BTS IMAGINES AND SCENARIOS

Not-so-Love lettes✿(Kim Namjoon/RM)

The box is small.
Small enough to hide at the back of a closet, but heavy enough to feel like a secret.

I find it by accident.

Namjoon had asked me to help him pack for his upcoming tour — a favor that felt strangely intimate considering we’d broken up months ago. We’d been… circling each other lately, not quite friends but not strangers either.

The plan was to keep it simple. I’d fold clothes, he’d sort through books, and we’d avoid any dangerous topics.

But then I opened the wrong drawer.

It’s not labeled, just tucked behind stacks of old notebooks. The lid is slightly loose, so when I lift it, I’m greeted by a neat stack of envelopes — some still sealed, some open but folded carefully. My name is written on each one.

“Don’t—”

I look up to see him standing in the doorway, his expression tight, eyes locked on the box in my hands.

“I… I didn’t mean to snoop,” I say quickly. “I was just—”

“Looking,” he finishes for me, walking closer. “Yeah. You were looking.”

He takes the box from me, but doesn’t put it away. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, the cardboard resting between us.

“They’re… letters,” he says finally. “Ones I never sent.”

I swallow. “To me?”

He nods. “After fights. After the breakup. Sometimes after good days too. I just… didn’t think you’d want them.”

My chest feels tight. “Can I…?”

He hesitates, then slides one from the top and hands it to me.

---

Dear Y/N,

I hate that we fought today. I hate that you walked out without letting me explain. I know I said the wrong thing — I always do — but the truth is, I was scared. Scared of losing you. And I think I’m making it worse by trying too hard.

I hope you’re sleeping right now. I hope tomorrow feels softer than today.

—Joon

---

When I look up, his eyes are on me, searching for a reaction.

“This was… months before we broke up,” I say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.”

I reach for another.

---

Dear Y/N,

It’s been two weeks. I don’t know if I should still call you ‘love’ in these. I don’t know if you even care anymore. But I care. God, I care more than I should.

I saw your scarf at the coffee shop today. You weren’t there, but it was hanging on the back of a chair like it was waiting for you. I almost sat down just to see if you’d appear.

I didn’t. I left. But I thought about it all day.

---

I have to stop for a second, my throat tightening. “Why didn’t you send them?”

“Because I didn’t want to make it harder for you,” he says, voice low. “Or maybe I didn’t want to make it harder for me.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Mission failed.”

That gets the faintest smile from him, but it fades quickly. “There’s one more you should read.”

He digs through the stack and pulls out an envelope that’s more worn than the others, the edges soft from being handled too much.

---

Dear Y/N,

It’s been a year. I still think about you every time it rains. Every time I hear that stupid song you loved. Every time I find one of your bobby pins in the couch cushions.

I’m not writing to make you come back. I’m writing because I need you to know — I never stopped loving you. I don’t think I ever will.

---

When I finish, the silence between us feels too heavy.

“Namjoon…” I start, but he shakes his head.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I just wanted you to know they existed.”

I place the letter back in the box, but my fingers brush his as I do, and I don’t move them right away. His hand turns, palm up, and suddenly our fingers are lacing together like they remember how to do it without asking.

It’s stupid, but my heart stutters at the contact.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” I say.

“Yeah.” His thumb strokes over my knuckles slowly. “But I’ll be back.”

There’s a pause — the kind loaded with all the words we aren’t saying. Then, before I can think better of it, I lean in.

The kiss is slow at first, almost uncertain, but it deepens when his hand slides to the back of my neck. It tastes like coffee and something bittersweet. When we finally pull back, my forehead rests against his.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I whisper.

“Maybe not now,” he says softly. “But maybe someday.”

I don’t know if I believe him. But when I leave that night, the memory of his letters feels like a door I’m not ready to close — and maybe he isn’t either.