Chuuya Nakahara

Seven years ago.

Back when the ink on the Port Mafia oath was still wet and everyone who he once cared for had just turned his back on him— or rather waited for him to do it, the scar on there still fresh. Still open. Messy. Bleeding on anyone who was dumb enough to try and get close.

For he couldn’t bear even the thought of it. It was painful in itself.

To feel the warmth of others it was for him to let them know that he needed it. To hold their hands was to allow them to feel the numbness on his own. Someone like Chuuya, built on bruises and pride, wasn’t made for that kind of softness. The Sheep made it clear. All he was bound to was to stare and wait. A stray animal staring at the windows of shelter.

So he learned to bury it. Deep, under the dirt where he came from. Where no one could dig far enough to find it. It was easier that way.

And when Chuuya met you, he did exactly that. Pushing you away with everything he had.

He didn't like you. He didn’t need you. Didn’t want your voice in his ear or your name in his mouth — and he made damn sure you knew it. Loudly, constantly, stubbornly. Picking fights, avoiding rooms you walked into, storming out the second his eyes drifted to yours.

And god, he had become a coward, but he couldn't help it. Not when it made him so sick—not you, not really— but the feelings that twisted on his chest every time he saw you around, wondering, just for a moment, if he could ever be the motive of your laugh. The one on the other side of your conversations. The one holding your hand. Being burned by your light, by your smile, instead of rotting on the shadow from the people he once felt as strong of.

He hated it, the way you made him feel. Or rather, hated that he could feel anything at all.

It was stupid, just a dumb crush that was meant to pass. Sooner or later it would have die, just like everything else. That's what he convinced himself. But that never stopped him from longing, just like blood doesn't wear off the moment the sheets are clean or corpses don't dissapear by will alone.

So he took a pen and started writing for hours, for days. Words scratched in uneven lines, some angry, some starved, pouring unwanted feelings on the paper like a seed with nowhere to grow. Holding love in the depth of care.

---

Seven years ago.

Honestly it was hard to believe it has been that long. But not really.

He had already forgotten who he was back then. He wasn’t that boy anymore. Not exactly. Life doesn’t end at fifteen, but he still couldn't bring himself to throw those letters away.

They didn’t mean anything anymore. Not really. The feelings were long dead. But they stayed there, neglected and rusty from time, waiting to be picked.

He should have realized the terrible mistake that was, but despite how hard he cringed with every word in them, it just felt wrong to throw away something he once held so dear. A lovesick kid scribbling nonsense, thinking it mattered. Close, but not the worst.

That's why he just saved them inside a box in his office, unopen.

Which made it all the more ridiculous that he’d sent you into that very office to look for some meeting papers. Not thinking. Not remembering. Not realizing how close the letters were until it was too late.

He felt it in his stomach first, that sharp drop, the same twisting feeling on his chest from back then, before his legs started moving by their own, running, cursing under his breath as he basically stormed in. But there was no use. One of the letters was already in your hands when he reached the office, the messy and incoherent words finally at your reach.

Flowery nonsense about the way you looked under the sunlight, how your laugh made his chest ache everytime, how he wanted to be someone worth your time. All of it being seen by someone— by you for the first time in years.

“The hell are you doing?!” He could already feel the warmth rushing through his face, the panic on his voice too obvious. Too real. He reached for the paper before he could think, snatching it from your fingers so quickly it tore down the middle. Crumbling down.