she used to love me | suna rintarou
synopsis; suna muses about his feelings towards (y/n), from childhood to current day.
a/n; oh to be as positive and vibrant as y/n. also thank you to my lovely bf for proof reading this and helping me write in a guy's voice cause this shit was hard af
this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)
Never in that dramatic, sappy, rom-com kind of way. Her love wasn’t loud, or complicated. Not really. It was just... there. Quiet, constant—like background noise I never really noticed until it stopped.
I think it started around when we were ten, back in elementary school—when our biggest problems were our times tables and whether we could eat two snacks before dinner without our mums noticing.
I was always a quiet kid.
Didn’t talk much. Didn’t stand out much. Back then, I think people called me the weird kid, which was fine. I didn’t care. I liked it better that way, anyway.
Bright. Loud. My polar opposite in every way. Always running toward something, while the rest of us followed. She'd probably deny it now, but she was always kind of a leader—even when she didn't notice it. She just had this... energy. One that pulled you in without you realising.
Sounds kind of annoying, actually. But it never was. Not her. Never her.
Looking back, I don’t even remember when we became friends. I don't think many people do. When you're kids stuff like that just sort of happens.
If I had to guess though, I'd say out friendship started the day I bought Pokémon Platinum for my DS. I planned on playing it right after class and shoved it in my backpack, not thinking anyone would notice.
She pointed it out during our lunch break, started talking my ear off—about how it was her favourite, why the Sinnoh region was the best, which starters were underrated.
I barely said two words. Just nodded. Listened. Most people would’ve taken the hint and gotten bored.
Guess she decided I was worth the effort, because after that, she just... kept showing up. At school. At my house.
Some weekends, she’d appear in my bedroom, sit down next to me without asking and load up her own game like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I didn’t stop her, though. Never really wanted to.
She wasn't someone I expected to get along with. She was the embodiment of Little Miss Chatterbox—you know, that pink cartoon character with the blonde pigtails?
Still, my awkward, moody teenage self must’ve seen the appeal, because I never told her to leave. And even now, she still talks my ear off about things I normally couldn’t care less about.
She was just... different. Just her.
Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to shake.
She was like glue. Or chewing gum. Clingy in a way I probably should’ve hated, but never did.
I remember calling her that once—chewing gum. Meant it as an insult.
She just grinned—big, gap-toothed, proud of herself—and asked me what flavour she’d be.
Back then, I didn’t know how to answer. I probably called her a weirdo, brushed her off while she probably scolded me for being mean.
If she asked me again, I’d probably say strawberry.
Summery. Bright. Liked by everyone. A real crowd pleaser. The kind of sweetness that sticks around even after it’s gone.
(Y/n) would be strawberry.
I should've known that Little Miss Strawberry had a crush on me when she would wait for me at the school gates every day.
Especially if I was late.
I remember being sick one morning and she waited outside for almost an hour, determined that I'd show up. It was only when one of the teachers spotted her outside and told her I caught the flu that she actually went inside.
She sat next to me during every lesson—got us told off more times than I can count. She was the type to miss it when teachers were shooting death glares at us. The type to laugh harder when we were specifically told not to laugh.
But one I'd never dream of trading my seat with.
I remember how she'd always lend me her green highlighter. Said it didn’t suit her "aesthetic" anyway. Said that it matched my eyes.
(Teenage me did not get the hint.)
When we got older, people started calling us a duo. Not in a teasing way—more like we were inevitable. I guess, to everyone else, we looked like a story waiting to happen. Joint at the hip, or whatever they used to say.
As corny as it is, she was almost like gravity.
I didn’t have to reach for her. She was just always... there.
She had this laugh that cracked the corners of her serious little face. Always a little louder than the rest—like she was living everything in brighter colours than the rest of us.
And she smiled at me like I was important, like I mattered more than I ever realized.
Back then, I didn’t know how to name that kind of affection.
I think I started noticing it more around age thirteen, when we hit middle school.
The way she got quieter around me. The way she’d fidget with the hem of her sleeves when we talked. The blush that spread across her face when our hands touched. The way she always remembered the things I didn’t even know I’d said: what food I liked, what game I was waiting for, what songs I listened to—and then showing up with these little gifts.
A new playlist burned onto a CD.
A keychain of a character I said I liked once.
A melon pan that she'd shyly hand me after practice. God, she was so terrible at playing it cool.
"Here," she'd said, "was passing by the bakery anyway."
I didn't find it particularly funny at the time. But I think if she ever tried lying like that to me again, I'd laugh straight in her face.
There was no bakery anywhere near her walk home. She must’ve known I’d figure that out.
Thirteen-year-old me didn't call her out for it. Just accepted it all with a nod, or a smirk if I was feeling particularly self-aware that day.
She stopped calling me by my dumb nicknames.
Just Rintarou, or Rin on days she was feeling bolder. Careful. Formal. Like she was scared of being too much.
I didn't think much of it at first.
But eventually, it clicked.
And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
I wasn’t into her like that. Not then.
She was still just... her. (Y/n). Little Miss Chatterbox. Little Miss Strawberry and still the royal pain-but-not in my ass.
Still the girl who beat me at Mario Kart by sabotaging my controller and laughed like it was the funniest prank in the world.
I didn’t want to lose that.
Pretended I didn’t notice when she started dressing different—fixing her hair in ways she never used to, wearing little accessories that didn’t feel like her.
I even caught the faint smell of perfume once when she sat down beside me, way stronger than anything she ever wore before.
It was the same scent I once said I liked. On some other girl.
I wasn’t stupid. I've always been pretty self-aware. I put it together.
And yeah—in a shitty, selfish, teenage boy way... sometimes I liked it. Liked knowing she thought I was worth trying for. Liked the way her eyes lingered when she thought I wouldn’t catch it. Liked the way she tried a little harder around me.
But I never said anything. Never did anything. Never entertained it, past maybe a small smile I didn’t bother hiding.
But she never confessed—never made it weird. She just kept loving me quietly like she'd been doing since we were nine, without ever asking for anything back.
I figured it’d fade. Eventually.
But sometimes—sometimes I think about how carefully she used to look at me. And how careless I was with it.
Her feelings began fading after that. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It happened in shifts—like seasons changing when you’re too distracted to notice.
It started when we started high school. We must've been fifteen, then.
She told me once, back in middle school, that she’d follow me wherever I went. And to be honest, I thought she was joking.
So when I got scouted to play for Inarizaki, she just shrugged and said, "cool. I'll go there too," like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And she did.
I joined the team in our first year.
I’d always been good at volleyball—not to brag, but it came easy. Movement. Instinct. Precision. All things I was good at and enjoyed.
She came to a few practices at first, hanging out on the bleachers, cheering like nobody else was watching. I guess some people might have found it embarrassing—but me? Nah. Actually, it was… kinda nice. Familiar.
It was a brand new school, away from home, away from everything we knew. We had to stay in dorms, surrounded by people with funny accents and different hobbies—so having (y/n) was a comfort I most definitely took for granted.
After practice, she’d wait for me by the gates. We’d walk to our dorms together, eat lunch together like always.
She was still my person—still the one who refilled my water bottle without me asking, still the one who yelled at me when I forgot to do my homework.
Thing is, we weren’t the only ones anymore. There were teammates now. Locker rooms. New people. New jokes.
But she was still right there. Still mine—in a way I didn’t have a name for yet.
It was her idea that I introduce her to the team. I figured why not. I spent most of my time there, anyway. The team was pretty chill.
That's when the Miya twins entered the picture.
Or rather, tore the pen from our hands and wrote themselves into our story.
Loud. Ridiculous. Annoyingly talented. That's how I'd have described them back then. (Well, actually... They haven't changed much.)
She wasn’t keen on Atsumu at first—can’t blame her. Said he talked too much. Said he moved like he knew people were watching. Not that she was wrong.
Osamu was more tolerable—calmer, more polite. She liked him better.
Sometimes, I'd catch her laughing at something he said and—well, it made sense. Osamu and I were pretty similar—same energy, same dry humour, same vacant expression.
Hypothetically, if she were gonna have a crush on anyone, Osamu seemed like the obvious choice.
(Not enough to think about it for more than a second.)
She still sat beside me at lunch. Still poked my side when I zoned out. Still smiled that smile that made everything else a little quieter.
We were still a duo. Still unshakable.
Sure, there was the twins.
But me? I was still her anchor, and things were still good.
By the time we were sixteen, somewhere in the middle of high school, things had officially changed.
She just... stopped waiting for me after class.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. Figured she was just busy—making new friends, expanding her orbit a little.
It was good, I told myself. Healthy, even.
She wasn’t supposed to stay glued to me forever.
Still—it threw me off. More than I wanted to admit.
I’d catch her across the courtyard sometimes, sitting with Osamu, bickering with Atsumu, then laughing harder than I'd heard in a while. Not the quiet laugh she used to save just for me. Louder. Freer. A little wilder.
At first, I was glad since I thought it meant we could just be normal again. No tension. No careful glances. No aching silences.
But then something started to ache anyway. And I didn’t understand why.
The twins pulled her in like a tide. They were loud, chaotic, overwhelming—but she still held her own.
She never let Atsumu win an argument. Never. She matched his volume, his fire, his rhythm like she was built for it.
And I watched—quietly, stubbornly—as something bloomed between them. Something she and I never had.
And the thing is… she didn’t fall for him right away.
She actually hated him at first. It took her months to actually warm up to him. She told me she thought he was a self-absorbed loudmouth. Which, yeah. He was. Still is.
And it was funny, honestly—watching them argue like an old married couple.
I’d smirk behind my water bottle, listen to her roast him without missing a beat, listen to Atsumu get all red-faced and defensive.
And it was good—good to see her like that. Confident. Sharp. Untouchable.
Except... sometimes, I'd catch the way her smile lingered when he said something stupid. The way her face lit up when she teased him.
At first, I brushed it off, because there was no way, right? Atsumu and (y/n)?
(Y/n) liked quiet guys. Chill guys. Guys who didn’t need to be the centre of attention.
If she was gonna fall for anyone, it would’ve been Osamu. That made sense. That was safe.
'Least that's what I thought.
But something changed. I don’t know when. I don’t even think she noticed.
There was a time I was the one she looked for first in a room. Didn’t matter where we were—class, a crowded gym. Her eyes would always find mine first, like it was automatic.
By the time we were seventeen, I think I’d already lost that.
And then came graduation. We were eighteen when the four of us moved in together—me, the twins, and her. A decision that felt inevitable, like we were just continuing the story we started as kids.
New city. New school. New everything.
But her? She was still familiar. Still safe.
And then came that winter.
We'd gone back home for the holidays. My house was empty, the twins back home in Hyogo. (Y/n) was around, like she always was back then. And it just... happened.
I kissed her. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was messy, selfish—hungry in a way I hate admitting now.
I’d like to say it was love that made me do it. That I knew what I was feeling. But honestly? It was lust.
It was late. It was quiet. She was sitting on my bed, wearing my old hoodie, looking at me with those eyes she probably didn’t even realize were still full of hope.
And maybe it finally hit me how much she’d grown into herself. Not that she wasn’t always pretty—she was.
But now? Sitting there, close enough to touch, close enough to ruin—
Not in the right way. Not in the way she probably used to hope for.
And because I was a dumb, horny teenager with the emotional range of a teaspoon, I gave in. I leaned in. I kissed her.
Like she’d been waiting for it.
Like we were still kids and this was the ending everyone saw coming.
I let it get heated—too heated. Hands, breath, weight shifting—
I was ready to take it further.
I didn’t even stop to think if I should.
But she did. Thank God she did.
She pulled back. Said she couldn't go through with it. And I knew—I knew—it was because she had more sense than I did. That she wasn't looking for a casual hook-up.
And I was stupid to think for even a second that I was okay with that.
She didn’t look at me for the rest of the night—not because we were cuddling, but because she probably felt as conflicted as I did.
And that's how I knew I'd fucked up. Whatever she’d felt for me—the crush, the hope, the stupid, innocent dream of us—
I think that was the moment it died.
And I didn’t try to fix it.
I just... pretended it never happened. Acted like it didn’t mean anything.
She kissed me like she’d always wanted to.
Then stopped like she’d never feel that way again.
And after that… she got closer to Atsumu.
And I pretended not to notice.
I think that’s when I started to fall for her. Like, really fall.
Not for the version of her that used to sit beside me with strawberry pocky in her backpack and stars in her eyes. Not the kid who used to wait for me at the gates. But for the woman she was becoming—sharper, warmer, fiercer. Still soft in all the best ways. Still kind. Still sweet. Still hers.
And sometimes—more often than I’d like to admit—I still think about that kiss.
It’s stupid, probably. It’s been years. And we never talked about it. Not once. But the memory’s still there. Lodged under my ribs like a splinter I never pulled out.
I don’t regret it. Not even for a second.
Looking back, it was stupid timing. And probably selfish of me to make a move on her the way I did. But for one second, I knew what it felt like to have her want me. And I’d take that over pretending it never happened.
Sometimes, I wonder what would've happened if she hadn't pulled away. If I’d kissed her like I meant it—for more than just a moment. If I’d been a little braver. A little less stupid. If I’d grown up a little faster.
Maybe she would've stayed. Maybe she would've looked at me the way she used to.
But I didn’t. And neither did she. And now we just pretend it never happened.
I don’t bring it up. I don’t want to make things weird. Don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
She’s moved on. I know she has. She’s got her heart set on someone else now.
She probably doesn’t even think about that night anymore.
We were nineteen when I first realized I was in love with her. Maybe I always was, in some far-off version of the timeline where I didn’t take her for granted.
Now we're almost about to graduate college and nothing’s changed.
She and Atsumu aren’t together, not officially. But they move like magnets now. They have their own inside jokes—the kind I’m not a part of. They cook together. Tease each other. Argue like it’s foreplay.
He’s softer around her. She’s brighter around him.
And it's not like I hate it. I like seeing her happy—I do. I just… miss being the one who got that version of her—miss being the one she used to look at like that.
And maybe that’s the part that’s hardest to explain. Because it's not just watching her fall for someone else. It’s watching her fall for someone I know.
Atsumu's one of my closest friends. And it’s not weird, exactly. Just… conflicting. Hard to explain.
It’s strange to see the way he looks at her when he thinks no one’s watching. Stranger still to think it’s the same way she used to look at me.
And I don’t think he even realizes it half the time. Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t know what to do with it. Because I know how Atsumu thinks. I know what scares him.
He’s terrified of commitment. Of getting it wrong. Of ruining something that matters. His pride gets in the way. I bet his career does, too.
He’s all or nothing, and he doesn’t know how to be subtle about it.
And maybe I’m not mad at him for that. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish he’d just get his shit together.
Say the damn words. Stop dancing around it. Stop wasting time she won’t ask him to hurry.
(Y/n) is soft. That’s just who she is. Too soft if you ask me. Too soft in a way that means she'll never ask for more. Never protect herself from hurt until it's too late.
She feels things deeply. Hopelessly. Quietly.
And I know that—because I experienced it first-hand.
I know how careful she can be with her love. How she shows it in the small things, like a green highlighter or a slice of melon pan. She doesn’t ask to be seen—not outright.
So yeah. Watching someone like her love someone like him?
It scares me a little. Because I know what it’s like to hold her feelings and not know what to do with them.
And I know what it’s like to lose them.
She sits across the living room now, reading her little romance novel while Atsumu rants about something stupid from the kitchen. Osamu’s half-asleep on the couch. I’m pretending to scroll on my phone.
But I’m not really paying attention—hard to when she's sitting right there.
She glances up—sensing it, like she always does. Catches me in the act.
And it still hits me in the gut. Every. Single. Time.
Because I remember a time when that smile was mine first. When I was the one she waited for after class. When I was the one who knew all her little routines and inside jokes and favourite types of endings in books.
And I don’t know if she’ll ever look back.
This time, I’ll be ready.
