⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Satoru as your....whatever he was
It started off casually enough. Constant proximity, overlapping friend groups, and an intensive undergraduate program can force any two people into a complicated concord.
Satoru Gojo was everything you would expect in a star athlete born into generational wealth. He was arrogant, entitled, proudly himself, had a smirk he wore as his badge of honor, and was someone who annoyingly lived up to everything he claimed to be.
Worst of all? For some unbeknownst reason, he saw you in the exact manner you wanted to be perceived. Every opinion formed, every observation he made about you was somehow down to the bone accurate.
Perception didn’t scare you.
The way your heart leapt every time did.
What else had you expected, after spending years of your life feeling invisible?
Soon enough, he was woven into your daily routine as if fate had specifically made a cozy little space for him there. Known glances across crowded rooms, conversations that felt a little too personal to not be electrified, continued inside jokes, comfortable silences integrated between just two people existing.
“I don’t normally tell anyone this, but…” he’d tell you on multiple occasions.
Soon, you memorised the way his eyes squinted when he smiled genuinely, the way they lit up while smirking every time you fell for his rage bait, the way they softened when he reassured you with just one look; the way his voice sounded when he called your name, the way it went all soft every time he spoke to you.
You wonder which part is confusing you more.
The night he got drunk and called you a saint for helping him out? Or maybe the day after that, when you both spoke for hours about life and expectations? Or maybe the way he brought you out of your shell?
Or perhaps all of it is now confusing you. Because why is it, that after months of building such a connection, you find yourself sitting in your classroom, clutching your phone with your notes app filled with poems you swirled him into, with him sitting right behind you—as always— and overhearing him talk— no brag— to his friends about some amazing date he went to with a girl who couldn’t wait to fuck him?
A/N: First of all, sorry for the whiplash. I will not be writing a part two. This is where their story ends. Secondly, sorry for being MIA (idk how many more times I will be saying this), but I was busy these past few months living the exact thing I just wrote about. Every detail I mentioned is based on my real life and this is my form of coping.
