of the closet where Suna’s shoes used to be. His hoodie—faded, seafoam green, with a loose thread on the sleeve—was tucked into the back of a drawer she hadn’t opened in weeks.

The tea kettle screamed softly behind her.

She forgot she even turned it on.

---

She poured the tea but didn’t drink it.

Instead, she drifted back to the couch like a ghost of herself, curling into the space where he used to sit. The air was heavy. The mug sat untouched on the side table, steam curling like a question mark.

---

[Flashback – Two years ago, the first night in their apartment]

No furniture.

No curtains.

Just a mattress on the floor, half-unpacked boxes, and takeout containers between them.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing his old volleyball tee and pointing a chopstick toward the ceiling.

“It’s too quiet,” she said.

Suna leaned back on one hand, smiling at her like he always did when he was half-exhausted but still soft.

“Then we’ll fill it.”

“With what?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Your terrible 8am playlists. My late-night cooking disasters. You screaming every time you see a spider.”

He nudged her knee gently.

“With us.”

She laughed.

And she believed him.

---

[Present]

Now it was too quiet again.

But there was no spider.

No laughter.

No Suna.

Only the low hum of the fridge and the weight in her stomach.

Y/N reached for the old brown notebook on the shelf beneath the coffee table. Pages bent from old grocery lists and one-liners she’d meant to turn into poetry.

She flipped to a fresh page. Her hand trembled once—just once—and then steadied.

She began to write.

---

Rintarou,

You would’ve known before I did. You always did. The moment I cut sugar out of my coffee, you would’ve raised an eyebrow and said something annoyingly smug like, “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

But you’re not here.

And I’m not writing this so you come back. You made your choice.

I took three tests. All of them lit up like warning signs. And somehow I still wanted a fourth, just to be sure. But I already knew. My body knew before I did.

You don’t get to panic. You don’t get to help. You don’t even get to know.

Not because I hate you.

But because I can’t handle the sound of your voice trying to be kind when all I want to do is scream.

I’m scared, Rin. And I’m pissed. And I’m tired of being the one left to hold all of this.

It’s yours. But it’s also mine. And I’ll carry it alone if I have to.

So congratulations.

You got your silence.

—Y/N

---

She folded the page, twice.

Walked to the coat closet and pulled down a shoebox she hadn’t touched in a month — one that used to hold polaroids, bus tickets, small memories.

Now it held letters she never meant to send.

This was the first.

It wouldn’t be the last.

---

[Elsewhere — Same Night, Suna's POV]

Suna stared at the ceiling.

The apartment he’d moved into was neat, clean, quiet.

Too quiet.

He should have been asleep hours ago, but he kept thinking about that weird crease Y/N got between her eyebrows when she was trying not to cry. Or how she chewed her lip when she was overwhelmed.

He turned onto his side. Reached for his phone.

Didn’t text her.

Didn’t call.

“She needs space,” he had told himself.

Still, the silence felt heavier than usual tonight.

And for the first time since he walked out, he wondered if something was wrong.

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You’re not here. And maybe you never will be. But this is still real. And it’s still yours.

she didn’t tell him.

maybe she should have.

maybe he didn’t deserve to know.

either way—

he finds out.

and nothing stays quiet after that.

!!coming soon!!

"After the Silence"

a yn x suna post-divorce pregnancy au

angst | slow burn | misunderstandings | healing | eventual softness

notes :