you noticed halfway through the movie, or at least you think it's halfway through.
to be honest, both of you stopped paying attention to the movie 20 minutes ago. the television still fills the room with a quiet stream of dialogue and background music.
the soft afternoon glow illuminates the dorm, and casts a comforting warmth onto the wooden floors.
some japanese indie vinyls are playing quietly in the background on megumi's record player.
he's stretched out beside you on the couch, one arm draped over the back cushion behind your shoulders, legs crossed at the ankles in that absentminded way he always sits.
which isn't often, you've learned that about him
you glance over at him, and that's when you see it.
a tiny white strand caught against the shoulder of his navy hoodie.
you smile immediately. because of course, every single piece of dark clothing that he owns, which is 99% of his closet, somehow ends up covered in fur.
you've seen his divine dogs before.
still, it makes you laugh every time.
"megs."
he hums softly, head now on your shoulder.
not even opening his eyes. "what?"
"you've got dog fur on your hoodie again."
one eye cracks open.
"probably."
"you need to take care of your clothes more."
"they shed, i can't do anything about that."
the answer is so matter-of-fact that you burst out laughing.
and for just a second, the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
you reach forward before he can stop you, carefully plucking the strand from his shoulder and holding it up between your fingers.
"look at this."
"it's fur."
"exactly."
"i don't understand the issue."
you let out an exasperated sigh, "it's going to get everywhere at one point."
"you're dramatic."
"and you're covered in dog."
you lean closer.
and then closer again.
because once you notice one piece, you start noticing the rest.
you become completely absorbed in your task, disconnected from anything around you.
meanwhile megumi becomes completely absorbed in you.
the movie disappears.
the room disappears.
all of it fades into the background.
because you're sitting cross legged beside him with the most serious expression imaginable over a few pieces of dog fur.
and somehow, he thinks you've never looked prettier.
which is embarrassing.
because you've fought special grades.
you've survived life-threatening missions.
you've done objectively impressive things.
and yet the sight currently making his heart malfunction is you aggressively lint-rolling him with your fingers.
he's hopeless.
"there," you smile proudly, "all gone."
megumi looks at you.
you look back.
"what?"
his eyes flick briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes.
you blink.
confused.
"...megumi?"
he doesn't answer, instead, he reaches up.
cups the side of your face, and kisses you.
you can taste the faint lingering flavor of bittersweet matcha on his lips.
just like that, completely out of nowhere.
your brain short-circuits, one second you're talking about dog fur, the next you're kissing your boyfriend.
when he pulls away, you stare at him.
he leans his head back onto your shoulder.
speechless.
you can see the faint color on his face, as if he didn't fully think it through either.
he turns so that his forehead is now on your shoulder.
"sorry."
you immediately laugh.
"why are you apologizing?"
"i don't know."
"megumi."
he groans.
"don't make fun of me."
"i won't baby."
you kiss the top of his hair, and he makes a noise that suspiciously sounds like suffering, but deep down you knew he liked it.
your room is dark, except for the warm glow of the street and building lights from outside. the curtains breathe every time the wind hits them. somewhere in the distance, a car passes.
the phone keeps ringing.
once.
twice.
then three times.
nobody calls at 3:12 a.m.
nobody calls unless something is wrong
half asleep, you reach for it, as the constant sound was getting unbearable.
unknown number.
you almost let it go to voicemail, almost.
“hello?”
your voice sounds small.
the kind of voice people have when they've just been pulled out of a dream.
there's a pause.
paper shuffling.
then:
“is this y/n?”
something in your stomach drops.
not because of the question, but because of the tone.
professional, careful. a hospital voice.
you sit up immediately.
“yes.”
“you're listed as satoru gojo's emergency contact.”
the room goes completely silent.
as if the entire world is waiting for your reaction.
you stare at the wall, at the shadows, at nothing.
satoru.
the name feels strange, almost foreign.
you haven't said it out loud in months.
haven't texted it.
haven't typed it.
haven't let yourself think about it much.
and yet, your heart still knows exactly what to do when it hears it.
it breaks, just a little.
“what happened?”
the words leave your mouth before you can even stop them.
too fast.
too concerned.
too honest.
the woman explains.
minor injuries.
observation, nothing life-threatening.
you hear the words, you do.
but all you can think about is one thing, emergency contact.
why?
why are you still here?
its been eight months. eight entire months. and somehow, when something went wrong, he still had your name attached right next to his.
you don't remember hanging up, you don't remember grabbing your keys, you can only remember driving through empty streets while the city slept around you.
the traffic lights changed for nobody, green, then yellow, then red.
repeating, and repeating, and repeating.
the whole time, memories kept finding you.
his simple apartment with that white couch.
the small grocery store arguments.
the way he'd steal food off your plate and then act shocked when you got annoyed.
the way he would look over his shoulder in large crowds to make sure you were still there with him.
the way he'd say your name when he was tired.
soft.
different.
like something fragile.
you grip the steering wheel harder.
you hate memories.
especially the ones that still feel warm and real.
…
when you finally reach the hospital, your pulse is louder than your footsteps.
room seventeen.
that's what the receptionist said.
room seventeen.
room seventeen.
room seventeen.
you repeat it in your head the entire walk there, no, more like a run.
maybe if you focus hard enough on the number, you won't have to focus on him.
then you hear his laugh.
and suddenly it's over.
every defense.
every carefully built wall.
all gone in the split of a second.
because nobody laughs like satoru.
nobody.
it's unfair, honestly.
how one singular sound can drag away months of healing behind a moving car.
you stop outside the curtain.
your hand hovers, for one second. two, three, then you push it open - and there he is.
messy white hair, hospital blanket, split lit, bandages, and those stupid blue eyes.
those stupid, stupid blue eyes.
they find yours immediately.
and for the first time all night, he looks surprised. real surprise.
not the fake dramatic kind.
not the sarcastic and theatrical kind.
the genuine kind.
like he didn't think you'd come, and stand there in the doorway with the moonlight illuminating your face.
and somehow that's the thing that hurts the most.
because of course you came.
of course.
he could disappear for years and you'd still recognize his voice in a crowded room
that's the awful thing about loving someone so much.
sometimes the love leaves.
sometimes it doesn't, and it stays with you for life, haunting you.
sometimes it just changes shape.
becomes quieter.
heavier.
something you carry instead of something you share.
“hey.”
his voice is rough, really rough.
sleepy.
human.
you haven't heart him sound human in a long time.
“hey.”
for a second, neither of you look away.
and it feels terrifying.
because there he is, not the memory.
not the version you've edited and re-edited inside your head for eight months.
the real one.
sitting right in front of you, feet away.
still existing.
still breathing.
still somehow looking at you like you hung the moon.
and suddenly you understand something.
the reason you never fully got over him. the reason every relationship after felt like they were missing something. the reason your heart still tightens whenever someone mentions his name.
