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Atsumu Miya’s Journal: Letters I’ll Never Send to Y/N L/N
Entry 1 — October 8th, Senior Year of High School] Hey. You wore my hoodie again today. You didn’t even ask this time—you just yanked it off the hook behind my chair before homeroom and slipped it on like it was always yours. And god, Y/N, I let you. I didn’t even pretend to put up a fight. Not when you looked so damn smug in it. Not when you leaned in and said it smelled like “laundry detergent and boy.” You know what that does to me. You kept it on all day. When I walked into bio and saw you curled up in it, asleep during second period, I thought I was gonna combust. I wanted to run my fingers through your hair and trace your jaw with my thumb. Wanted to kiss your cheek so bad it hurt. You smiled when I offered you my cookie at lunch. Called me “your favorite.” That was around the time I realized I’ve been in love with you for way longer than I’ve admitted.
—Atsumu
Sketch in the margin: A quick pen sketch of your side profile, sleeping in his hoodie. Shading around your nose and the fall of your hair is smudged where his fingers rubbed over the ink.
[Entry 3 — November 17th, Senior Year] I heard some guy in our lit class say you’re “lowkey hot.” I wanted to punch him. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know that you chew your pen caps, or that you hum when you're nervous, or that you always double-knot your shoes because once you tripped in third grade and it traumatized you. He doesn’t know you cry during courtroom dramas or that your hands shake when you get angry. He doesn’t get to say that. He hasn’t earned it. I wanted to say something, but I saw the way you rolled your eyes and ignored him. You don’t care. You don’t need me to protect you. Still, I wish I could tell you that when I think about you, it’s never just about how you look (even if you’re stupid pretty). It’s about how you are.
—Atsumu
Sketch taped inside: A loose pencil drawing of your hand holding his necklace in chem class, your fingers accidentally brushing his chest. The heart charm you picked out is slightly off-center.
[Entry 7 — January 2nd, Winter Break, Senior Year] You came over today. We watched The Proposal again, because you love Sandra Bullock. You fell asleep against me halfway through, clutching my arm like a body pillow. My mom peeked in and mouthed “SO CUTE” before giggling to herself. I nearly died. Your hair smelled like vanilla and shampoo. I tried not to breathe too loud. I kept thinking—if I moved, just a little, I could kiss your forehead. Or your nose. Or maybe, maybe, your lips. But I didn’t. You shifted in your sleep and mumbled something that sounded like my name. I wanted to believe it meant something. God, I’m so fucking gone for you.
—Atsumu
Sketch: A faint graphite sketch of your legs tangled with his on the couch, one of your socks halfway off. Notes scribbled beside it: “Movie night,” “she drooled on my shoulder,” and “still didn’t mind.”
[Entry 10 — March 25th, Senior Year] You licked frosting off your finger and made eye contact while doing it. I’m not insane, right? That wasn’t just innocent?? Your eyes lingered. Your tongue lingered. My brain short-circuited so hard I called frosting “frotsting” and Suna hasn’t stopped making fun of me for it. I know I’m not imagining things. You laugh harder at my jokes than anyone else does. You linger in my space like it’s yours. You wear my clothes. You draw hearts on my notes. You kiss my cheek, Y/N. If I asked, would you say yes? If I kissed you—really kissed you—would you kiss me back? I’m scared to find out.
—Atsumu
Sketch: Charcoal rendering of your lips. Just your lips. There are at least five versions on the page, some careful and soft, others rushed and messy. There’s a coffee ring in the corner.
[Entry 13 — August 29th, First Year of College] We’re here. Same university, same stupid little town, same best friends… but everything’s different now. You showed up to campus wearing that tiny black tank top and my necklace. My necklace. You haven’t taken it off in weeks. I saw you twist the heart charm between your fingers when you thought I wasn’t looking. It’s been a week and I still can’t sleep. You curled up in my dorm bed with me after that storm two nights ago, whispered that the thunder was too loud and your roommate was annoying. You fell asleep with your thigh pressed against mine and your fingers curled in my shirt. I couldn’t move. I was too busy memorizing the weight of you.
—Atsumu
Sketch: A soft, smudged drawing of your back as you walked away from his dorm room in the morning, hair in a bun, his hoodie hanging off your frame.
[Entry 17 — November 10th, First Year of College] Oikawa asked you to coffee. You said no. I pretended to be chill about it but I wasn’t. I am not chill. I don’t want him to have any kind of claim on you. I don’t want him to know the taste of your smile or the sound of your laugh. That belongs to me. It should belong to me. You showed up with donuts later and said, “You’re my favorite boy, you know that?” You don’t get it. I’d do anything for you. You just have to ask. But still—thank you for turning him down. Even if you don’t know what that did for me. Even if I’m still waiting for you to turn around and say you want me.
—Atsumu