#tw bpd

fuma sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, watching you with that infuriatingly calm expression. twenty-seven. stable. the kind of man who had his shit together in ways you could only envy. he worked as a project coordinator at a logistics firm downtown—steady hours, steady pay, steady emotions. you were a barista who could barely keep a shift schedule without spiraling.

“you’re really doing this again?” his voice was low, steady. no anger. just fact.

you swallowed hard, chest tight. “this is what i do. i get too close, things feel too good, and then the fear kicks in and i ruin it. i’d rather leave now before you realize how messed up i am and do it yourself.”

he didn’t stand. didn’t raise his voice. he just looked at you with those dark, patient eyes that always saw straight through your armor.

“i know you’re scared,” he said quietly. “i see the storm coming before you even do. but i’m still here. i’ve been here through the mood swings, the accusations, the nights you push me away and then cry because i didn’t chase you hard enough. i’m not going anywhere.”

his words made your eyes sting. you hated how calm he was. it made you feel even more unstable.

“that’s exactly why i have to go,” you whispered. “you deserve someone who isn’t this exhausting. someone who doesn’t test you every time things get serious. i’m twenty-one and i’m already broken, fuma. you’re twenty-seven and you have your life together. this… this isn’t fair to you.”

you turned the doorknob.

“don’t,” he said softly.

but you did.

the door clicked shut behind you, and the rain swallowed you whole as you walked down the hallway. you didn’t look back.

two months later

for sixty-two days, fuma didn’t move on.

he went to work. he came home. he sat on the same couch most nights with a glass of whiskey and the book he kept pretending to read. his friends told him to delete your number, to go on dates, to at least change the damn locks. he didn’t. he kept the your matching eeveelution plushies on the shelf in the living room. he kept whatever clothes you had left where you had left them. he kept your keychain by the door. he kept your favorite mug in the cabinet. he kept the left side of the bed empty.

you lasted three weeks before the regret started eating you alive.

the first month was pure survival mode—crashing on friend’s couches, picking up extra shifts, deleting his contact a dozen times. you convinced yourself he was relieved. that you’d finally done right by him by setting him free.

but the fear flipped on itself. what if he really was the one who wouldn’t leave? what if by month two, the emptiness had hollowed you out. the mood swings settled into a heavy, gray fog. no one else felt safe. no one else saw all your jagged edges and still said, i’m staying. the fear that had pushed you out finally flipped into the worse fear: that he really had moved on. that you’d finally succeeded in ruining the one good thing.

so on a quiet thursday evening in early july, you stood outside his door again. same hallway. same chipped paint near the frame. your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the spare key he’d given you months ago—the one you’d never returned.

you didn’t knock. you let yourself in.

fuma was sitting on the couch exactly where you’d left him that night, like the last two months had been a pause button. he wore gray sweatpants and an old black t-shirt, hair a little longer, eyes focused on his switch, a half-empty glass of whiskey rested on the coffee table next to a book he wasn’t reading. the tv was off. the apartment smelled like him—clean, warm, steady.

he looked up slowly. no shock. no anger. just those dark, patient eyes that had always seen too much.

“you’re back,” he said quietly. his voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it much lately.

you stood there in the doorway, backpack slipping from your shoulder to the floor with a soft thud. tears were already spilling.

“i left,” you choked out. “i really left this time. i told myself i wasn’t coming back. that you deserved better than someone who runs when it gets hard.”

fuma set the book down and stood, but he didn’t rush you. he never did. he just waited, hands at his sides.

“i spiraled,” you continued, voice cracking. “i convinced myself you were waiting for me to go. that i was too much, too unstable, too—everything. i deleted your messages. i tried to hate you so it would hurt less. but every night i kept hearing that stupid song. and i kept seeing you sitting here… not moving.”

you took a shaky step forward.

“i’m so scared, fuma. i’m terrified that one day you’ll finally see how broken i am and leave. but being without you these two months felt worse than any fear. i don’t know how to do this. i don’t know how to stay when my brain screams at me to run. but i… i want to try. if you’ll still have me.”

the silence stretched for a heartbeat.

then he crossed the room in three steady strides and he gently took the soaked backpack off your shoulder and let it drop to the floor.

fuma pulled you against his chest. his arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were something precious and fragile.

“i never moved,” he murmured into your hair, voice thick. “not an inch. i went to work. i came home. i sat on that couch every night and waited. some nights i thought you might not come back. but i still chose to stay right here.”

you sobbed into his shirt, fists clutching the fabric.

“i love you. all of you. the bpd. the fear. the scared girl who walks out and the brave one who comes back. i’m not here to fix you. i’m here to stand with you on the bad days and hold you through the storms. i’m the man who can’t be moved.”

his hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing rain and tears from your cheeks.

“you’re home now. and i’m not going anywhere. we’ll take it one day at a time. when you feel like running, tell me. i’ll hold you until the storm passes. i’m the man who can’t be moved, remember?”

you finally let your body relax, collapsing into his chest, sobbing. his arms wrapped around you instantly—strong, warm, steady. unmoving.

“i’m sorry it took me so long,” you whispered into his shirt.

“don’t be sorry,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “you came home. that’s all that matters.

“im not moving.”

© 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲 2026ㅤ ❤︎ㅤ 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 & 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱!

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: self indulgent fic again~ i grew up loving this song and craving this love. i relate to this song sm n i have for years, i love how i love but secretly i wish someone would feel this wat about me. i wish they wouldnt be moved~ anyway this was originally written for maki but as i started writing it i pictured fuma ! hes would be go understanding and loving and calm if his partner had bpd 💔💔💔 ๐·°(৹˃ᗝ˂৹)°·๐ fuuuumaaaa sannnnn