Chapter Text
The letter sat on his nightstand like it weighed more than paper ever could.
It had been almost two weeks since he’d found it.
Two weeks since he’d teased Ni-ki about it — “Well, you have me now, don’t you?” — and crawled into his bed like nothing had changed. Days of gentle looks passed between them and casual touches that lingered a second too long. Days of everything shifting back into place… almost.
The letter still sat unopened.
Because Sunoo was scared.
He hadn’t told Ni-ki. He didn’t have to. Ni-ki had known him too well for too long — just nodded when Sunoo whispered, “I’ll read it when I’m ready. Just… not with you. I’ll be embarrassed if I cry.” He chuckles.
“You’re cute when you cry, but I get it,” Ni-ki had said. “Take your time.”
And he had.
But tonight, the dorm was finally quiet. The world felt still.
And he couldn’t avoid it anymore.
He turned off the lights and sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, the only glow coming from the tiny lamp on his desk. The envelope was in his lap, his fingers trembling as he traced his name written on the back.
Sunoo.
Written in Riki’s handwriting — sharp, rushed, too much pressure in the pen. He’d always written like that. Impatient even with his feelings.
Sunoo closed his eyes and swallowed the tightness in his throat.
Then, carefully, he opened the envelope.
The letter was folded into half. Still neat. Still untouched.
He unfolded it slowly and read the first line.
⸻
Dear Sunoo,
I don’t know if this letter will ever reach your hands…
⸻
And just like that, he couldn’t breathe.
It hurt. It hurt immediately. Like the words reached into a place he hadn’t opened in years. Like they remembered the version of him he tried to bury after they drifted apart.
His eyes skimmed down, and even before the tears came, the ache was unbearable.
⸻
Do you remember our debut day?
I do. I always will. I remember it in color.
⸻
Sunoo’s breath hitched.
He remembered it too. Not just the schedule or the fans or the nerves. But the way Riki kept tugging on his sleeve every few minutes. The way he hovered by his side like a shadow made of worry. The way they shared a water bottle and neither of them noticed.
Sunoo laughed — a small, broken sound.
“You were so clingy that day,” he whispered.
He wiped at his eyes, frustrated that the tears were already falling. But he couldn’t stop them. Because he knew every moment Riki was talking about. And somehow, that hurt worse.
It wasn’t just nostalgia.
It was loss.
Sunoo kept reading.
⸻
I remember how we shared snacks even though you never asked. You just took a bite and smiled like I had offered it.
⸻
His lips quivered.
“Because you always offered, even when you didn’t say it.”
He remembered those early days. How Riki would hold out a bag of chips, and Sunoo would pretend to hesitate before stealing one. How Riki would roll his eyes but always smile after.
It wasn’t something anyone else would’ve noticed.
But for them, it was everything.
⸻
But people started noticing you and me, not for who we were, but what we looked like together.
⸻
Sunoo’s expression collapsed.
His fingers clenched the letter tighter.
That was when it had started — the comments, the edits, the twisted narratives.
They turned the safest thing in his life into something ugly.
⸻
I started believing them. But you never did, did you?
⸻
He let out a sob — soft and sudden.
“No,” Sunoo whispered, his voice shaking. “I never did.”
He never believed Riki was a bully. Never thought he was mean or cold. He knew the teasing was love, knew the blunt words were trust. That was how Riki loved — loud, brash, full of energy and unspoken loyalty.
But he hadn’t said that.
Not then.
He’d been scared too.
⸻
And somewhere in trying to be independent and mature, I let go of the one person who made me feel safe enough to be myself.
⸻
Sunoo pressed his palm to his mouth as another sob shook through him.
Because that? That was the worst part.
Riki had let go.
But Sunoo hadn’t stopped holding on.
Not really.
Every time he passed Ni-ki in the hallway. Every quiet moment on stage when their shoulders brushed. Every time he noticed an empty seat beside him and pretended he didn’t care.
He did. He always had.
But he said nothing.
⸻
Because you were the first person I ever cared about in this way…
You let me in. And I think I fell in love with you for it.
⸻
Sunoo’s hands flew to his chest like he could stop it from breaking.
“Oh my god, Riki…”
He whispered the name like a prayer.
It was too much. It was everything.
He felt like he was seventeen again, waking Ni-ki up before schedule, brushing the hair from his face, letting him fall asleep on his shoulder without saying anything. Back when love wasn’t a word but a feeling that lived in their routines.
They had been so young.
Too young to name it. Too young to fight for it.
But not too young to feel it.
Sunoo curled forward, folding in on himself, shoulders shaking as he cried. This wasn’t just sadness. It was regret. Guilt. A thousand things left unsaid at the worst possible time.
“I should’ve told you,” he whispered into the paper. “I should’ve fought for us.”
Because he’d felt it too.
Not just the comfort. Not just the friendship.
The love.
He’d felt it in the way Riki looked at him like he was something bright. Something safe. He’d felt it in the jokes, the teasing, the way Riki would bump his shoulder and wait for him to laugh.
He just never said it.
And when Riki started pulling away, Sunoo didn’t chase him.
He’d told himself he was giving him space. That he was respecting boundaries. Maybe it was just temporary.
But now, reading this?
He saw the truth for what it was.
He’d been scared. And it cost him years.
⸻
I love the members. They’re my family. But you…
Oh Sunoo, you were never just family.
⸻
His hands were shaking so hard, he almost dropped the page.
He clutched it to his chest instead, pressing it over his heart, trying to feel everything at once.
He cried.
God, he cried.
He cried for what they lost. For what they could’ve had. For the time that slipped through their fingers while they both stayed silent.
And through it all, the letter stayed warm in his hands.
⸻
I love you.
I love you so much, Sunoo.
That it hurts.
⸻
A confession too late — and somehow, still right on time.
He didn’t know how long he sat there on the floor. Long enough for his face to go numb. Long enough for his tears to dry sticky on his cheeks. Long enough for the grief to soften into something that felt like forgiveness.
Eventually, he stood.
With careful hands, he folded the letter back the way it had been. He pressed it against his lips once — a kiss he would kill to give years ago, a kiss meant for the past — he tucked it into a small keepsake box beside his bed.
Then he turned off the lamp.
Laid down under his covers.
He fell asleep with the feeling of being loved.
Truly. Unconditionally.
By the boy who’d once made the world brighter just by standing beside him, and still does.
And who, somehow, had never really left.
⸻
The sun filtered through the blinds, painting soft lines across the floor. The dorm was quiet in that early morning kind of way — hushed, but not empty. Not quite asleep, not quite awake.
Sunoo sat cross-legged on his bed, the letter still in his lap. He’d read it three times. Once with tears that fell so soon. Once with his heart racing. And once in silence, just to feel it again — the rhythm of Riki’s words, the weight of the spaces in between.
The envelope was worn now at the edges from his fingers, and his chest still felt a little raw. In the best way. Like something had finally settled.
His eyes drifted to his pillow.
To the journal tucked beneath it.
He bit the inside of his cheek, thinking.
Then thinking harder.
Riki had let him in. Let him see the part of himself he’d been holding back for years — the guilt, the fear, the love. He’d offered it quietly, without expectation. Sunoo could still hear the way he’d said, “Just a time where I needed you.”
And now… maybe it was Sunoo’s turn.
He reached for the diary, fingers curling around the worn leather cover like muscle memory. It had been his anchor for years. His secret keeper. It held everything — the ache, the confusion, the memories he couldn’t say out loud.
Every page was full of Riki.
Sunoo stared at it for a long while. Then he opened the front cover, pulled a small sticky note from his drawer, and scribbled a message with careful handwriting.
“I started this because of you. I’m giving it to you because I think you deserve to know.”
He hesitated. Then added one more line:
“Start from the beginning.”
He folded the sticky note onto the front page and pressed it down gently. The air felt thick with nerves. With something more tender, too.
Tugging on a hoodie, he padded out of his room and down the hallway. Riki’s door was already cracked open — always was lately. An unspoken invitation just for Sunoo.
Riki was half-awake on his side, scrolling on his phone, hair messy and sleep still soft on his face. He looked up the moment Sunoo stepped in.
His smile was immediate. Easy. Real.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough.
Sunoo didn’t answer at first. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed the diary gently beside Riki’s pillow.
Riki blinked, sitting up a little.
“What’s this?”
Sunoo tugged his sleeves over his hands, suddenly shy in a way he hadn’t felt in months— not with Riki.
“My diary,” he said. “It’s about… a lot. But mostly you.”
Riki’s mouth parted slightly.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Sunoo cut in, eyes steady. “You let me read the letter. That meant everything to me. So this is… me giving that back. Me letting you see how much you’ve always meant. Even when we weren’t talking. Even when it hurt.”
Riki reached out, his hand brushing over Sunoo’s knee.
“Are you sure?”
“I was scared to let you read it before,” Sunoo admitted. “Because what if you didn’t remember things the way I did? What if it didn’t matter to you the way it mattered to me?”
His voice wavered, but he didn’t look away.
“But now I know it did. That it still does.”
Riki nodded slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the diary like it might crumble under his touch.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “I promise.”
Sunoo smiled softly. “I know.”
There was a silence, but it was warm. Like shared breath. Like the gap between two hearts shrinking.
Sunoo stood up, brushing a hand lightly through Riki’s hair on his way out.
“Start from the beginning,” he said, echoing his note. “But don’t judge my handwriting.”
Riki laughed under his breath, pulling the diary onto his lap.
“No promises.”
Sunoo paused in the doorway, looking back once.
There would be time — to talk, to reflect, to relive it all together. But for now, Sunoo had given him everything. And Riki was finally about to read it.
⸻