[musatoru]

dear reader,

thank you for spending some of your time making plans with me. feel free to find your way into your next adventure.

satoru gojo

~ series

angels under the bed (!)

~ one shots

11:11 - he wishes for you every time.

a field full of clouds - you reunite in the afterlife.

a long dream - he sees you inside the gokumonkyo.

amber waves - you stand by him through his addiction. (!)

cardigan - taylor swift's folklore love triangle.

champagne problems - shoko gives a toast at your wedding.

cinderella - he's the first one to notice your wounds. (!)

gintsugi - you meet during world war II.

limerence - you date the idol of the moment. (!)

lying on the couch - you confess to him your darkest fantasies. (!)

needles - he's sick and you get too because of him.

neverland - you have your first child. (!)

oblivion - you find out he bet your virginity.

of seahorses and sponges - your asexuality brings fear.

origami bones - he's a model, you're insecure. (!)

out of the dark (into the blue) - he's an ophthalmologist, you're blind.

puppy eyes - you adopt a dog.

sixtieth spark of a sparkler - you are each other's light in the dark. (!)

song of stars - he's an astronaut, you're an alien.

stolen curls - he hates you. or maybe he doesn't.

strawberry soap - he lives with your OCD. (!)

supermanish - he's offended by your son's drawings.

tchaikovsky - he's a figure skater, you're a ballerina.

teacher's pet - your martial arts instructor is your first time. (!)

the pickle theorem - he's disgusted by your pregnancy cravings.

three words - he never gets tired of hearing you say you love him.

to the moon and to saturn ; beyond jupiter and back - he’s a lonely child until he meets you (part i and ii).

where infinity blinks - he lost you in every timeline, so he'll sacrifice everything to keep you in this one. (!)

whisper of the heart - you spend two weeks under his roof.

white shadows - he's following you.

wine stained dress - he's supporting you through an HPV diagnosis. (!)

megumi fushiguro

all's well that ends well - you realize you're in love with him when he belongs to someone else.

flowers in the drawer - he hides flowers in your room.

gingerbread - you meet him while transitioning.

praliné effect - you’re the perfect match.

sakura touch - he holds your hand for the first time.

sleeping beauty - he visits you in the hospital while you're in a coma.

yuji itadori

murphy's law - he gives you the ultimate dream date.

yuta okkotsu

acts of service - his primary love language.

suguru geto

crystal ears - you like his best friend.

imaginary prayers - your faith trembles when he enters your life.

ryomen sukuna

crying wolf - back and forth relationship. (!)

ossuary - you're desperate to earn his respect. (!)

toge inumaki

harmony - he's a deaf-mute who falls for your voice.

jujutsu kaisen

the hollow purples - you're a fangirl meeting your idols. (!)

(!) - heavy angst, graphic depictions, sensitive topics or adult content.

» you may appear as 'yomu nanashi'. this translates to 'anonymous reader'.

[musatoru]

Hi, love, love you

Hi, gorgeous! I lolololololove loooove love youu sm

[musatoru]

I just know you’re a really cool person irl 🥹🩷

I'm going to sleep with a giant smile, hugging my phone. Thank you so much for telling me this. I dedicate the best of my smiles to you and send you the strongest virtual hug ever created!!! 🥰🤍🩷

[musatoru]

Hi!! I just wanted to say how gorgeous and detailed your writing is.. especially “origami bones”. I’ve never been so moved by someone’s fic for awhile now🥹 you’re also so creative!! I really hope you can do more yuji fics in the future if that’s possible🥲🥲

Hi, lovely!

Thank you so much!! It fills my heart to know what I write reaches you in some way, and I wish with all my heart that some of it, even just a little bit, stays with you. And I've wanted to do one starring Yuji mojuro, but I'm still figuring it out because it doesn't come as easily to me as it does with Gojo and Megumi.

🤍🩷

[musatoru]

hello! i follow you on my other blog, just wanted to drop in and say how wonderful your writing is. your mind is amazing. thank you for writing for these characters we share love for <3

hello there!

thank you so much for following, for reading me, for your kind words. i’ll keep them in a vault inside my heart forever. <3

[musatoru]

omg hiiii thank you so much for following me <3 i’m new on tumblr so i’m super excited about reading all your fics !!!! 🩵

hiiiiii! thank you so much for reading and following me, you made my month super special 🤍🩵 i’m excited to hear your thoughts on my work.

welcome!!

[musatoru]

crystal ears

you like gojo, the best friend of your childhood friend, geto.

warning: pica, selective mutism.

late september afternoon light filtered through the ginkgo trees in the schoolyard, casting fractured gold across the concrete. the air carried particles of chalk and overripe persimmons from the tree that leaned over the eastern fence. you were pressed into the corner where the library wall met the equipment shed, your cotton uniform skirt bunched against your knees, your red loafers scuffing faint patterns into the dirt.

from here, you could see the others –shrieking clusters of second-graders playing oni-tag, the boys kicking a soccer ball that sent up puffs of ochre dust each time it struck the packed earth.

you were counting ants marching across the crack in the pavement when a little shadow fell over you.

"are you alone?"

the voice was soft, curious, without malice. you didn't look up. you'd learned that if you stayed still enough, if you breathed shallowly, they would lose interest and wander away.

but this shadow didn't shift. instead, it settled –fabric rustling, the scuff of knees against gravel– and suddenly there was a boy sitting beside you, his black hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it look blue at the edges. he wore the same navy uniform as the others, but his collar was crooked, and there was a grass stain on his elbow. his eyes were heavy-lidded, ancient-looking for a seven-year-old's face, studying you with an intensity that didn't match the gentle slope of his shoulders.

"i'm geto suguru." he said. "you're in class 2-b, right? i see you through the window during lunch."

you said nothing, but your fingers tightened around your knees.

"everyone's playing." he continued, tilting his head. the motion made his hair swing, glossy and straight. "don't you like running? my legs get tired too. but the teacher says we have to move our bodies or we'll get sick."

an incalificable silence stretched between you, thick as honey. you could smell a hint of soap and the school fountain water, and underneath that, the faint green scent of the leaves he'd probably been climbing during the last break.

"you don't have to talk," he said finally, and his voice was so quiet it almost disappeared into the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. "i can just sit here. is that okay?"

you didn't nod, but you didn't pull away when his shoulder brushed yours, light as a moth's wing.

-

the next day, he found you in the same corner.

you'd been watching the clouds migrate across the narrow strip of sky visible between the buildings, cataloging their shapes –whale, ship, a hand with too many fingers– when you heard the plastic scrape of something being dragged across concrete.

geto suguru was pulling a yellow plastic sandbox behind him, the kind with a red lid and wheels that squeaked. it bumped over the cracks in the pavement, leaving faint tracks in the dust. he stopped when he reached your corner, positioned the box between you like an offering, and sat down cross-legged on the warm ground.

"i brought this." he said, as if explaining something obvious. he lifted the lid. inside, the sand was unspoiled, honey-colored, glinting with flecks of mica that caught the noon light like trapped stars. "it's from my house. my sister and i used to play with it, but she's in middle school now. she says it's babyish."

he plunged his hands into the sand. the grains sifted between his fingers, making a sound like rainfall. you watched, mesmerized by the way the light played across his knuckles, the way the sand coated his skin in a fine golden dust.

"sand is interesting," he said, his voice dropping to a contemplative murmur. "it's just rocks, but tiny. millions of years of being worn down by water until they're soft." he cupped his hands, brought them to his face, and inhaled. "it smells like the beach. even though we're inland."

then, without ceremony, he opened his mouth and poured the sand in.

you watched in horror as he swallowed it, his throat making that atrocious movement, like when someone tries to keep from choking. but he didn't cough, nor did he show any signs of fighting for his life. he just chewed.

there was a crunching sound, subtle but distinct –the grinding of silica against enamel. his cheeks were slightly bulged, like a chipmunk's. his expression remained placid, as if he were tasting fine chocolate rather than playground aggregate.

"don’t tell anyone, but i like sand." he paused, swallowing. "it tastes like the color grey. and thunder. far away thunder."

you had so many questions you weren't going to ask. what did the color gray and thunder taste like? did sand not get between his teeth or stuck in his molars? did it taste better than a plum muffin? your mouth opened, and a sound came out. it was rusty, unused, wheezer, but it was unmistakable: you were laughing.

geto turned to look at you, sand still dusting his lower lip, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. not a grin –his mouth barely moved–, but the warmth was devastating in its gentleness.

"see?" he said. "not so scary."

you reached into the box. the sand was warm from sitting in the sun, granular and flowing, slipping through your fingers like liquid time. you didn't eat it –you weren't that strange–, but you cupped it, let it fill your palms, and when geto began building a lopsided castle, you helped pat the towers.

-

wednesday smelled of rain that never fell: of iron and ozone, the humidity wrapped around the school like a wet wool blanket.

geto found you by the flowerpots.

you'd migrated from the corner to the narrow strip of garden that ran along the southern wall, where the school kept potted hydrangeas and a wilting tomato plant that the science teacher was attempting to resurrect. you were poking at the soil in one of the empty pots –dark, loamy earth that crumbled into rich chocolate-brown chunks when disturbed.

"that's better than sand." geto said, appearing beside you like he'd materialized from the humidity itself. he wore short sleeves today, and you could see the delicate bones of his wrists, the way his veins showed blue beneath translucent skin. "my sand is dead. this dirt is alive."

he knelt, his knees sinking into the mulch that surrounded the pots. without hesitation, he scooped a handful of soil from the tomato pot, threaded with white roots and the pale curl of a discarded earthworm. he brought it to his nose first, inhaling deeply, his chest expanding with the breath of decay and growth.

"it smells like..." he looked at you, those heavy eyes searching your face. "like sleeping. like things growing where you can't see them."

then, he ate it. you could hear the grit between his teeth, see the way his tongue pushed against his cheek to work the texture. it was a scene too bizarre to witness, enough to make your stomach churn instantly.

"that's gross." you said, your voice surprising you. it rang in your own ears too loud.

geto didn't flinch. he swallowed, his throat working, and used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, leaving a smear of brown across his cheek like warpaint.

"that's mean." he whispered.

you looked at the dirt in the pot and then at geto –his untucked shirt, his grass-stained knees, the serene expression. he didn't judge you for not speaking, for avoiding everyone; he just remained existing in your periphery, performing the acts that traumatized you and, simultaneously, entertained you. letting you be whatever shape you needed to be. he didn't demand answers, he didn't get frustrated. so, perhaps it was a bit cruel to judge him.

you reached into the pot. the soil was cool, damp, teeming with invisible life. it packed under your fingernails, black and rich. you didn't eat it, but you held it, let it sit in your palm like a living thing, and when geto began separating the earthworms from the roots with infinite, gentle care not to crush them, you helped.

-

geto would find you every day –by the equipment shed, under the ginkgo tree, in the narrow space behind the gymnasium. he never asked why you hid or why you didn't speak. instead, he brought his treasures:

a collection of pebbles that he chewed slowly, methodically, describing the taste as 'like the moon, if the moon was salty'.

a handful of grass blades, which he ate while lying on his back, staring at the sky, claiming they tasted 'green, but the green of deep water, not leaves'.

a piece of bark from the persimmon tree, which he gnawed on like a beaver, his jaw working with quiet determination while you drew patterns in the dust with a stick.

you began to anticipate his presence –the particular rhythm of his footsteps, softer than the other children's thundering chaos. you learned the topography of his face: the small scar above his eyebrow from a fall he'd taken in first grade, the way his ears were slightly too large for his head (promising the sharp elegance they would grow into), the particular shade of his eyes –brown, like the dirt he loved to consume.

you never asked him why he ate things that weren't food. it seemed as natural to him as breathing, as your own silence. while other children screamed and tumbled and demanded attention with the desperate violence of fireworks, geto was a candle –steady, warm, consuming himself quietly to give off light.

"i like you." he said one day in late autumn. the leaves had turned, carpeting the ground in gold that crunched like geto's sand when you walked. you were sitting on the low wall that separated the school from the neighbor's persimmon grove, your legs swinging, not quite touching the ground. geto was eating a piece of dried leaf, brittle and brown.

"everyone else is so loud. you're not." he simply said, offering you a piece of the leaf. you took it paper and tucked it into your pocket. a smile tried to bloom at the corners of your mouth. "can i eat a little of your hair?"

the question startled you. was he going to rip your hair out with all his might? would he pull out some poultry shears and trim you like grass until you were bald? by instinct, you backed away, but he raised both hands to reassure you.

"i won't do anything to you. you can give me whatever you want."

a few seconds passed before your hand moved to one of your braids, specifically the tip of the hair that was left over. you nodded, and by the time classes were over, geto was already devouring the strands with special relish.

-

march arrived with winds that cut through the wool of your coat, carrying petals from the early cherry blossoms that confused the season. the graduation ceremony was approaching –you could feel it in the way the teachers spoke, the way the older students walked the halls with a new heaviness, the way the light changed from winter's pale clarity to spring's tentative gold.

you found geto behind the gymnasium, where the snow had melted into muddy puddles that reflected the grey sky like shattered mirrors. he was kneeling in the dirt, his winter coat unbuttoned, his breath coming in white clouds. before him lay a patch of snowdrops that had pushed through the frozen earth.

"i was waiting for you." he said, without turning around. he knew your footsteps now.

you sat beside him. the ground was cold, seeping through your skirt, but you didn't care. you watched him reach out, touch one of the snowdrops with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

"they eat the winter." he said. "the bulbs store everything –cold, dark, waiting– and then they turn it into this." he gestured to the flowers. "white. like hope."

he plucked one. you expected him to eat it –he'd eaten stranger things– but instead he turned to you, extending the flower on his palm.

you looked at it, at geto's hand, at the way his fingers trembled slightly in the cold. your fingers brushed his as you took the snowdrop.

behind you, the school bell rang, calling the children back to their classrooms, to their noise, to their lives. but in the narrow space between the gymnasium wall and the frozen flowerbed, in the mud and the melting snow, you sat with geto suguru and held more than a flower: you took a hand. his hand.

somewhere in the distance, spring was coming.

-

geto suguru had been taken to the hospital in the last semester for swallowing a handful of nails that damaged his stomach. or so that was what parents said, what your mother repeated to your father, and what no other child knew. you never saw him after that.

middle school passed without a fuss, but you met shoko, a short-haired girl with a beauty mark near her eye who was cynical and flirtatious. she would trade backpacks with you and defend or protect you from anyone who was too insensitive to you, because she saw you as a younger sister. shoko was the only one who knew your voice –geto by then would have already forgotten.

while your classmates underwent the violent metamorphosis of puberty –voices cracking, bodies elongating, social hierarchies crystallizing–, you remained the girl who sat by windows rather than desks when permitted, who ate lunch on the roof or behind the gym, who answered roll call with silence until teachers learned to simply nod at your raised hand. you’d learned to speak when necessary, but the words felt foreign in your mouth, and you spat them out only when absolutely required.

you didn't hide because you were afraid. you hid because the world was loud, and you’d discovered you could simply opt out. the social reunions –birthday parties, karaoke outings, the desperate clustering in fast-food restaurants after school– held no appeal. you would rather sit in the empty classroom during club recruitment, feeling the afternoon sun warm the wood of your desk, listening to the distant shouts of the soccer team as if they were broadcasts from another planet.

you were fifteen when you saw him again.

the first time you saw geto suguru in four years, he was standing beneath the cherry blossoms in the courtyard.

he was taller, of course –everyone was taller–, but the growth had refined rather than awkwardized him. his hair was still black and straight, now touching his collar, and he wore it tied back in a way that showed the elegant architecture of his skull and his sharp jaw. he was speaking to someone, his head tilted in that same contemplative angle you remembered from childhood, his hands gesturing in slow, measured arcs.

but it was the boy beside him who stopped your breath.

where geto was still water, this other boy was lightning trapped in glass. gorgeous white hair like your snowdrop stood in defiant spikes around a face that seemed carved by something violent and divine. he wore the same uniform, but he wore it collar popped, sleeves rolled to the elbows revealing hairless forearms.

he was laughing at something geto said, with his head thrown back, throat exposed. watching him felt like a deaf person hearing for the very first time.

"–don't see why i have to attend the stupid meeting." the white-haired boy was saying, his voice carrying that particular adolescent timbre –cracking slightly at the edges but powerful, arrogant. "the old geezers just want to yell at me just for hitting the guy who was messing with haibara. okay, maybe haibara didn't get him an A, but the poor kid is way too positive to see when they're being scumbags with him."

"there's diplomacy, satoru," geto said, and hearing his voice again after four years was devastating. "you could try using your words before you use your fists."

"where's the fun in that?" the boy –satoru– bumped his shoulder against geto's. "you're my conscience, suguru. you attend the meeting. i'll nap."

geto sighed, and the sound was exactly as you remembered: soft, accepting, the exhalation of someone who carried weight without complaint. his eyes lifted then, scanning the courtyard, and you realized with a jolt that you were standing in the open, no wall to hide behind.

his gaze locked onto yours.

you saw the recognition flash across his face –a widening of those heavy-lidded eyes, a parting of lips, the slight forward tilt of his body as if pulled by an invisible thread. he said something to satoru and then he was moving, crossing the yard with long strides that ate the distance between you, and your heart was hammering against your ribs in a rhythm that felt resembled pure panic.

"look who's here." he said when he reached you. "you grew."

it was such an absurd thing to say –such a childish observation from someone who now towered over you, whose shoulders spanned the width of the doorway behind him– that you almost laughed. almost.

"don't worry. i don't eat anything that isn't strictly food anymore after those nails. if you ask me, teachers overreacted." he winked, surrendering a beautiful, heartwrenching smile. "i'm glad you found your way here."

"who's the wallflower, suguru?"

the voice crashed into the conversation like a wave against rock –gojo satoru had approached, moving with a loose-limbed grace that shouldn't have been possible for someone so tall. he stood beside geto, and the contrast was staggering: black and white, shadow and light, silence and noise. you could feel the judgment of his gaze behind the sunglasses.

"don't be rude." geto said, but there was no heat in it. "this is an old friend. from elementary school."

"elementary school?" gojo leaned forward, invading your space with such casual entitlement you knew immediately he'd never been told no. up close, he was overwhelming. the width of his shoulders blocked the sun, creating an eclipse that made you dizzy. you could see the texture of his skin –pale, poreless, unfairly perfect– and the way his mouth quirked in amusement. "what's your name, wallflower?"

"she doesn't talk much." geto explained, and his hand came up, resting briefly on gojo's shoulder, restraint. "to anyone."

"i see." gojo huffed, tilting his head. "is she a snob or just shy?"

"just... careful." geto said, and you loved him for that, for understanding your silence even now. "leave her be, satoru. you'll frighten her."

"me?" gojo placed a hand on his chest in mock offense, and the gesture was so theatrical, so deliberately exaggerated, that you felt that strange pressure in your chest again, the one that had started when he approached. "i'm a delight. i'm the most delightful person you'll ever meet, right, suguru?"

"you're exhausting." geto said, but he was smiling.

"same thing." gojo turned back to you, and even through the round shades, you felt the intensity of his focus. "well, wallflower, since suguru vouches for you, you're automatically interesting. i'll allow you to exist in my presence."

"come on," geto said, intervening with that gentle firmness that was so uniquely him. "we're going to be late. it was good to see you." he added to you, and his eyes held volumes. "we should talk. properly. soon."

they walked away; geto with his calculated steps, gojo with a bounce in his stride that suggested he was constantly fighting the urge to run, to jump, to explode into motion.

it hurt. the feeling in your chest –a tightness, a heat, a restless fluttering– was treacherous. it was wanting to follow and being rooted to the spot.

you had fallen for this satoru guy in a hummingbird heartbeat.

-

a week later, you found yourself in the second-floor hallway during the lunch break, having escaped the cacophony of the cafeteria for the relative silence of the north wing. you were leaning against the bank of lockers, waiting for shoko and eating a konbini onigiri when the air suddenly changed.

you knew it was him before he spoke. the bittersweet fragrance, the shift in pressure, the way the fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder in his presence.

"wallflower." gojo satoru saluted, appearing beside you as if he'd stepped out of the air itself. his eyes were for everyone to see, an endlessly, shakingly blue, like the heart of a glacier, like electricity made visible. they were looking at you with an intensity that made you want to simultaneously step closer and run away.

you said nothing. you took another bite of your onigiri, chewing slowly, deliberately, staring at the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall across from you.

"silent treatment, huh?" he leaned against the locker beside yours, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. he was too close. "that's fine. i'm good at monologues. it's a skill i developed when i was a kid and didn't have anyone to talk to."

you chewed. swallowed. the rice stuck in your throat.

"geto told me about you." he continued, his voice dropping into a conversational spectrum that was surprisingly gentle, at odds with his chaotic energy. "said you were the first person who ever looked at him and didn't want anything. just sat with him and ate dirt together or something weird like that."

your fingers tightened around the onigiri, rice grains crumbling against your palm.

"he said you were his first real friend," gojo said, and there was something defenseless in his tone now. "before me. before he found me in that empty classroom, eating my lunch alone because i held too much grudge against the world, just as the world held it against me. everyone happy, growing up, having no idea that growing up was the worst of all curses."

you turned your head and looked at the blue eyes that caught the fluorescent light and seemed to glow, unearthly, terrifying.

"so i guess we have something in common, wallflower." he said, a small smile playing at his lips. "we're both geto's rescue projects."

"i'm not a project." you replied.

the words came out before thinking. you hadn't planned to speak. you never planned to speak. but he was standing there, so sure of himself, so casually claiming kinship with you based on shared trauma and geto's kindness, and something in you rebelled.

gojo's eyebrows shot up. he pushed off from the locker, turning to fully face you, and you saw his chest rise with a quick intake of breath. "oh," he said, and the word was delighted. "so suguru's girlfriend can talk. i was beginning to think he imagined the whole thing."

"i'm not his girlfriend, either."

gojo blinked. then, he bursted out laughing, a sound that echoed off the metal lockers. "oh, man." he gasped, wiping his eyes. "okay, good to know, i guess. establishing boundaries early. i respect it."

you felt heat crawl up your neck, embarrassment making your ears burn. you looked down at your onigiri, now half-crumpled in your grip.

"hey," gojo said, and his voice had softened, losing the theatrical edge. he crouched down, bringing himself to your eye level, and you were startled by the proximity of him, close enough to see the individual lashes that were white as spider silk. "relax. i was teasing. i do that. it's my thing."

you rolled your eyes. gojo satoru didn't seem so fun and charming anymore. his appearance was like a dream, but listening to him for more than two minutes straight was a nightmare.

"suguru talks about you a lot." gojo continued, standing up again, giving you space to breathe. "more than he talks about anyone. i was jealous, actually. when i found out you were here. thought maybe i'd be replaced."

"you won’t."

he raised an eyebrow. "how are you so sure?"

you shrugged, the answer too obvious. "because you’re his opposite, which makes you his complement. he needs you. he needs that balance."

geto and you were too similar, or so it seemed. he was the first thing that felt certain outside of your home, but he didn't need you.

your chest ached. you pressed your hand against it, feeling the flutter of your heart, the constriction of your lungs. gojo reached out, and before you could flinch away, his hand was hovering over your heart, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palm.

"your heart's beating fast," he observed, his head tilting in that predatory curiosity. "are you scared of me?"

"the only thing that scares me is you getting too comfortable and overstepping with me."

his grin turned wicked. "good," he said. "fear keeps you sharp."

"get your huge, stuck-up hand off my friend, you idiot." shoko appeared like a victorian warrior, her fist raised in a threat. he dropped his hand immediately, stepping back, and the loss of his warmth felt like a physical ache. 

"and you are...?" gojo asked, mocking. the smile vanished abruptly when shoko snatched the glasses hanging from his shirt and shoved them up into her hairline, crossing her arms.

"i’ll be the one kicking your ass if you don't get lost in the next ten seconds."

you thought gojo would respond with his classic impudence, but to your shock, he turned slightly flushed and just shoved his hands into his pockets.

"see ya ’round, wallflower."

he disappeared around the corner, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, leaving behind only the lingering pressure of his almost-touch against your chest.

the onigiri had gone cold in your hand, but you didn't notice. you were too busy listening to the new silence in your head –the one that was full of blue eyes and sharp grins and the exhilarating sound of your own voice saying words.

"who's that clown?" shoko muttered, but when she turned to look at you, she noticed you were grinning from ear to ear. not even you realized that.

-

the day melted into liquid gold by the time you stepped through the school gates, the sun hanging low over the skyline like a bruised peach, bleeding amber and rose across the scattered clouds.

shoko had been detained for smoking behind the gym; you waited for her outside the disciplinary office for twenty five minutes until the secretary shooed you away, telling you she wouldn't be released until after six.

the streets were different at this hour –emptier, the elementary school children already home, the salarymen not yet released from their glass towers. your footsteps echoed against the concrete, each scuff of your loafers a lonely percussion in the swelling silence. you carried your bag in both hands, the strap digging into your shoulder blades, and you watched your shadow stretch long and thin across the pavement, distorted by the position of the dying sun.

"you're walking alone?"

the familiar voice came from behind you. you didn't turn immediately. you let the sound wash over you, feeling it in your teeth, in the marrow of your bones. geto suguru fell into step beside you, his shoulder hovering two inches from yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his uniform jacket.

"satoru's in detention too." geto explained, his voice pitched low. "he filled the math teacher's car with bees just to get out of the test. it took fifty five minutes on the clock for him to admit it. i had to bribe him to get him to crack."

you almost smiled. you didn't, but you felt the tug at the corner of your mouth. geto saw it –he always saw everything– and his own lips curved in response. you didn't know what was stopping you from answering; it wasn't as if you wanted to leave him talking to himself... but you couldn't. the sound simply wouldn't climb to travel through the air.

"he's exhausting." geto continued. "but he's... better, now. than he was when i found him."

you nodded. you remembered the hallway, the teasing, the confession, the words. you remembered the way gojo shook your ground with zero effort.

"he talks too much." geto said, and his hand brushed yours for a second. "but he's kind, in his way. fiercely protective. he'd destroy the world for someone he loved, and build a better one from the ashes."

you listened to the rhythm of his speech, the cadence that had deepened since childhood but retained that same composed quality, as if he were tasting each word before releasing it. you watched his profile as you walked –the line of his nose, the way his hair had come loose from its tie, strands brushing against his cheekbone, the elegant column of his throat where his collar was unbuttoned against the evening heat.

he was beautiful.

you'd always known geto was attractive –the way girls in your class whispered about him, the way even upperclassmen paused to watch him pass–, but seeing it now, in the chamomile light of the setting sun, was different. the symmetry of his face had refined into something almost cruel in its perfection, but his eyes remained soft, heavy-lidded. the angelic features paired with that depth of sorrow. his whole face was a mosaic of religious art, of martyrs and saints.

"i thought about you," he said suddenly, the confession dropping into the space between you like a stone into a pool. "after i left."

you stopped walking. he took two more steps before realizing, then turned back to face you. the sun was behind him now, outlining him in fire, making his edges blur and glow. you had to squint to see his expression, but you could feel the fervor radiating off him.

"i worried," he proceeded, his voice dropping even rougher. "i worried that you were alone. no one should be alone." his hand rose, hesitated, then settled on your shoulder. "i wished so many times that i could find you again, just to know you were okay. just to sit with you, even in silence."

he took a step closer. you could see the individual fibers of his uniform, the way the black absorbed the sunset and turned it to rust. your throat was tight. you wanted to speak, but the words were tangled, caught on the barbed wire of your own vacillation.

his thumb moved in a small, soothing circle against your shoulder. you could smell the shampoo he used –something herbal, like the traditional remedies your grandmother used to brew. you could see the fine texture of his skin, the barely-there stubble along his jaw that suggested he shaved in the mornings but his hair grew fast, the small scar above his eyebrow that you'd noticed before, white against the tan.

why is it always like this? you thought so loud you were sure he could hear your mind. you wanted to tell him. you wanted to say i really like your hair or even just hey… i missed you.

but your tongue felt heavy, useless. you’d replayed a thousand conversations in your head, practiced them in the mirror, whispered them alone in your room where your voice worked perfectly. yet here, in front of him, you were mute again. did he know? did he think you were weird? boring? that you never cared? the thought made your stomach twist. you cared so much that your silence felt like betrayal after all these years. why wasn't there a problem with shoko? god, why was it even easier with gojo?

just say something. one word. his name. anything. but you stayed quiet, nodding when he spoke to you, hoping your eyes said everything your voice won’t. hoping he could read the storm behind them. hoping he waited just a little longer.

"there's an occultism club," he said, his hand falling away from your shoulder, the loss of contact leaving you cold. "at school. it's just me and satoru right now. we need three members minimum, or they'll disband us."

he started walking again, slower now, and you fell into step beside him, your arms brushing with each stride, sending small shocks up your nerves.

"you could join," you could see the tension in his jaw, the careful neutrality of his expression. "bring your friend. shoko, was it? the one in detention. she's... she's interesting. smart. satoru thinks so too."

your stomach dropped. the sensation was physical, visceral –a sudden hollowness behind your navel, a coldness spreading through your veins. you kept walking, kept your face neutral, but you felt the blood drain from your cheeks, felt your fingers go numb where they gripped your bag strap.

"he likes her." geto’s voice changed, taking on a wondering trait, almost bemused. "i've never seen him like this. he gets nervous around her. stupid, even. he asked me three times today if i thought she'd like the new manga he bought, as if i would know. as if anyone would know. he just... he looks at her, and he forgets how to be... him."

each word was a needle sliding between your ribs to pierce something vital. you felt your chest contract, making it difficult to breathe. the sunset suddenly seemed too bright, too orange, burning your retinas.

"he's never been nervous before." geto chuckled, an incredulous sound that scraped against your guts. "never. not when facing spirits at the club, not when fighting upperclassmen, not when dealing with teachers. but ieiri shoko walks into a room, and he forgets how to speak. it's... remarkable. like, bring my best friend back!"

you stopped again. this time, you couldn't hide the way your shoulders curled inward, nor the way your breath hitched. geto noticed. of course he noticed. he turned to you, his expression shifting from affection to concern. his eyebrows drew together as his hand reached out again.

"are you alright?" he asked. "you look pale. is it the heat? we can stop somewhere, get some water–"

you shook your head, playing it down. but you weren't fine. you were shattering, silently, invisibly. he was the only one. the only person besides her who ever made the words flow. one word from him and the lock in your throat would loosen. and now? of course he’d fall for her. how could he not?

more than jealousy, you felt an immense worry, because you’d lost a key. yes, perhaps you were being selfish to some degree, but it was a key. your key to someone who might even like you back. what if he was my only chance? what if i can never speak to anyone i actually like again?

everything belonged to a torn-away future, back when the present hadn't even taken off yet. this time you were angrier because you knew what it felt like to be heard by the person you liked… and you knew you might never feel that again.

you started walking again, faster now, wanting only to reach the intersection where your paths would diverge, where you could escape to the bathroom of your apartment and vomit up the grief that was rising in your throat like bile.

"hey," geto said, catching up with his longer strides. "did i say something wrong? you seem... different. did i upset you?"

you shook your head again. he didn't believe you. you could see it in the set of his mouth, the way his hand hovered near your elbow as if ready to catch you if you fell. but he was too kind to push, too respectful of the boundaries you'd spent years building around yourself like walls.

you walked in silence the rest of the way –geto casting worried glances at you, you staring straight ahead. at the corner where you would turn toward your apartment building, geto stopped you with a gentle hand on your elbow. his touch was warm, careful, and it broke something inside you. you felt tears prick at your eyes, hot and humiliating, and you blinked rapidly to keep them from falling.

"thank you." he muttered, intimate. "for walking with me. for listening. i missed you."

you looked up at him –at his beautiful, sorrowful face, at the eyes that held four years of longing and the mouth that spoke such kind words while unknowedly delivering such cruel truths.

"i'll see you tomorrow." geto said, his hand falling away. "at the club room? third floor, east wing. after school."

you nodded fast before turning and walking away. behind you, geto stood watching until you disappeared into your building.

-

the occult club room was located on the third floor's eastern wing, a forgotten corner where the sunlight filtered through grimy windows in beams thick with dancing dust motes. the walls were lined with sagging shelves holding books with titles in languages dead and living: the lesser key of solomon, the book of enoch, gojo's personal notes scrawled in messy kanji on loose-leaf paper.

you came because geto asked, and you stayed because the alternative was the empty walk home alone.

shoko joined on the third day. her and the boys got along with the ease of parallel lines running toward the same horizon. you watched it happen in increments too small to name but too large to deny. the way shoko would lean over geto's shoulder to examine a pentagram, her chin nearly brushing his collarbone, her finger tracing the paper while he held his breath to avoid disturbing her concentration. the way he began bringing her tea without asking –hojicha, she'd mentioned once, offhand, and the next day there was a thermos waiting on her desk. the way their silences became comfortable while yours remained constructed.

and it wasn't much different with gojo, either. geto maintained a certain distance, but gojo couldn't care less. you developed a sudden, intense interest in the stitching of your uniform skirt whenever they sat too close on the club room's moth-eaten sofa, thighs nearly touching, heads bent together over a single book. in the way your jaw ached from clenching when gojo reached out to brush a stray hair from shoko's face, his fingers lingering a fraction too long.

but the worst part was, when geto was present, you retreated into your silence like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. you became furniture, a ghost haunting the edges of their interactions. you answered questions with nods, with shrugs, with the minimum movement required to acknowledge that you were still technically corporeal. but when he left –when geto excused himself to use the restroom or to speak with a teacher or to check out an incident that had been reported in the neighborhood–, you transformed.

"pass me that chalk." you'd say to gojo, your voice emerging fully formed. "no, the white one, not the ceremonial crap. i'm drawing a containment circle, not summoning your ego."

gojo would blink at you, those blue eyes widening with surprise, as if you were a book he'd assumed was blank suddenly revealing elaborate illustrations.

"wallflower has teeth." he'd say, that insufferable grin cutting across his face.

you'd roll your eyes, tossing the chalk at his head with a precision born from years of practiced isolation –plenty of time to develop aim when you spent recesses throwing rocks at fences. "my name isn't wallflower, you overgrown albino. it's–"

"yeah, yeah, i know your name." he'd catch the chalk effortlessly, spinning it between his fingers. "i just like watching you get annoyed when i don't use it. you make this face–" he'd mimic you, scrunching his features into an exaggerated scowl. "–like you're calculating the exact velocity required to make my head explode."

"not exact velocity." you'd correct, turning back to the circle you were drawing on the floor. "exact angle. there's a difference."

he'd laugh then, loud and genuine, and you'd feel that dangerous warmth in your chest, the one you were trying to cauterize. you'd talk with him –spar, really, verbal fencing matches where he tested your reflexes and you learned to parry his arrogance with your own. you spoke less with him than you did when alone with shoko, still guarded around the source of your affliction, but you spoke. complete sentences. jokes, even.

but geto never saw it. he returned to find you silent again, and gojo never exposed you. he never dared to make you look bad in front of him. that was one of the few things that truly made gojo exceptional: he didn't butt in where he wasn't wanted.

two months of this. sixty days of watching the boy you loved fall in love with your best friend while your childhood friend... fell in love with your best friend too?

then came the sleepover.

shoko's apartment was on the sixth floor of a concrete building in nakano. you arrived at seven, bag slung over your shoulder containing pajamas and toothbrush and the mask you were preparing to remove.

the transformation began the moment shoko locked the door behind you.

"finally!" she shouted, kicking off her loafers with aggressive satisfaction. "i thought i'd have to perform the perfect daughter routine for another hour. my mother's been on a rampage since i got that detention –apparently smoking will ruin my marriage prospects, as if i want to marry some uptight who cares about virgin lungs."

you dropped your bag. you toed off your shoes. you straightened, rolled your shoulders, and when you looked at her, you were someone else entirely.

"your mother has the emotional range of a dial tone. i mean, seriously, shoko, the woman thinks 'rebellion' is using the wrong fork for salad. did she actually cry when she found the cigarettes?" you said, your voice coming fast, gesturing with your hands as you spoke.

"wailed," shoko confirmed, leading you toward her bedroom. "like a professional mourner at a yakuza funeral. you should have seen it. oscar-worthy performance."

"please, i've seen better acting from gojo when he pretends to be injured to get out of training." you followed her, already undoing your hair from its tight braid, shaking it out so it fell wild around your shoulders. "last week he claimed he pulled a muscle in his 'everything' and lay on the floor for thirty minutes until geto kicked him. the drama. the sheer commitment to the bit."

shoko's bedroom was small, cluttered with medical textbooks and fashion magazines in equal measure, the walls plastered with anatomical charts and a single poster of a rock band you'd never heard of. the futon was already laid out, a nest of blankets and pillows that looked like a cloud had collapsed onto the tatami.

you flopped onto it face-first, groaning into the fabric. "god, this feels good. my spine has been compressed into a pretzel by that damn uniform."

"you're different." shoko observed, not unkindly, as she changed into pajamas –oversized t-shirt and shorts, her hair falling loose down her back. "when it's just us. you're like..."

"like what?" you rolled onto your back, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling.

"like gojo." she grimaced. "but smarter. less likely to accidentally destroy the building."

you threw a pillow at her. she caught it, laughing, and suddenly you were both twelve again. it wasn't as if much time had passed since then, but shoko was forcing herself to grow up very fast, and now there were boys too.

"so," shoko started, settling cross-legged on the futon beside you, opening a bag of chips that smelled of seaweed and vinegar. "speak of the devil. or devils. plural."

"which devil? we know several. there's the pretty one who eats dirt, the albino one who is dirt–"

"the pretty one asked me out." shoko interrupted, and the chip in your hand crumbled to dust between your fingers.

you kept your face neutral. you'd had practice. "geto?"

"no, you absolute disaster." she rolled her eyes. "gojo. satoru. the one with the sunglasses?"

"yeah, i heard about him somewhere." your stomach performed a complex gymnastics routine-sinking, twisting, rising to lodge in your throat, but your voice was steady, detached. "when?"

"tuesday. after the club meeting. he cornered me by the lockers –literally, trapped me until i agreed to hear him out." she popped a chip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "said he'd been trying to ask for weeks but kept 'failing spectacularly', his words. said i made him nervous. said i was the most terrifying thing he'd ever encountered, including demons and spirits, and he needed to know if i'd let him take me to a movie or if he should prepare his will."

your fingernails were digging into your palm, but you forced them to relax. "what did you say?"

"i said i'd think about it." she looked at you, her dark eyes seeing through the architecture beneath. "i like him. he's... he's a lot. but he's genuine. under all that arrogance, he's just a kid who wants someone to see him. like you do, actually."

"me?"

"don't play dumb. you're exactly alike– you and gojo. all sharp edges and defensive posturing and pretending you don't care while you care so much it might kill you." she leaned forward. "so? what's your opinion? should i say yes?"

"do you like him?" you asked, and the words came out cautiously.

"i asked you first."

"i think..." you sat up, suddenly unable to lie still, your hands moving again, tracing patterns in the air, running through your hair, gesturing toward nothing. "i think he'd destroy the world for you. i think he'd burn it down and build you a palace from the ashes. i think he'd be loyal until the end of everything, and i think he'd make you laugh until you couldn't breathe, and i think–" your voice cracked, just slightly, just enough. "i think you'd be an idiot to say no."

shoko was quiet for a long moment. the city hummed outside, trains passing, lives continuing in their orbits. then she said, soft and dangerous as a scalpel: "you didn't answer my question."

"what?"

"i asked for your opinion on me dating him. you gave me a character analysis. you told me what he'd do for me, how he'd love me." she leaned even closer, her eyes narrowing. "you didn't tell me if you wanted me to say yes or no."

your hands stilled. you felt caught, pinned like a specimen under glass. "it doesn't matter what i want."

"it matters to me."

"shoko–"

"because i think you're in love with him." oh, no. "i think you sit in that club room and you watch him with your heart in your throat. i think you practice speaking when he's not there because you want to be loud enough for him to hear. i think you crumble chips into dust when i mention his name because you're trying not to scream."

you couldn't breathe. the room had shrunk to just her face, her eyes, the truth she'd excavated from your ribs.

"but here's what i can't figure out," she continued, her voice gentling now, becoming something almost sympathetic. "because you look at geto too. and geto looks at you, but he does it in a way– like you're the only solid thing on a planet of liquids. so which is it? the yin or the yang?"

you opened your mouth just to close it. you wanted to laugh it off, to throw another pillow, to retreat into sarcasm and deflection. but the silence had hold of you now, the real silence, the one that lived in your core, and you couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare at her with eyes that had gone too wide.

"oh, my god. you want both?!" shoko took swiftly your trembling hands in hers.

"shut up. you've got it wrong." you blushed.

"okay, i’m joking, but i think you’re confused. geto was there for you when you were a child and had no friends, and gojo is the one you can truly be yourself with." she squeezed your hands. "but i feel like that's because you haven't given geto the chance to truly know you, that’s why he treats you like a shortbread cookie. just as those two are friends because they’re polar opposites, you’re geto’s complement, too. and geto doesn't even look at me the way you think he does. he brings me tea because gojo told him so, but with you– i think the poor guy stops breathing every time you're in the same room, for fear of hurting you. he’s very considerate and mature for his age."

you shook your head, denial automatic, but she pressed on.

"stop." you articulated.

"right now, geto's in love with a memory of you. right now, you’re gojo’s match."

"but gojo doesn't like me. he likes you." you reminded her with bitterness.

shoko sighed. "but he talks about you a lot, and i know he has more fun in your presence. if you’d just make up your mind, you’d have a chance." she asked, releasing your hands, settling back on her heels. "are you gonna keep letting gojo chase me while he should be chasing you?"

-

it was raining.

you were sitting on the floor, back against the radiator that knocked and hissed with trapped steam, your knees drawn up beneath your skirt. geto was cross-legged near the window, supposedly reading a text on yokai, but his eyes kept drifting to the outside. gojo lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling with the slow pace of near-sleep, his white hair catching the grey light. shoko sat beside him, also reading with her bare feet –she'd kicked off her loafers an hour ago– tucked beneath her thighs.

no one was speaking. you could hear the click of geto's throat when he swallowed, the rustle of his pages, the distant thunder that rolled across tokyo. then, shoko closed her book with a decisive snap that made gojo twitch.

"i'm hungry." she announced. "geto, come with me to the cafeteria. i want to check if they have those melon buns left, but i don't want to walk through the rain alone."

geto looked up, his expression softening into that gentle attentiveness he reserved for her. "now?"

"yes, now. before they sell out." she stood, stretching, her joints popping. "come on. i’ll buy you anything you want."

"i’m not hungry." geto complained, but he was already closing his book, already standing, already reaching for his jacket. "satoru, watch the room. we'll be back in ten minutes."

"mmhmm." gojo mumbled, not moving his arm from his face. "bring me something. something with sugar. i'm dying."

"you ate three pudding cups at lunch." geto observed with fond exasperation. he followed shoko to the door, pausing only to look back at you –a glance that lasted a decimal forever. "you'll be alright?"

you nodded.

the door clicked shut behind them, and the room changed. gojo removed his arm from his face and sat up in one fluid motion, no longer languid but alert. his blue eyes sparked with the vigor of a predator who’d been pretending to rest.

"she's not subtle." he said, his voice cutting through the rain-noise like a blade. "shoko. she thinks she's being subtle, but she might as well have lit a neon sign saying 'confront each other'."

you pulled your knees tighter to your chest. "i don't know what you mean."

"bullshit." he swung his legs off the sofa, planting his feet on the floor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. the movement brought him near your space, close enough that you could smell him. "you asked her to arrange this. or she asked you. either way, we're alone, and we need to talk."

you looked at the window. the rain was coming harder now, a deluge that turned the courtyard into a lake, the trees into weeping figures. "about what?"

"about shoko," he said. "about why you look like you're stepping on knives every time i mention her name. about why you don’t want suguru to walk you home but you wait for me."

your head snapped toward him. "i don’t– you–"

"and she rejects me because of you." gojo's eyes were too bright.

you felt your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, everywhere. "so do you love her?"

the words came out rushed, unplanned. gojo blinked. he sat back, looking at his hands –large, scarred at the knuckles from fighting. "no," he said finally. "i don't think so."

"but you asked her out."

"yeah, i like her, obviously." he laughed, but it was self-deprecating. "and i saw the way suguru looks at you, and i wanted that. i wanted to feel that." he looked up, and for the first time since you'd known him, he looked his age. "he stares at you like he'd swallow the ocean if you asked him to. like–" he stopped, ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in wild spikes. "i want that. i want to feel that way about someone. i thought maybe shoko... she's smart. she's beautiful. she doesn't take my shit. i thought if i tried, if i practiced, maybe i'd learn how to feel it."

your chest ached. you pressed your hand against it, feeling your heartbeat against your palm. "that's not how it works."

"tell me about it." he said bitterly, but more determined. "but here's the thing, wallflower. you're so busy watching me watch shoko, that you're missing the entire fucking picture."

"what picture?"

"suguru." he said, and his voice became serious in a way that made you go petrified. "you think you know him. childhood friends, sandbox and dirt, blah-blah." he leaned forward again, invading your space this time. "but you don't see him."

"i– i don’t get it." you whispered.

"of course you don’t." gojo's hands moved, gesturing with frustrated energy. "i share a dorm with him. i see him at three in the morning when he thinks i'm asleep. and let me tell you something: he never stopped eating weird shit."

your heart hammered until you felt it stop completely.

"he does it when he's anxious," gojo continued, his eyes never leaving yours. "when he's upset. when he's feeling things he can't name. i've watched him eat paper –notebook paper, loose-leaf, the corners of his textbooks. i've found erasers in his mouth, matches, chalk, the plastic caps off pens. last week i caught him chewing on a shirt button until it cracked."

your stomach twisted. why hadn't geto told you? he used to eat all that in front of you, didn't he? what had changed? you thought about his hands, his kind and welcoming smile, so inviting that it intimidated you.

"he does it more now." gojo said softer, despite the harshness of his words. "since you came back. since you started talking."

"i don't talk when he's–"

"exactly." gojo pointed at you, his finger accusatory. "you don't talk when he's around. you go silent. you become that girl from his memories again. but when he leaves, you change. he’d heard you. he’d stood in the hallway and listened to you talking with shoko, with me, laughing with us. he’d heard you argue with me when i come back early, before i announce myself. you're a different person."

you couldn't breathe. you started to feel dizzy, feeling as though the room was too small for claustrophobia hitting you. was it guilt? it couldn't be; you knew you didn't do it with the intention of hurting anyone, but gojo was hurting you.

"and he knows." gojo didn’t notice. "he doesn't say anything, he's too fucking noble for that, but he knows. he leaves the room on purpose sometimes. did you know that? he'll make excuses: 'i need to check something', 'i'll be right back', so you'll be comfortable. so you'll talk. so you'll be yourself."

"stop." you whispered.

"he sacrifices his own presence for your happiness." gojo couldn't stop. "and then he goes somewhere alone and he eats paper. he chews on erasers. he puts things in his mouth that aren't food because he can't swallow his frustration to be the person you talk to."

you were shaking. you didn't realize you were shaking until you tried to stand and your legs wouldn't support you, sliding you back down the radiator, the heat of it burning through your uniform jacket.

"i bought him iron supplements." gojo said, his voice breaking slightly. "did you know that? i went to the pharmacy and i bought him iron pills because i thought– maybe it's anemia. maybe it's from some deficiency. i left them on his desk with a note that said 'eat these instead of the furniture, you freak'. he laughed it off. said he was fine. but he's not fine."

the image was devastating: gojo, loud and chaotic and apparently caring, buying medicine for his friend, trying to solve a problem he didn't understand, while you stood in the center of it all, oblivious, wrapped in your own pain.

"why don't you want to talk to him?" he asked, calmer now.

"it's not that i don't want to." you exploded, kicking an empty can of sprite, geto's favorite drink. "it's that i can't. i freeze up. it's not– it's not like i don't feel comfortable with him, but... i don't know. it's not my fault. don't put this on me." the lump in your throat kept you from carrying on.

gojo didn’t push. instead, he crouched down so that you were forced to meet his eyes. "he doesn’t know you anymore. i know we’re young, but you need to decide if you're going to keep letting him care about someone who doesn't exist, watching him destroy himself with anxiety."

you were crying. you hadn't realized you were crying until gojo's thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away wetness, his expression softening into something like pity.

the door opened then –shoko's laughter preceding her, geto's soft response following, the smell of melon buns and wet wool filling the room. she shook rain from her hair, geto holding a paper bag with grease stains blooming through like flowers, his eyes finding yours immediately, concerned.

"everything okay?" he asked, setting the bag down, moving toward you with that instinctive gentleness.

"i told her a horror story." gojo intervened when he saw you didn't even nod. "i told her all about my childhood."

-

the months between gojo's revelation and the closing ceremony passed like water through cupped hands –inevitably lost.

you practiced. god, you practiced. in front of mirrors, you spoke to your reflection until your throat was raw, constructing sentences like stadiums, building bridges of words that could span the chasm between who you were with others and who you were with him. you practiced with shoko, with gojo, trading barbs and confessions in equal measure until he almost smiled when you entered a room.

but when geto appeared –when his shadow fell across the doorway, when his scent of woody watermelon entered your atmosphere– you became stone again. your tongue turned to lead. the words retreated behind your teeth like hermit crabs into shells, and you were seven again, made of silence and corners.

gojo watched it happen. every day, he watched you transform from fire to ash the moment geto entered the room. he watched you mouth words that wouldn't emerge, watched your hands go still at your sides, watched you enter that closet of glass. and every day, his expression grew heavier –not with rage, but with a disappointment so profound it looked like grief.

you hated yourself for it. but the fear was stronger than hate.

and between the indecision and the worry, the ceremony arrived at the gym, which had been transformed into a cathedral of endings, rows of folding chairs arranged, banners hanging from the rafters in the school colors, the stage draped in cloth that smelled of storage. you sat between shoko and an empty seat –gojo had been called away for some disciplinary matter as usual– and you tried to make yourself small, tried to disappear into the crease of your program.

the principal droned on about achievement and growth. the vice-principal read names –honor roll, perfect attendance, students who had distinguished themselves. you weren't among them. you'd distinguished yourself only in your ability to remain unseen, to be a live-action ghost from your club.

then: "and now, a representative from class 1-b will say a few words about the year's end."

you didn't react. you were safe in your anonymity, safe in your silence.

"from class 1-b–"

and then, your name came next.

your blood turned to ice. your vision narrowed to a tunnel. you felt shoko's hand on your arm, felt her whisper ‘you don't have to’, but the teacher was already there, already taking your elbow (‘cause you didn’t react), already guiding you toward the aisle with a smile that didn't see your panic, didn't see the way your legs had stopped working, didn't see the way your throat had closed like a fist.

the walk to the stage was a thousand miles. the microphone waited like a weapon. the faces below –hundreds of them, a sea of eyes, all watching, all waiting– blurred into a wash of color and sound. you reached the center of the stage. you opened your mouth.

nothing came out.

not a whisper. not a breath. your vocal cords had locked, paralyzed by the weight of expectation, by the sudden violence of exposure. you stood there, frozen, your hands trembling at your sides, your vision spotting at the edges, and you knew –you knew with absolute certainty– that this was how you would be remembered. the girl who couldn't speak.

the silence stretched. it grew teeth. it became something alive and hungry, consuming the air in the space. you heard shifting, heard whispers, heard someone laugh. and finally, a commotion.

you turned, still shocked, and saw geto suguru standing in the aisle. he was wearing his uniform, perfectly pressed as always, his hair tied back, his face that mask of winsome composure. but his hands were moving. his hands were at his mouth.

he was eating the decorative flowers from the aisle arrangements.

white chrysanthemums, the ones arranged in foam blocks along the center aisle –he was pulling them free, one by one, and putting them in his mouth. chewing. the sound was audible through the silence, that familiar crunch from childhood, the grinding of petals against enamel. he swallowed, reaching for another, his expression beatific, as if he were alone in a garden rather than standing in the center of three hundred staring students.

"geto-kun?" the principal's voice crackled through the microphone, confused, horrified. "what are you–"

"they taste like white funerals." geto said, his voice absolutely unhinged. he pulled another flower free, a long-stemmed lily, and bit the head from it with a sound like tearing paper. "like snow that knows it's the last snow. like–" he chewed thoughtfully, his eyes closing, his throat working. "like her embrace when the sun hits it just before sunset."

every eye in the room was on him now. the principal was sputtering. teachers were moving toward him, but he was already walking, already moving toward the stage, eating flowers as he went, leaving a trail of stems and petals behind him like breadcrumbs.

"geto." you whispered, but the microphone caught it, amplified it.

he reached the stage, walking past you, close enough that you could smell the flowers on his breath, and he stood at the microphone, his mouth stained with pollen, and he said: "i think i've had enough of ceremonies. who's with me?"

the silence held for one heartbeat. two.

then gojo –gojo who had appeared from somewhere, who was standing in the back doors with his arms crossed– laughed. loud and delighted and absolutely inappropriate, and it broke something. the room erupted in maniacal laughter, without letting their guard down in case geto suguru decided to go cannibal and devour everyone present.

the teachers were overwhelmed, trying to restore order, and in the confusion, geto turned to you, locking his eyes on yours.

softly, his hand found yours, his fingers threading through your trembling digits, and he squeezed once, and then he was leading you off the stage, through the chaos, out the side door into the blinding sunlight, and you were running, both of you running.

it was the most ridiculous and cringe-worthy scene shoko had ever witnessed.

-

it was the end of the day, turning the world to saffron and rust. the year was over. the summer yawned before you, vast and empty, and if you didn't speak now–

geto stopped at the corner. he turned to face the three of you, his hands in his pockets, his hair coming loose from its tie. "well," he said. "i suppose this is goodbye for now."

"see you in september, i guess." gojo said, though his eyes were on you, questioning, hoping.

"take care of yourself." shoko added, squeezing your hand briefly before stepping back and holding her boyfriend’s –gojo’s.

geto nodded and looked at you, smiling. you could see the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw worked, the way his hand twitched toward his pocket where you knew he kept ‘emergency’ erasers and paper clips. he was preparing to let you go. again. always.

he turned to leave.

"wait!" you heard yourself say.

the word came out loud, louder than ever before. geto stopped. his shoulders went rigid. gojo and shoko paused for a moment, but they continued walking, hand in hand, disappearing around the corner, leaving you alone with him on the street corner as the sun bled out into the horizon.

geto turned slowly. his face was open now, vulnerable, and he waited. he always waited.

just breathe. one word at a time. you can do this.

your hands were trembling inside your pockets, remembering how he used to hide crayons so you wouldn’t eat them by mistake, how he was always by your side since he met you. he’d always been like that: protective, patient, the kind of person who stays.

there’s nothing to be afraid of. he’ll be gentle with me.

your throat was dry, but today you decided you’ll push back harder than you ever have. because this was him. geto suguru, the most understanding and tender person in the world. the boy who went around picking up and adopting kids his own age so they wouldn't have to be left with no one, so they would feel supported, so they would always have an alternative and a safe place. and he, he was a home.

you swallowed. once, twice.

say something. anything. his name. tell him you like listening to him talk. tell him his kindness makes you feel safe.

the words were right there –buzzing, frantic, alive– but your tongue won’t move. what if nothing comes out again? what if he finally gets tired of carrying the conversation? what if he thinks you don’t care when the truth is you care so much it hurts to breathe?

you glanced at him. he was looking at you, but he wasn’t rushing you. he never did. he never will.

he deserves to hear your voice. not just nods and smiles. he deserves to know you like him. that watching him care about people makes you like him even more.

your lips parted. a tiny sound escaped, half breath, half attempt. come on. for once, let the words win. tell him he’s important. tell him you’re trying. tell him… anything.

"i practiced." you said finally. there was your voice: real, sincere and yours. he nodded, so you could keep going. "every day. i practiced what i was going to say to you. with everyone i can talk to." you tried not to trip over your own words, so you just closed your eyes. not seeing him would make it easier. "it's not that i don't want to talk to you, it's that– it's that i feel so much for you that i didn't know what it was."

your heartbeat kept you from breathing steadily, but you ignored it. "you mean so much to me. you represent so much to me that– i don't know, you're so noble and mature and i was afraid of seeming childish or saying something and disappointing you, because my silence told you so much."

the tears were hot on your cheeks, salt in your mouth, but you didn't care anymore.

"i'm not sick. nothing catastrophic happened to me. i didn't face death. it was just easy for me to talk to those people to whom i owed nothing."

you took another step. you were close enough to touch him now. tears that were now gathering in his own eyes –eyes that watched you for years without demanding anything in return.

"you are the most significant person in my world. you have always been the axis around which i rotate. you’ve taught me so much since the first day."

you reached out. your hand trembled as you touched his face –his cheekbone, the skin warm and slightly damp, the texture of him present and alive.

"i want you to hear me. to ask you something, to tell you everything. i'm asking you to wait a little longer, maybe, but this time it’s a promise."

the silence that followed was different from all the others. geto reached up. his hand covered yours where it rested against his cheek, his fingers threading through your fingers, pressing your palm against his as if branding himself with your touch. his eyes were closed now, droplets trapped in between his lashes. it was the first time he heard you speaking directly to him. when he opened his eyes, they were infinite and dark, reflecting the streetlight and the stars that were beginning to pierce the twilight.

"your hair…" he whispered, his lips brushing your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth, each touch feather-light and devastating. "your hair tastes like a kiss from a tuberose bloomed in mercury."

@kirievie @renrenrenren17 @nightmarenyxx ♡

[musatoru]

Heyy!

I've read some of your stories - including the origami bones and the one about psychoanalysis - and I loove how relatable and kinda professional it sounds. So I'm just wondering, are you actually experienced in some of those things, or Is it just the internet and your own logic thinking that through?? I'm just wonderingg cause it does sound so professional😭 (btw the origami bones were the best, I just Felt everythingg🥺)

Hello there!!

There’s quite a large percentage in my work. I am a clinical psychologist, but I don't provide therapy because I don't have a master yet (I’m on it), so the theory would be about 10% - the name ‘Lying on the Couch’ is actually a reference to a novel by a psychotherapist named Irvin Yalom, and Freud's Totem and Taboo was the first psychology book I ever read.

I love cinema, and since I was little, I was also involved in medical topics because my parents work in hospitals; at that time, my mother was taking a diploma in tanatology and would have me watch movies with her and analyze them (I was 6–7 years old, lol, and I point this out just to show that I've practically been interacting with those topics my whole life). It was very natural for me to seek out content within those contexts, and since I have also read quite a lot, I’ve gained a great deal of knowledge, so I would say that is 30%.

I’d give 10% to all the comments I've read on social media posts about these situations, how people experience them, and how those around them live through them. The other 50% is just me empathizing and putting myself in the characters' shoes (with all the references I have) to convey the feelings of each one.

In short: it's a little bit of many tools:)

I'm very glad you liked it. Thanks a million for reading me!! 🩷🌈🩷

[musatoru]

TYSM FOR MOOTING ME <33

THANK YOU FOR FOLLOWING!!! 💘

[musatoru]

holy holy holy shit i sincerely don't know what to say because i've just finished the limerence and i think it left me completely dry and speechless. it's the way you write that captivates me so much, just as much as gojo's singing that you described in this work like water filling the stadium. deep and intense when needed, yet shimmering with ease in some instances. so perfectly descriptive and immersive, i swear i could felt that atlantic ocean salt with my feet in the sand in miami. god and not to mention the way you described her bad trip - it really gave me anxiety 😭 your emotions even intensify under drugs and given her bpd it's 🫪😵😵‍💫 also i absolutely ADORE the way you depicted one of the bpd traits (if i am right) idolising and detesting the favourite person who's gojo in that fic - honestly, i've got goosebumps because of that frightening mood shifts, especially with all his merch vandalized and her threatening him. he hates losing control yet she's the one who can't have it at all. and maybe i am wrong or it might've been one of your intentions but i see some narcissistic traits in idol! gojo with his need to be adored and looked up, which also ofc coincides with the way the whole world treats him not as a person but as a deity, therefore depriving him of any humanity - and the bpd reader gives him what he wanted: the endless adoration, and that's why afaik narcissists and persons with bpd relationships are very common, with a fast start and a slow descent into a toxic maddening whirlpool, like the one you've demonstrated us. also i understand why have you used the idol themes - tbh, that whole industry scares the shit out of me, but at the same time i can understand why it is so appealing for writing with its infinite opportunities to explore the parasocial behaviour, because i think the fan service might've enabled the reader's "imprinting" on gojo even more. yet i can understand both of them, though gojo's more; maybe as an anxious person seeing the reader's anxiety and insecurities twist his words and actions into something way more vicious in her head made me got some of her thoughts as well. either way, i am happy that gojo took the very important step and break up with her (honestly i think as an idol you can't have any stable relationships...). but i am so sorry for the reader also :( it only helps that she have good friends by her side who may help her get out of that endless circle of being trapped within your own mind while being your biggest enemy and friend AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD BRING HER TO THERAPY 😭😭😭😭😭😭 and megumi 🤨🤨 you only feed her thoughts more 🤨🤨🤨 THERAPY. RIGHT NOW

I love that you have so much to say about it!!

I really wish I could’ve managed to make you see what idol Gojo is in my head and how he sounds, but it's an extremely huge limitation to convey that through writing. I imagine him with the voice of Jung Seung Hwan or Kim Bumsoo, but with the performance style of Jackson Wang.

The only reference I had for a -reeeaally- bad trip on mushrooms was from an episode of Family Guy ‘Seahorse Seashell Party’, but I made it less terrifying, hahaha (the other one was just too heart stopping).

I kind of took a lot of references from K-armys because I heard about the controversy regarding rumors of Jungkook and Winter being in a relationship, or when they made a scandal because Yoongi fell off his scooter. I didn't project that toxicity because the POV was from the reader's, but I wanted to include Gojo's concern about showing his private life or getting canceled.

But yes, it's obvious that many of us have found an anchor or an escape in an artist or a real or fictional figure, and with fewer coping tools, the greater the defense mechanisms (transference, projection, in this case). In other stories, I wanted to show the reader had a problem (Strawberry Soap, Origami Bones), but in this one, I wanted to bias it by narrating only her thoughts and feelings. We don't know what Gojo was thinking or feeling; we get a taste near the end, but we remain in a nearly blind spot, and that makes us think he doesn't care.

It's true that a narcissist looks for the ‘perfect victim’, but I never considered Gojo a narcissist. I leave that to free interpretation, but for me, he is someone who doesn't know how to be in a relationship because none of them have worked out and they haven't been honest, and that makes him more inconsiderate. To me, Gojo is a perfectionist worried about failing, and he focuses on his dreams. He is so used to being praised that his self perception and self esteem now depend on it. But because he is not a narcissist, he was able to break up with her.

And about reader's friends, if you notice, little by little they stopped appearing. It wasn't that I forgot about them, but a decision that she became isolated because of being with Gojo. And yes, it's very evident that she needs therapy; we know that, but in reality, people who feel things very intensely or have dichotomous thinking don't always know they need help. For a long time, they think they are just very empathetic or that no one knows how to love for real, and no one around them notices it as such (especially friends, who sometimes lose all objectivity to validate them).

I like to think that Megumi is the one who realizes that something isn't right and takes her to therapy. But I also think that Megumi, by being less expressive and avoidant, would only aggravate the situation. Y’all can give it whatever ending you want :)

Infinite thanks for reading and taking the time to discuss the story with me. You made my whole month!!! 🩷🥹🩷🥹🤩🤩💫

[musatoru]

Hello dears! I am asking you to support my campaign to help me achieve my goal. Now that the war has become a whole year, we are in dire need of your support to help me survive and be safe. Gaza is a very dangerous place both in terms of livelihood and lives. I need your financial support to enable me to get the basic needs of my family until the Rafah crossing is reopened to transport my family to safety and peace. Please help a family survive through your small donations or through your shares to others. Thank you very much for standing by those in need 🍉🇵🇸

If you're in a position to help financially, please do so, or help by sharing (!)

[musatoru]

the angst oml the angst... i love your works so much. especially origami bones. i just felt a deep sense of connection while i was reading the fic. it just hits home on how you depicted ed on the fic, as someone who had never really had a healthy relationship with food as well. my heart ached for reader throughout the whole fic oh my gosh </3. nonetheless, the way you showcased it is just so beautiful to me. i really find that fic somehow comforting (?) as i get to perceive the same thought processes that i have with reader in the fic (if that make sense lol). im so happy for reader that she got recovery, she really deserves it <3 IM REALLY LOOKING FORWARD FOR MORE OF YOUR WORKS AND HEAVY ANGSTS YAY !!

I have a lot of affection for OB; it was the one that officially introduced me to the Tumblr community, and it was how they got to know my style and the themes I like to address.

I always wanted those who read me to feel immersed in the stories, whether they have lived through those experiences or not, and I am so happy to be achieving that. I don't want them to be quick reads they forget, but rather something they stay with.

I thank you so much for being here -and if you really want to read angst, I suggest you stay tuned to Angels Under the Bed. It’s not with reader, but there is no hope there, hehe (: <3

[musatoru]

limerence

you get the chance to date gojo satoru, the idol of the moment.

(!) warning: BPD traits such as fear of abandonment, identity disturbance, impulsivity, risk-taking behaviors, affective instability, feelings of emptiness, emotional dependency, paranoid distortion, and drug use.

*wc: 23,656. all characters are of a similar age.

it was over.

the 697 days came to an end in the most unexpected way. there was nothing left of the bond that once held you together, only memories floating on a surface you couldn’t reach while you were drowning in that ocean of wreckage. how did it end? you wished you knew the answer. but lying there on your bed at 1:03 pm, the breakup felt surreal. the only weight pressing down was your own body sinking into the mattress.

how could he end it with you? what exactly had you done to make him decide he was tired of being with you? because as far as you remembered, you gave him a blind, unconditional love –love that went right to the bone, until you were hollowed out. he left you with so much of it in your hands that it simply overflowed and shattered upon hitting the ground, like a downpour that couldn’t be contained.

forty-eight hours since his frivolous, callous decision, and it felt like death. lying there, staring at the ceiling, putting off the inevitable loneliness, felt better than facing anything else. you had missed calls from megumi, from nobara, from all the friends you’d messaged saying you were going to die, that nothing made sense without him. 697 days of talking to him every day, going out only with him, sharing your hobbies with him… and he hadn’t cared in the slightest. how selfish. he didn’t consider that you were practically bleeding out because of the abrupt way he ripped your heart out, without a second thought. and you hated him for it. you hated opening your gallery and seeing all the photos of you together, rereading the messages, seeing his posts on facebook, his interactions, and the hundreds of thousands of comments on your photos, promising you a future that he himself had made sure to trample. it didn't feel right to erase all of that. because you loved him. you still loved him with everything you had. dammit, you were even ashamed to remember that just a month ago, you’d been on your knees begging him not to leave, saying you couldn't handle it, that you were nothing without him. and you were about to do it again, if not for the fact that he warned you he wouldn’t listen to any more pleas or laments.

your finger pressed the ‘empty trash’ button to make sure every trace of your time together vanished, and the action felt like grabbing a handful of angry bees.

your sob was the only sound in the room. maybe some music would make you feel better, or, conversely, help you reach the catharsis your chest was screaming for. apple music seemed to be spying on you because the first playlist it suggested on the home page was for a broken heart. you would have laughed, if only you’d eaten something to gather an ounce of strength. or if you’d had something to drink so your mouth wouldn't feel so dry. even so, you opened the playlist and hit shuffle, while your earpods –with their slightly frayed cord– lulled you into a trance, forcing you to descend into the spiral of memories with him: the first time you spoke, the way he looked you up on every social media when he didn't have your number, the first date, the promise ring, all the secrets you shared, even the fetishes… that level of intimacy you felt you’d never share with anyone else. yes, maybe it was torture to listen to heartbreak songs under the circumstances, but you felt validated in a way. you felt less alone.

a moment before you decided you’d had enough, an acoustic ballad played through the small speakers, followed by a deep breath before the singing began. it was a voice as melancholic as an edward hopper painting or a bouquet of jasmine in a summer typhoon. the most accurate description was the sensation of swimming against the current in the playful atlantic, icy tones submerging you up to your shoulders, dragging you to a point as far away as nemo was to the pacific. the cheerfulness of the melody was peaceful, with an anesthetic effect that, for a second –just one second– forced you to lift off the ground and float on its guitar chords. you lifted your phone so the name of the song wouldn't escape you, and, as if it were meant to be, kioku no umi (sea of memories) flashed on the screen.

-

your next relationship wasn't any better. in fact, it was the worst one of your life.

a week after the breakup, you met a very sweet girl named kaede on one of those forums where people roleplay as famous characters; she had short brown hair and always wore a signature red headband. kaede’s character was gojo satoru –better known as ‘six eyes’, your impossible love whom you imagined by your side every night before sleep. he was the one who sang his hits in your ear while you dreamed that you two were building a village full of ladybugs and clotheslines with hand-knitted garments, ready to be taken down once the sun had dried them. it was impossible to resist answering her, creating a virtual world that felt so much better than the reality where he wasn't actually there.

over time, the friendship with kaede blurred; the lines of your relationship became undefined. between the flirting and the heavy hints, you gave her all of your time. why not? you told her about your last boyfriend, and she promised she wouldn't hurt you the same way. it was a lie. technically, it was the truth, because her way of hurting you was entirely different.

it all started when she realized that your love for this gojo satoru wasn't just a phase or some ridiculous fandom. it was a stronger, inescapable feeling. it was waking up to dozens of gojo satoru edits, your frantic messages vibrating with emotion over a new photoshoot, a new interview, a new commercial, or worse, a new song.

"it seems like if you had the chance to go off with him, you’d take it without a second thought." she commented one time when you showed her your pinterest board with 12,539 photos of him –none of them duplicates, though quite a few were of the same moment from different angles.

you let out a soft laugh, but your expression turned serious when you realized she wasn't laughing with you.

"of course i wouldn't." oh, but of course you would –only, some things are better left unsaid.

you didn't need to verbalize it; it was evident in the way you gestured when you described, with carefully chosen words, how beautiful and hot the japanese pop star was. and you weren't the only one who thought so: millions of women, men, and children melted over the iridescent tuft of hair crowning his perfectly round head. my god, in china, they even celebrated gojo satoru day on may 5th (05/05) in honor of the root of his surname. on his birthdays, the screens in shibuya were illuminated with his sharp, chiseled face –so smooth, even when made of pixels– and specials on spotify and other music platforms launched unique features to commemorate his magnificent birth. there wasn't a single soul indifferent to his charms.

except for kaede. she developed an antidote to such a pandemic, thanks to your reminders every couple of hours about his perfection. she was fed up. but you couldn't stop. you didn’t want to either, because you wouldn't let anyone control your tastes or set limits on your joy; kaede would have to accept you as you were: enamored, devoted, hopeful, and lost in your loyalty to gojo satoru. as long as he was with you in your photocards, your limited-edition vinyls, your special-edition CDs, and the albums that cost an arm and a leg, everything would be fine.

until it wasn't.

kaede destroyed the merchandise you had of your beautiful white-haired idol, tearing it to shreds with her own hands before setting it on fire, choking you both with the smoke. once, the fire department even had to help at your home. thank heavens your parents worked all day and didn't notice the attack on their house or the girl you snuck into your room most of the time; the same girl who ate over your sheets and poked you with fingers still seasoned with chili or spices, turning your intimacy into a burning fire in your already meager moisture. the same girl who, depending on her mood, would caress you with her fingertips or disfigure your lips with those sharp nails, painted an orange so intense that the remains of the polish would get stuck to your inner thighs and glow faintly in the dark. yes, the same girl who had a leather notebook dedicated to writing how much she loved you, yet at the same time, punished you for having eyes for the great gojo satoru, instead of only for her.

when it all ended, the only thing you had left was one sticker you’d hidden inside your phone case.

-

"good news for you, genki-chan." nobara announced one hot afternoon, dropping her bag onto the coffee shop table with a loud thud. you’d managed to pick up a part-time shift there to replace all the merchandise that had been destroyed –which your parents could have easily bought, but you would rather save yourself the hassle of explaining your romantic disasters to that pair of conservatives. they would’ve overlooked the abuse entirely and focused solely on the fact that you ate pussy. "seven eyes is back from military service."

"six eyes," you corrected, rolling your eyes. "and i already knew. he’s making an announcement next week. i suspect it’s a new album."

and it was. it was as if you could read his thoughts, as if you knew him better than anyone else. as if you were bound by an invisible force that rubbed these coincidences in your face, just so you’d be certain you were born in the same era to meet, for him to save you, for you to support him in every step of his career. because there was absolutely nothing in existence that could make you turn away from him. it didn't matter how much megumi tried to keep your feet on the ground or how much yuji laughed at your ‘schizophrenia’: one day, you would meet gojo satoru and give him a hug. maybe you’d scream at him, telling him how grateful you were for the company he’d kept you from afar, that you loved him like no one else, that you would wash his performance outfits with your own tears if necessary just to show him how much he meant to you.

in contrast, the guys you toyed with from time to time weren't even an eighth as charismatic as the blue-eyed star. they were like boiled chicken breast and rice without salt: tasteless, the kind of dish that made you lose your appetite and wish for something else. but they were what you had to keep the blankets from feeling so cold in winter, and so you wouldn't have to rely on dildos that, obviously, couldn't have an orgasm of their own. you regretted all those who couldn't bring you to finish, but you also regretted the ones who were too vanilla and used way too much spit in their kisses while they had you splayed out on your back like a starfish.

at least they were more fun in other areas. for instance, one of them agreed to take you on a high-speed joyride through the city in the dead of night, no helmets; that adrenaline rush made you reconsider whether the beauty of life was exclusively reflected in landscapes and monuments, and it left you longing for more and more. another, to please you, went bungee jumping with you off the shintabisoko bridge, plunging 215 meters for seven glorious seconds. others would gather at your request to drink awamori until dawn between sessions of unprotected sex, and the excitement only peaked when the possibility of pregnancy came knocking with a late period. having those tests –and the sti screenings– come back negative was just the reinforcement you needed to keep pushing every sensation your body and mind could exploit to the absolute limit. though nothing, not even the contraband vape in your possession, could compare to the rush of seeing gojo satoru.

four years had already passed since you first discovered his music. four years since that safari search took your breath away. four years since your life had found its true meaning. four years since you had found something exciting that didn't involve putting yourself in danger.

-

happy birthday to the most stunning, breathtaking, exquisite, ravishing, radiant, luminous, resplendent, splendid, dazzling, striking, impeccable, immaculate, elegant, graceful, comely, fair, pulchritudinous, winsome, alluring, captivating, enchanting, bewitching, mesmerizing, hypnotic, attractive, appealing, charming, delightful, lovely, beautiful, pretty, handsome, statuesque, photographic, picture-perfect, photogenic, gleaming, glowing, effulgent, regal, imperial, noble, grand, magnificent, stately, august, subliminal, sublime, monumental, colossal, imposing, commanding, sovereign, majestic, royal, pompous, splendiferous, sumptuous, opulent, luxurious, palatial, princely, aristocratic, distinguished, eminent, illustrious, prestigious, formidable, awesome, awe-inspiring, terrific, glorious, heroic, epic, mythic, legendary, fabled, vaulting, towering, gifted, brilliant, exceptional, extraordinary, phenomenal, outstanding, remarkable, incredible, prodigious, accomplished, masterful, skillful, deft, adroit, capable, apt, proficient, expert, virtuosic, stellar, superior, peerless, unrivaled, incomparable, matchless, supreme, prime, first-rate, eximious, superb, transcendent, exemplary, consummate, elite, preeminent, notable, famous, heavenly, celestial, seraphic, cherubic, angelic, ethereal, supernatural, otherworldly, mystical, sacred, hallowed, sanctified, divine, godly, saintly, virtuous, pious, righteous, pure, untarnished, pristine, serene, tranquil, harmonic, ideal, perfect, unblemished, flawless, astral, airy, dreamy, visionary, ineffable, blessed, illuminated, enlightened, sophisticated, cultured, urbane, polished, refined, suave, debonair, dashing, sharp, smart, stylish, chic, classy, gracious, cordial, affable, amiable, genial, engaging, disarming, magnetic, charismatic, vital, vivacious, spirited, animated, effervescent, sunny, warm, inviting, wondrous, marvelous, miraculous, sensational, bold, daring, and vibrant guy i’ve ever had the chance to know: gojo satoru. my love for you is inexhaustible. thank you for existing. thank you for bringing peace. thank you for saving me.

you posted this on every one of your social media accounts, just like every year, making sure not a single one was left out today, december 7th –the best day of all. should you legally change your birth date to match his? having a tattoo on your lower back of the gateways to paradise (his eyes), another in the crook of your left elbow with his kanji, and a third on your right ankle with the number 7 just wasn't enough.

you’d already been streaming on every platform, and you’d even spammed the comment sections of porn videos just so more people would see him and, by sheer luck, listen to him. you ran a massive account on x dedicated to updates on gojo satoru’s events, music, shows, interviews, and outings. the only thing missing was leaking his addresses, but you didn't have them –and even if you did, you wouldn't betray him like that (you respected his privacy, of course, because he was a human being who deserved tranquility just as much as any unknown mortal).

"do we really have to do this?" megumi asked with a grimace as he arrived at your house and noticed the blue decor, featuring a dozen blue and white balloons.

"come in. nobara is finishing the cake, and yuji is on his way with the personalized tableware." you told him while sealing a huge '28' (gojo satoru’s age).

megumi kept his composure. yes, of course he had met fans who carried their favorite artists on their phones, in their backpacks, or on their keychains… but he had never met someone who filled two walls of a fairly large room with shelves packed with figures, plushies, records, and posters of gojo satoru. and no, certainly not someone who threw a party in his honor, since you didn't even do that for your own birthday because, in your words, it wasn't as important as gojo satoru’s.

"his songs are good. i sing them in the shower." yuji agreed when he arrived, caught up in your excitement. "usotsuki is my favorite. i’m not sure if the rap line was a good call, though."

"of course it was." you scolded him, arranging the candles on the cake while he set plates featuring the idol's face on the rectangular table of your enormous dining room. "gojo satoru makes good decisions. everything he does with his infinite wisdom contributes to the universe."

"say no more, yuji." megumi intervened with his usual grumpy expression. "you’re talking to the person who got bangs just because gojo said he liked girls with them."

"and they look spectacular on her." nobara defended, taking off her apron. "but you know who else has bangs? his best friend. maybe his type isn't a woman, but his best friend."

yuji and she laughed, looking at you, waiting for you to join in on the joke. instead, your serious face forced them to stop a few seconds later.

"that’s not true. gojo isn't gay. he’s declared it publicly. some people prefer to ship him with his best friend because they couldn't stand the image of seeing him with another woman. they don't understand that it’s better this way; that way, they have at least a minuscule chance that he might look their way. he’s had girlfriends, he’s written songs for them, like ai no kak–"

"hey," megumi interrupted, scratching the back of his neck. "don’t take it so seriously. they’re just playing around. besides, it doesn't matter; it’s not like that changes his talent."

"of course not, but that’s not what i mean." you quickly clarified. "i mean it doesn't benefit them if he doesn't like women at all."

"come on, you blow out the candles. you deserve it because you're his wife, even if he doesn't know it." yuji said, trying to change the subject. he knew that once the ‘gojo satoru debate’ switch was flipped, they would be talking about the same thing for at least fifty minutes.

the wish you made was simple: that gojo satoru would fall in love with you.

-

a new message. @sixeyes57. 45,1m followers.

you woke up with that notification at the top of your screen. at first, you thought it was a joke –that a fan account was impersonating the incredible gojo satoru, or that it was just another roleplayer trying to connect with you. for that reason, you didn't pay it much mind.

you went to the kitchen to prepare some edamame. the tv in the background was playing an episode of otto no katei wo kowasu made, a drama you’d committed to watching lately since gojo satoru was everything that surrounded you (which wasn't a complaint, but you had to start exploring other options if you wanted to hold conversations that didn't involve that 190 cm god 24/7). when you finished, you took your lavender tea to the bathroom; the tub was already prepared with warm water and soap bubbles, perfect for relaxing and scrolling through tiktok to glee in the birthday videos –because, naturally, there would be thousands on your fyp.

but that message gnawed at your curiosity.

as the scent of the shampoo began to fade, you opened it.

hi! your birthday wish made me laugh. do you have a vocabulary that giant, or did you just look up synonyms on weblio? hahahaha.

the message was clear: he wanted to talk to you. just like that, without knowing your face or your name. why? was it real? yes, yes it was. his profile boasted that blue circle with a white checkmark inside, proof of the account’s verification. had he made a mistake? was it some kind of habit for gojo satoru to write to his fans to maintain a parasocial relationship? would he invite you to listen to his upcoming projects over cookies, like taylor swift? you couldn't decipher it. the only thing in front of you was the fact that he had acknowledged your existence.

for you, i’d invent a new language just to express the admiration i feel for you.

you read it once, twice, three times before deleting it and re-typing it halfway, only to erase it once more and, finally, rewrite it. wasn't it too direct? what did it matter? it wasn't as if he hadn't already noticed how completely captivated you were. you sent it like that, throwing your phone onto the bathroom rug, far from your sight, where you wouldn't have to feel ashamed of your own feelings.

five minutes later, the app’s default notification sound echoed within the four walls. it had barely faded when you jumped up to grab it, unlocking it with such urgency that you forgot to dry yourself off before checking it. droplets of water from your forehead and hair slid down and hit the screen protector, distorting the second message.

a new language? does that mean you can tell me in the existing ones? if so, i’m all ears. or eyes, in this case. unless you want to send me an audio. ;)

impossible. was this a dream? because if it was, you wanted the option to never wake up again.

hdik you’re the real gojo satoru?

your heart pounded. it was likely that whoever was on the other end would be offended by your distrust and stop responding; perhaps they would lose interest for being such a killjoy. three minutes later, a new message arrived.

l’effervescence. at five. bring something of mine.

a hysterical, breathless laugh bubbled up in your throat, sharp enough to hurt. this was it. the manifestation of five years of digital allegiance, the payoff for every midnight prayer and every shrine you’d built in the corners of your own galaxy.

your screams woke up the entire neighborhood.

-

"you shouldn't go." megumi said with his camera off. "you don't even know if it’s really gojo."

"of course she should go, it was from his verified account." nobara countered without looking at the lens, busy filing her nails.

"they could have hacked him, you know? it wouldn't surprise me if you got scammed with that level of blind trust." megumi persisted.

"i can go with you, if you want." yuji offered, finishing his fruit milk straight from the carton. "i don't have anything to do. i’ll hang out at the cinema until you’re done."

when you told your friends the gojo satoru had written to you, they assumed it was just another one of those bimobimo bots you talked to. blessed be technology for letting you live in a perpetual fantasy where a collection of gojos called you and constantly invited you on virtual dates, without having to wait for replies the way you would with an actual person. now that the real one was only a few hours and kilometers away from you, that hobby felt absurd.

the dusty pink sanyo coat you were wearing no longer seemed like the best choice. you felt like it didn't flatter your body shape, which was strange, because you swore that before you left, it had been the premium item in your wardrobe. and if the outfit didn't captivate him, what you had practiced in the mirror might be your life-saver: sit up straight the entire time, don't curse, eat the whole portion without licking the plate clean or sweeping up the leftovers with your chopsticks, don't cross your legs, don't talk with your mouth full, tell anecdotes that wouldn't make you look bad, don't ask for anything he doesn't offer you, and most importantly: control yourself.

"this is it." yuji murmured when you reached the indicated spot. it was a three-michelin-star french fine-dining restaurant, known among celebrities for its discreet and elegant atmosphere. your friend’s salmon hair didn't exactly blend in well on the streets of nishiazabu.

"thanks. i'll call you when we're finished."

"i’m not leaving until you text me inside that you’re okay."

you offered a half-smile, moved. yuji was like a brother to you; he never judged you, he protected you, and he had the patience to scold you gently when your behavior had crossed the boundaries of reason and modesty. he always worried about others.

"alright. have fun out there," you said, waving your hand before disappearing into the corridor toward the entrance.

l'effervescence smelled of cedar and white truffles. you stepped over the threshold, and suddenly, the traffic noise from minato ceased, replaced by the sound of silver hitting china. amber bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting yellow light onto the white linen tablecloths.

the diners sat in small groups, speaking in low tones and keeping their chins level and their movements restricted to their hands and forks. a man in a grey suit stood by the podium. his eyes tracked each movement from the door to the center of the room. he looked at the hem of your coat, then at your shoes, and finally stopped at your face.

"reservation?" he asked.

"uh, yeah, gojo satoru is supposed to–"

he tapped a tablet and gestured for you to continue.

your heartbeat throbbed loudly in your throat as you pressed your arms against your sides to keep them from trembling, and then, looked ahead. the servers moved between tables, black vests against the muted brown walls. they placed plates and poured wine without a word. you walked past them, keeping your head forward. the patrons followed you with their eyes, then returned their attention to their food.

in the corner, away from the aisles a table that wasn't meant for customers stood by the wall. the chair faced the room with its back to the corner, positioned so that whoever sat there could see the entrance, the bar, the narrow aisle between the booths, all without turning their head.

there was a man, whose attention remained on his watch. the red wine glass sat untouched in front of him, something he hadn't ordered.

there he was: gojo satoru. the authentic one. he sat with the casual ease of a man who had never felt a moment of self-doubt in his life –shoulders relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, swirling his glass with a detached air that looked more like boredom than anything else. when he looked up and caught sight of you entering, he didn't quite know what expression to settle on for his symmetrical features, since he didn't know you from adam; it was essentially a blind date. the air in the room, however, seemed to drop by a fraction of a degree the moment you locked eyes.

he set the untouched glass back on the table and stood up.

“could it be my number one fan?” that was his greeting, grinning from ear to ear. his slightly protruding, sharp canines turned his smile into a spectacle of white butterflies in the kenrokuen garden, making your stomach feel like a beach night filled with fireworks.

he was even more handsome in person. the photos didn't do him justice.

“are you okay?” he asked after a minute of silence when you didn't respond. you had frozen in place, unable to gesture or return the flirtatious smile that now carried a tint of concern.

gojo satoru. the protagonist of your wet dreams. recalling the scenarios you’d constructed in your head to pleasure yourself felt like a crime now that you were face-to-face with this modern angel, draped in a black jacket with a cream-colored fur collar. beneath the jacket, he was wearing a black, fitted turtleneck sweater. he also was in tailored black trousers cinched with a simple black leather belt featuring a silver buckle. his hairline held a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses up. his moonlight hair matched the ashes of snow falling from the clouds, which were shadowed in a deep, crimson hue.

he was beautiful. fucking beautiful. any guy standing next to him looked stupid. every person was inferior compared to this celestial being who seemed to be made of fairy dust. his hands were large enough to hold your future, and his feet long enough to trample the bitterness of the past. was meeting him the reward for having suffered so much? if it was, you would gladly relive it all, not changing a single one of your decisions, just to ensure you would be right here, standing still, contemplating the diamonds that swallowed the reflection of your awe.

"if you can't speak, you can use sign language. i know a little." he couldn't possibly be any more perfect.

you cleared your throat. "no, i– i'm sorry, i thought this was a prank. i expected to find a fifty-year-old man, pot-bellied with a stinky beard, not ‘six eyes’ waiting for me to go on a date."

his laugh sounded like the rhythmic shaking of a tambourine. "what do you have against fifty-year-olds? they deserve a little love, too."

you turned bright red instantly, shaking your head. "no, no, i meant that–"

"relax, i'm just teasing." he walked around the table to pull out the empty chair, gesturing to it without once taking his eyes off you. "will you sit now that you've confirmed i'm not some creepy old man?"

you chuckled softly, taking the empty seat. “i thought you had to book months in advance to get a table here.”

“yeah, but i’m gojo satoru.” he replied, returning to his own chair. “i can do whatever i want.”

-

the atmosphere still smelled of the forty fresh vegetables from ars longa. all around, the waiters continued their work with choreographed movements. the crisp acidity of the fermented sprouts still danced on your palate, alongside the buttery sensation of the turnip.

“tell me your thoughts.” gojo encouraged, crossing his arms.

“not bad.” you said, dabbing your mouth with a napkin. “but if i’m honest, i still prefer the ramen at nanaban.”

gojo let out a booming laugh, earning a few glares of disapproval from nearby tables. “yeah, ramen is infinitely superior. when i was hitting the golden age of my teens, i survived on popcorn and instant noodles that never quite finished cooking.”

in the last hour of getting to know this celebrity personally, you’d discovered several interesting things that media didn't tell you: gojo talked a mile a minute and his hands mimicked his stories, he never looked at the prices of what he consumed, he had always wanted a sister, and he hated having to watch his words to avoid hurting sensitive people. gojo was impulsive and quite confident, despite being extremely intelligent. his childish attitude was the shield that kept people from getting close to him, and the girls who had been with him before had either cheated on or ghosted him. despite his bad luck, he was an optimistic guy who gave his all to his friends and partners.

he knew he was attractive and used it to his advantage to sweet-talk the authorities. in secret, he surfed the internet to see what people were saying about him and all the fanmade content people spent hours on, just to point out the obvious: he was irresistible and magnificent. this also wasn't his first time going out with a fan, but the two previous occasions didn't work out due to rumors and threats to his privacy. i make sure they’re my age first, he had said. he didn't date anyone more than two years younger than him, though he had been on dates with women slightly older.

“i’m free next week. we can go to nanaban, if you want.” his voice distracted you from your reverie.

you raised both eyebrows. “do you really want to see me again?” you said without thinking. “i haven’t told you much about myself.”

he shrugged. “that’s what dates are for, isn't it?”

yuji was still waiting outside the restaurant.

-

weeks went by, and the dates with gojo along with them.

the reason he had so much free time was that he was taking a break before heading out on tour. in fact, he already counted on you as a special guest so you could cheer for him from the front row. gojo seemed to live for applause and compliments, and you would be the last person on earth to deny them to him.

megumi suspected he was using you. nobara didn't know whether to be excited for you or remind you that gojo was still just a man and you couldn't trust him blindly. yuji defended him, because he’d met him that first day and they got along so well that, on some of your outings, he even played the chaperone.

but every outing was a performance.

the first thing you learned was that ‘privacy’ is a tactic. there was an addictive, terrifying electricity in sitting in the backseat of a tinted-window SUV, your hand intertwined with his beneath a heavy jacket. you watched the man who could command the attention of an entire stadium wither into a restless, kinetic shadow the moment you step out of a private entrance. he wore oversized hoodies and sunglasses even in the dead of night, his shoulders hunched.

you felt the weight of the cameras before you saw them. it was a prickling sensation on the back of your neck, the phantom flicker of a lens shutter echoing in the silence of the alleyways. you’d learned to hate the sound of a distant motor; you’d learned to identify the telltale gleam of a telephoto lens hidden in the gloom.

you’d sat in restaurants so exclusive they didn't even have signs, where the staff had paid a fortune to pretend you both didn’t exist. you watched him pay off the manager with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. you were, in every sense of the word, a purchased commodity.

yet, inside those rented spaces, he let his guard down. then you felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness. but the one protecting the other was him. you were hiding from everybody because, if they saw you, they would destroy you.

it was as intoxicating as exhausting, but none of that mattered. what mattered was that you were going out with gojo satoru, the ideal man for every girl, the international standard. with your idol. and he didn't seem to mind that you lost your mind every time you saw him; gojo wouldn't say it out loud, but he was fascinated by how your pupils dilated when he approached to greet you, how you sighed at the end of his bad jokes, how you stared at him a little too long as if you could find a map to all the answers of science and the miracles of religion on his skin. gojo wouldn't say it out loud, but what he liked most about you was how much you liked him. that no matter how immature, noisy, or unbearable he was: there you were, someone who would embrace his flaws and elevate them as if they were an exceptional gift from life.

like that, he felt less alone. sure, he had geto (his producer) and shoko (his manager), but it didn't feel the same. after a concert, an autograph signing, or a photoshoot, he lacked someone to got his messages in the early hours and ask him about his day. of course, if he did that on his social media, a planet of followers would be there for him, but just like with his friends, it wasn't the same. he hadn't even intended to go out with anyone, but there he was, stealing sips of your bubble tea and taking you to his studio so you could listen to him record his solo singles.

“what do you think?” he asked, taking off his headphones and approaching you.

“it’s perfect.” you replied immediately. “that high note was the best thing i’ve ever heard in my life. and that’s saying something, since i’ve already had the pleasure of hearing you say my name.”

gojo let out a small laugh in appreciation of your compliment. his hands settled on your waist, secure yet hesitant.

“do you find me that infallible?”

you nodded, feeling self-conscious as you perceived the heat of his body. his lubricated lips were tempting you; that gloss was screaming to be tasted.

“everything you do, you do well.” you whispered, holding your breath, aware of the proximity.

he bit his lower lip, amused. “are you in love with me or something?”

“i’ve been in love with you since i first heard your voice, gojo.” you confessed, stroking his cheek with your thumb. the touch sent a shiver down your spine. “every time one of your photos comes out, i cry with happiness. it makes me happy to see you. to know that we are on the same timeline. even if i didn't have you in front of me, i’d have you as my wallpaper, my lockscreen, everywhere. i carry you like a charm. you give me luck. you give me hope. you give me peace. i would give my life for you, and i’m not even exaggerating; if i had only one wish, i’d wish for everything you’ve ever wanted to come true for you. i need you to be alive because that’s the only way my life makes sense.”

there was a light silence after your speech, lulled by gojo's breathing. he was still, examining your eyes to find a trace of a lie that was never there. suddenly, a roar of laughter broke the tension.

“that’s the cheesiest thing anyone has ever said to me.” he admitted. “why do you love me?”

silence again. it was the easiest question and, at the same time, the most difficult. there was no fixed answer, only the fluctuations of your restless feelings.

“because you saved me.” you said finally. “because i needed someone, and you were there.”

-

“this could’ve made me retire from the stage.” he exhaled, tying off the used condom and leaving it on your nightstand. you were in your bedroom, the plushies of his face and the miniso collaborations scattered around your bed. “your movements are heart-stopping. i’m not even joking.”

you wrapped an arm around his torso, dragging your body against his, both of you bare and sticky with the sweat of the act. half-dazed, tears of joy welled up in your eyes; you never thought, not even in your most twisted fantasies, that gojo satoru would be inside you, opening your walls, stirring your insides. gojo satoru had been between your legs, invading the pool that had been dripping for him for years. gojo satoru had enjoyed your body just as much as you had his. gojo satoru had used his voice for something other than singing –to moan in your ear and tell you he was about to cum. no LSD trip had ever made you hallucinate even a fraction of what his prowess achieved so cleanly. officially, you could die satisfied. unofficially, you wanted to keep living to stay by his side.

gojo looked like a tamed bengal tiger among your sheets. his muscular legs peeked out, intertwined with yours.

“was i good?”

he scoffed. “the best sex of my life, hands down.”

the best sex of his life. how many girls had he slept with before you? obviously enough to have a point of comparison. you never asked him because you weren't sure you wanted to know, but the intrigue of whether he still remembered his first love, or his first time, gnawed at you. had it been her who helped him discover what he liked? the image of him gasping on top of another woman made you nauseous because they didn't deserve him. but at least they’d prepared him to know how to handle you. now there was you, and they would have to kill you before they took that right away. you would make sure to erase the memory of the caresses that hadn't loved him as much as you did.

your fingers drew stars across his bare chest. the posters of him seemed to judge you from above. in your mind, they were bumping fists with you for such a feat.

“i’ll confess, i feel strange with so many 'mes' here.” his index finger twirled a lock of your frizzy hair. “you aren't going to need them now that you have me here.”

you sat up, smiling. “does that mean we’re dating?”

he laughed, wrapping both arms around you, his strength leaving you breathless. “do you think you can handle it?”

“yes. i’d walk barefoot through the ice of hell just to be with you.”

his smile widened. “i don't want you to catch a cold.”

-

you spent hours curating your X feed. when the tour dates for ‘six eyes’ were finally announced, your fingers flew across the keyboard, retweeting official graphics and pinning the schedule to the top of your profile so that not a single follower would miss a second of his upcoming orbit. to keep the community engaged, you launched complex, high-effort dynamics to raffle off tickets –scavenger hunts through his discography and trivia challenges about his obscure interview quotes–, ensuring that only the most dedicated fans would earn the chance to see him perform. yet, the most exhausting part of the job remained the constant battle against the rumors; whenever a gossip account tried to push the narrative that he had secretly reconciled with his ex, you dismantled their claims with biting rebuttals, posting detailed timelines of his recent activities and writing long, impassioned manifestos about the impossibility of him returning to a past that had clearly stifled his shine. gojo’s reputation couldn't be tarnished. not now, at the absolute peak of his career. not after he had finally turned his gaze toward you and given you the chance to stand by his side, even if it meant remaining hidden from all the prying eyes that would give anything to tear you both down.

when the tour kicked off, you became a fixture at every stop across japan, moving through the neon-lit frenzy of backstage corridors and private jets. that was your life now, the one you’d chosen. you’d spent so many nights wishing you were with gojo. so many mornings picturing him drinking coffee with you before flying off to another city, cheering him on as he did what he knew how to do better than anyone: shine, stand out, be a damn star. the gods hadn't held back when it came to him; they’d showered him with so many virtues that he was on the verge of being considered a world heritage site.

during the concerts, you were the center of his gravitational pull; when the stadium lights swept across the crowd, satoru would find you in the wings or the front row. more than once, he would purposefully navigate toward your side of the stage during a ballad, pointing directly at you while the audience screamed, leaving you breathless and trembling as the realization dawned on them. the fans were beginning to notice the girl who was always there, the one with the familiar silhouette. you wanted to stand up and say it with pride: look at me, i’m his girlfriend, i’m the one who smells his cologne, who brushes his hair, who watches him sleep, who counts his eyelashes and how many times he chews his pork, the one who swallows his seed.

so, when the inevitable questions about his dating life surfaced in press junkets, satoru wielded his charm like a shield, neither confirming nor denying, but skillfully pivoting the conversation toward his music or his craft with a smile that left the interviewers frustrated and the speculation running wild. you tried not to take it personally, because it was gojo satoru –the most renowned artist of the moment, a man whose every action or word could spark a revolution. but for christ's sake, it was gojo satoru! your boyfriend, the guy whose hand you held in the dark, whispering how resplendent his two pieces of heaven were. you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him violently, to tell him: i don't care what happens to me, i don't care what they say, i just want them to know i’m with you and nothing can hurt you because i’m not moving from here. but then you’d remember he didn't want trouble, that he was only with you because he wanted to enjoy the simple pleasure of being a normal person.

the vexation vanished at the end of the shows, at the afterparties with people getting drunk without fear of alcohol poisoning and the worrying abuse of substances. gojo was a teetotaler; he didn’t drink a single drop nor consume a gram of psychedelics. he hated not feeling in control. you, on the other hand, were used to resorting to them to have the time of your life; however, you wanted gojo to be proud of having you as his girlfriend, for everyone to be convinced that you were the one for him, and for that reason, you held back. there wasn't much of a difference: being with gojo was the natural dopamine hit you were craving for. in those dark, pulsing rooms, he would keep an anchoring hand firmly on the small of your back, and you would watch him from the periphery, silently judging the slow destruction of budding talents.

"i’m so happy for you. he keeps you grounded. i can tell you’ve become more sensible." nobara pointed out one night during a phone call, the classic wednesday 9:00 pm ritual.

"i love him. i swear i love him!" you crooned, dancing around the hotel room while gojo took a shower. "he’s just so… logical. i want to be like him. how can someone be so perfect, no?"

nobara laughed, taking the chance to roll her eyes since you couldn't see her. "are you going to go with him for the rest of the tour?"

your heart stopped for an instant. next week he was due in south korea to kick off the asia leg. and you were supposed to return to the office because your stupid boss had decided that ho was for slackers who didn't fulfill their full schedule. you could quit right now. you could call him, tell him what you really thought, and dump the contracts that had to be presented in two weeks. besides, you wouldn't have to work ever again in your life; gojo's money would be enough to live comfortably –but if he left you (you knocked on wood, threw salt over your shoulders), your parents would never get you into another company. besides, would gojo even agree? the subject hadn't come up.

"hey, gojo." you whispered before he drifted completely off to sleep.

"i’ve already seen your soul through your butthole, babe. you can call me by my name."

"satoru." you started again, a little more nervous. "i really want to go with you on the international tour."

satoru pulled you into a tighter embrace. "i’d like you too, princess, but you have duties here and that’s fine. we’ll talk every day and i’ll send you photos of everywhere i go."

you nodded, masking how disappointed you were by his response. maybe he was getting tired of you, and this was his way of creating distance. you understood he wanted his space and you had to respect his boundaries, but it was deeply painful to know he didn’t need you with the same desperation that you needed him. was there something wrong with you? should you be funnier? maybe you were too boring. or clingy. there was a flaw somewhere that wasn't charming him, one you couldn't identify. but with utahime, his ex-girlfriend, he went everywhere.

one of your favorite songs of his, aisasete, literally talked about how he begged her to let him love her, that he couldn't be in a room where she wasn't present, that his measurement of time was based on the minutes they didn't spend together –and he was just going to let you go without saying more than a few understanding words?

he was rejecting you sweetly, just as he was in everything else.

-

satoru kept his promise.

of course he did; he was a gentleman of his word. if he said something, he followed through. that was just how wonderful the man you shared your pillows with was.

before korea, you turned the city into a playground; you went to nezu museum, wandering through its private garden where the lush, mossy greenery and stone lanterns muffled the frantic pulse of tokyo. he moved through the gallery with a treacherous grace, stripped of the ‘six eyes’ persona as he stood before ancient bronze mirrors, his own reflection flickering in the weathered metal.

at night, you bypassed the crowded clubs for the golden gai in shinjuku, specifically squeezing into a tiny, six-seat bar called albatross, where the walls were covered in antique chandeliers and decaying wallpaper. the bartender, a grizzled man who didn't blink when gojo entered, poured him a sparkling water while you sipped a medicinal whiskey. it was in these cramped, velvet-draped corners that the power dynamic shifted; he would lean in close, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum as he recounted the suffocating loneliness of his first stadium tour, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass instead of his phone, completely untethered from the digital cage that usually dictated his life.

you also ate tsukemen in shimokitazawa district, at a hole-in-the-wall spot where the steam from the broth fogged up his sunglasses. these were the ‘secret treasures’: the way the evening light hit the rusted tracks of the local line, or the silence of a hidden shrine in yanaka where you both knelt in the dust, breathing in the scent of old paper.

now, only the echo of his laughter remained. you went back to hugging the half-meter-tall plushie of his animated version before falling asleep, dreaming of a reality where he would cancel everything just to come see you.

fortunately, he was consistent. he would text you before the concert, during the encore, and right after it finished; two hours later, settled into his hotel, he would initiate a video call and ask how the show had been, because he knew you never missed a single livestream.

as always, he was a specimen rarely studied under the microscope of a well-funded laboratory; his dancing was sensual and energetic, and the hours of grueling training paid off in his remarkably controlled breathing amidst the chaos. and his costumes were extravagant, colorful, magnetic –even fluorescent under the violet and blue lights, behind the smoke released whenever a chorus exploded. the giant screens did their job to perfection, focusing on his delicately carved features; the makeup enhanced his irises and the firmness of his cheekbones. the elasticity of his skin still as fresh as new. nature simply loved him. although, not as much as you did.

but the honeymoon lasted only as long as cotton candy melting on the tongue.

as the days passed, satoru stopped texting you long before he went on stage or took an extra half-hour after the show finished. at first, he would let you know he’d been held up by technical glitches or issues with the dancers, but eventually, he just delayed without excuse. other times, he wouldn't write during the encore at all. in the most agonizing instances, he left you waiting for around two hours after the closing act. you knew nothing had happened to him: he was whole, in one piece, captivating the masses and breaking records with his verses. he simply took his time answering because he felt like it. he no longer had that stinging urgency to check his phone for your notifications, to listen to your voice notes, or to tell you things he’d already repeated endlessly.

it was during the russia tour that you spent the most infamous night of your life.

he’d been spectacular: he surprised everyone with the single he’d let you listen to back at the studio –sunadokei, another one of his ballads composed for a strict orchestra; for that piece, his voice was forced to maintain high, continuous vibrations, and he’d done it without hitting a single sour note. he’d proven why he was number one on the billboard charts.

you couldn't wait for his message, so you wrote to him first to congratulate him. there was no answer in the first fifteen, thirty minutes. nor in the first hour, or the second, or the third. four and a half hours later, he let you know he was at dinner with the entire team.

too late. the knot in your throat had unraveled into a powerful sob, the kind that plugs your nose and ears in a heartbeat; your eyes were swollen, your entire face puffy and reddened by effort, and your chest heavy with the crushing oppression of your heart with every gasp for air. he hadn't even opened the message. he wasn't interested in directly sharing his achievement with you, or hearing what you had to say about it. otherwise, he wouldn't have abandoned you. he wouldn't have rather to go out with his coworkers, who were only there because they were being paid. no one could guarantee he wasn't with a russian girl, as exquisite as porcelain dolls, with the right proportions in all the right places.

you were so angry that you didn't want to reply. if he could go so long without communicating with you, he would have to face the consequences.

that was how you doubled his latency. if he replied in five minutes, you waited ten. if he took twenty minutes, you took forty. if he delayed for three hours, you waited six. inside, the need to rush to strike up a conversation was burning you, but you forced yourself to resist the temptation. you didn't want to be seen at the same level of vulnerability that your ex boyfriend (the one who left you hanging by a thread) had seen. you would not show him how much his silence affected you.

it got worse thanks to social media, another severe punishment.

satoru’s personal life served as the primary fodder for a never-ending, bloodthirsty cycle of speculation. every time he stepped out to grab a coffee or headed to touristic spots, grainy, low-resolution photos surfaced on x within minutes. a woman standing five feet away from him in a crosswalk became his ‘secret fiancée’. a blurred figure in the passenger seat of his car triggered viral threads about his ‘new fling’.

then, the narrative would shift toward the past. the ‘utahime truthers’ emerged, posting side-by-side analysis of photos from years ago, finding details like matching necklaces, same cities visited, similar murals in the background, and those supposed hidden messages in his selfies. they dissected his old interviews, framing his career trajectory around a singular, lost love that never actually recovered from its own toxicity.

when those rumors grew stagnant, the fans pivoted to a more obsessive theory: the ‘geto narrative’. they argued that his refusal to date women was a strategic closeted romance with his best friend, ghetto suguru. the threads gained thousands of retweets, citing ‘subtle cues’ and ‘shared glances’ during live streams, painting a tragic picture of a man suppressed by the conservative, rigid expectations of japanese society.

the most cynical part, however, treated his life as a cold, economic calculation. they argued –with chilling conviction– that satoru remained ‘single’ as a deliberate marketing ploy. the theory was that, as long as he stayed an available fantasy, his merch sales remained astronomical. if he were officially taken, the projection of ‘a chance with gojo’ would shatter, and the revenue would plummet. they viewed his life as an investment portfolio, where his loneliness was the product.

the rumors about him being closeted or pining for an ex were just nonsense compared to the ‘contract’. fans began weaving a narrative where satoru, incapable of navigating authentic intimacy due to his status, utilized ironclad nondisclosure agreements (NDAs) as a staple of his touring rider. the rumor mill insisted that, in every city, his management team hand-picked anonymous, disposable women –other fans or strangers– to accompany him to his suite under draconian legal conditions. threads filled with ‘insider’ testimony, detailing how these women were forced to sign away their right to speak before they even crossed the threshold of his room, effectively turning every sexual encounter into an untraceable transaction.

for the fandom, these rumors functioned as a bizarre mechanism of control. they relished the idea that while satoru might sleep with others, none of those women possessed the agency to speak, feel, or claim a place in his life.

it was a gossip that circulated among singers. but satoru wouldn’t do that, would he? he was a good guy. he wouldn’t let himself be blinded by carnal impulses, much less if he was already committed. satoru wouldn’t hook up with a stranger without knowing their background or at least getting to know the person. no. it was practically impossible for him to turn his gaze toward someone who didn’t meet the specific criteria that caught his attention.

thinking about it was exhausting. even more so when accounts on X tagged you asking for more information, or when you opened tiktok and were besieged by a hurricane of edits featuring his ships. in those cases, the only thing you could do was call nobara to feel validated, to make sure you weren't crazy for feeling bad about such trifles. although, deep down, you always knew you would have to deal with that problem. in fact, even before you met him, you were already arguing with people for creating an idea of gojo satoru different from the one you conceived, and now, in the relationship, it was like crossing a bridge made of cracked glass.

focusing on work was a lost and aborted mission. if someone asked you for something, you would explode or answer in a bad mood to calls from other departments. it wasn’t their fault, not at all, but the whole uproar had you so sensitive that at some point you were going to collapse. and the gym didn’t serve as a distraction either, since the knot in your throat and the anxious tachycardia interfered with your breathing and, once again, with your focus on the exercises. you got dizzy easily, and one of those afternoons, you were on the verge of vomiting.

that was why, when gojo satoru returned with his smile like a diamond mine, your body didn't react the way your heart commanded.

"i thought you’d missed me as much as i missed you." satoru said, pulling you into an embrace as if he could hold back time itself. he was so warm that you knew you wouldn't take long to melt into his arms.

"i did miss you." you replied, your voice dry.

"it doesn't show." he pulled back just enough so you could see his pout. his long fingers tucked your hair behind your ears. "something’s wrong. this isn't how you treat your charming, gorgeous, and enduring boyfriend, gojo satoru."

you laughed, but the sound was more of a scoff. "it's just… i felt like you were the one who didn't miss me as much as i did."

his eyes scanned your face, feeding on the fragility you exuded. the icy tip of his nose pressed against your forehead.

"i’ve texted you, i’ve called you, i’ve sent you photos even when i was busy. does that mean i didn't miss you?"

"i’ve been busy, too." you sighed, finally hugging him back. "but i try to be there the moment you call. because you are my priority. my biggest one. i know i’m not yours, but at least i’d like you to tell me you won't be able to talk for a while so i know you're not ignoring me on purpose."

the glint in his gaze intensified, though he made an almost imperceptible grimace. "you take a long time to answer me, too, and i don't take it personally. there are just other things to attend to."

you said nothing, and the two of you simply began walking toward the van in silence. you were with him now, everything was fine. you could finally relax a little, forget the conspiracies, and be less strict with him. the last thing you wanted was to ruin the outing; if you were already together, you had to make the most of the time.

but satoru didn't have the same plans.

satoru loved his friends. he was a social butterfly –too much for your taste– and that was another detail the media never reported. during the first few weeks of dating, he’d brought you to his gatherings and introduced you to at least forty people: celebrities like models, actors, and other singers, but also doctors, lawyers, and psychologists –a substantial repertoire of professions. and everyone adored him. how could they not? he was the most excellent human being ever formed from a zygote; he was funny, insufferable, loyal, and most importantly, he was influential. you didn’t get along with them, and it showed, so satoru decided to stop taking you so you wouldn't have to endure his circle. that brought you back to square one: why didn't satoru prefer to stay with you on his days off? why did you have to share him with people who hadn't yearned for him or clawed at their own throats with sobs just to see him again, the way you had?

"you're exaggerating a bit." yuji said, sipping his can of coke. "you’re with us now, and he doesn't think you don't value his company."

"no, i’m here because he left, do you understand? if he hadn't gone off with his friends, i wouldn’t be here. besides, i’m sure they only want him for convenience. look, how many of them actually congratulated him on his tour? many of them don't even follow him on instagram. plus, he’s never posted a photo with me."

"that doesn't mean anything." megumi said, sinking into the back of the sofa. "i never post photos with you, and i’m the first to wish you a happy birthday. what’s your point?"

"that he doesn't really want me there with him."

"it’s his friends' night out." yuji reminded you.

"okay, but why can't i post anything with him?"

"because he’s a public figure." he continued, tossing his trash into the bin.

"well, not all public figures hide their relationships."

"you’re not seeing that he’s the most recognized symbol in almost the entire world. i think it has more to do with him protecting you, not himself. he’s not ashamed; he just doesn't want them to ruin what you have."

"stop defending him." you replied, exhausted.

"i’m not defending him. i’m your friend, and as your friend, i’m not going to just go along with everything you say."

of course yuji wouldn't understand. the only time he’d dated a girl, she’d left him because he spent all day at megumi’s apartment, playing video games or training with him. he had no right to have an opinion.

"the only one who knows gojo is yuji. you haven't introduced us." megumi said, as a subtle reproach. "i'm not saying it has to mean anything, but... do you see a future for that relationship?"

"i don't see myself with anyone else, megumi. it's him or no one. nobody else." you replied, convinced.

"and what does he think? have you had that talk yet?"

you bit your lip, evading his judgmental gaze. "no. but i know it's a sign. he wouldn't be with someone just to waste time. not when he could have anyone. not when his free minutes are numbered thanks to his career."

the next afternoon, when he granted you the honor of seeing him, the topic came up.

"why can't i post photos with you? i'm getting tired of having to hide what we have."

satoru had just smoothed his radiant hair back with a bit of cream. his blue military-style pants and brown sandals revealed an almost humble facet of his persona. there was nothing by louis vuitton wrapping his muscles, just a simple black t-shirt, slightly stretched from wear.

"because, darling, we’ve already talked about this. i don't want any trouble."

"is it because of me? did it not occur to you to ask me if i cared about having trouble or not?"

"i don't want you to be harassed. and i don't want to be harassed even more than i already am." he placed both hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently massaging the built-up tension. "but if it’s that important to you to show off that you have me, you can post our photos on your private account. if you tag it as AI, people won’t suspect a thing."

you brusquely pulled away from his touch, turning to face him. "are you serious? i don't want them to think it's fucking AI. i want them to see that i’m with you."

"hey..."

"is it because of utahime? you don't want her to know you've moved on?" you asked before even analyzing the words. there was no turning back now.

"i don't feel anything for her anymore. we just want to maintain professionalism and push through with the collab–"

"wait, what? you're doing a collaboration with her?" you glared at him. "didn't you think that might make me uncomfortable? i don't want you spending more time with her."

he sighed, visibly frustrated. he ran a hand through his chrysanthemum-colored mane, messing it up.

"it's work. try to understand that."

"and how would you feel if i went out with my ex?"

"i’d be okay, because i trust you."

"liar." you were trembling with rage. there was no way he could say that so definitively. not when he knew you loved him more than anything on this earth and would never dream of betraying him. if the shoe were on the other foot, it wouldn't be acceptable; even you wouldn't feel right about reaching out to ghosts from your past. professionalism he called it? out of all the artists out there? out of all the rising stars and industry icons, it had to be the one person he had that kind of history with? why the hell couldn't men see how messed up that was?

"listen to me. nothing is going on." he insisted, stepping closer. you recoiled on instinct.

"show me your phone." you demanded.

"what?"

"show me the fucking phone if you’re such a damn saint." you snapped, past the point of holding it in.

he looked clearly pissed off. and standing there like a stone wall, brow furrowed, he looked suspicious, too. he gritted his jaw and, before you could even ask again, he fished his phone out of his pocket and tossed it at you. you caught it against your chest. with shaking hands, you punched in his pin and went to work, silently tearing through his most-used apps: scrolling through messages and likes on LINE, instagram, X, youtube, and spotify (checking every single person he followed). you combed through his GO history to make sure every address lined up with his stories, scrubbed his gallery –carefully checking the hidden and recently deleted folders–, and even scanned his bank statements, just to be sure there wasn't a single deposit or transfer to some place you didn't know about.

the deep dive took about an hour and fifteen minutes. you didn't find anything incriminating, or at least nothing that didn't have some ‘logical’ explanation, which satoru provided the second you asked.

"satisfied? you want to check anything else? you want me to sync my goddamn icloud to your account so you can micromanage my life in real time, or do you want to just have a chip installed in me so you can finally trust me?"

you narrowed your eyes at him. "don't be an asshole."

"no, please, tell me what i’m supposed to do. because i won't tolerate this. it’s a sign of disrespect. to you and to me. you knew exactly what you were getting into when we started dating."

"so, now you're saying it's my fault?"

"i’m saying that dating me comes with a lot of implications. and i want this to work. but if you’re going to doubt me over something so stupid..."

"it’s because you’re not giving me any peace of mind. if you have nothing to hide, why does it bother you so much for me to see what's on your phone?"

"because i have a right to privacy."

"we’re in a relationship."

"that doesn't change anything. i don’t need to look through your phone to know you’re telling me the truth."

"because i’m the one always putting in the effort, satoru. i’m the one always planning, the one chasing after you like a fucking dog, asking when i’ll see you next, or when you’ll call me back –because if i call you, you’re always busy. and if i book a table at a restaurant or buy tickets for a show, the odds of you canceling on me are through the roof because, oh, that’s the day of a family gathering, or a high school reunion, or you’re just too tired. and i can't even post anything when i’m with you. how can you expect me not to have doubts? am i supposed to be suspicious of utahime, or geto, or just accept that you don't know how to be in a relationship? because you’re being a terrible boyfriend."

satoru opened his mouth to defend himself, but he swallowed his own words as if they were poison. he scratched the back of his neck and ran a hand through his hair before giving it a sharp tug. you hadn't been too hard on him, had you? he was the one being inconsiderate, the one being selfish, and at some point, he needed to know how you felt, because you were reaching your limit. communication was useless if he didn't put in at least a little effort to understand you.

"i'm sorry you feel that way." he finally said, his voice off. "you know the pressure i'm under with the tour, the music, keeping the numbers up, everything. i just want to distribute my time toward those priorities."

"well, if i'm one of them, treat me like it. just because i admire you doesn't mean you should take me for granted."

-

yuji and megumi became insufferable, taking satoru’s side. they seemed more like his friends than yours. did all guys think the same way? because that just made you want to try your luck with another woman. nobara was the only one who understood what you meant, but her advice was indirectly the same every time: dump him.

you didn't have to do that. even though satoru didn’t cancel the collaboration, he started paying more attention to you.

during your lunch hour, he would call to ask how your day was going, what you’d eaten, what you were thinking –even if you had already told him all of it by text. sometimes it felt a bit forced, which killed your appetite to tell him anything more. there were other things you kept to yourself, either because you didn't consider them exciting enough to share, or, at the other extreme, because they were so important to you that you didn't want to ruin them with his opinion.

before his shows, he would video call you to model a bunch of outfits and ask you to pick the next one. maybe it wasn’t the same as a public photo or being spotted by the paparazzi, but it was his discreet way of saying: he is my man; he wears me on his skin, he carries me with him in his moments. it didn’t matter that it was just clothes; the message was the same: you were a team, two heads thinking as one.

during his short breaks, you would both hop on discord to watch peaky blinders or jojo no kimyō na bōken together, depending on the mood. during his long breaks, however, he would fly back to japan to attend cultural events and have dinner with your parents –who treated him like just another person instead of the world-famous celebrity, the celebrity who had netflix and even news channels tripping over themselves shooting their shots.

but the harder he tried, the emptier everything felt. because he was doing it because it was what you wanted, not because it came naturally to him. and you didn't want to force him; you wanted him to want to be that attentive with you, without it being a source of terror or a burden to him.

the best part was, he hadn’t followed anyone new. He hadn’t commented on any of the videos featuring those obscene choreographies his fans did, nor had he liked anything that wasn't related to professional pages or his own label.

the worst part was, without a doubt, the time difference. there were times when it was impossible to sync up; you had to sacrifice hours of sleep and head to work half alive just so you could talk or do something together. it didn't bother you –you knew he had to conserve as much energy as possible for his performance under the stage lights– and, at the very least, seeing him in full color on his twitcasting streams comforted you a little. because you could see that smile as if he were dedicating it solely to you. and that was the one thing that hadn't changed: he was still your idol, the one who was there for you during the good times and the slumps, the one who made you push yourself even when you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, feeling like tossing everything aside and stealing your father's gold card just to catch a flight to wherever he was –so you’d never have to go back to that office, surrounded by people who mattered less to you than a line of ants crawling under a park bench. but obviously, none of that happened.

when the tour finally (finally, thank the gods) ended, he took the first flight back to celebrate your second anniversary together. the second one. you’d spent the first one arguing over issues that were no longer relevant, but this one would be a memory you would create together to celebrate that, despite having everything against you, you had managed to find common ground and avoid breaking up.

the approach to narisawa was unmarked, a single brushed-steel door set into concrete that absorbed the minato streetlights. when it swung inward, the air changed immediately: cooler, weighted with the scent of hinoki cypress and wet stone, as though the city had been replaced by something mineral.

you stepped across the threshold in heels that click once, then mute against the pale oak flooring. your unsweetened matcha dress, purchased on sale from a department store in shibuya, required careful sitting.

he moved behind you, wearing a bespoke suit in optic white, double-breasted, the wool-silk blend so finely woven it seemed to generate its own luminescence against the restaurant’s dim interior. no tie. the collar of his shirt was starched but unbuttoned one degree past formal, revealing a sliver of pale throat and the edge of a black silk blindfold that wrapped his eyes. he smelled of bergamot and synthetic oud, the scent dispersing as he gestured for you to proceed.

"i want to toast to my girlfriend." he said, once the vilmart et cie champagne was on the table –the only one in the room set for two. the venue, as always, had been rented out exclusively for you. "to these two years of intensity, passion, and companionship." he poured the liquid into the glass in front of you, the fizz of the foam brushing against your nose.

everything was beautiful. as beautiful as he was. as beautiful as being his girlfriend, even with all the heartaches. and that thought made a wave of guilt wash over you.

"i’m surprised you haven't left me." you murmured, taking a sip of the liquor once the clink of your glasses echoed through the small space between you. "i worry that one day you'll just get tired of me for not being up to your level. you deserve the best, and i want to be the best, but–"

"hey, hey." he reached for your hand across the tablecloth, his thumb affectionately caressing the back of your hand. "this isn't the time to think about the problems we’ve had. it’s time to enjoy the fact that we’ve already made it through them."

ugh. sometimes it was just so unfair that he was right about everything, that he could take life so nonchalantly, and yet, everything still worked out for him. how did he manage to never make a mistake? you tried, and everything just went from bad to worse. what would become of you if you weren't with him? you’d be in an abyss, surely, snorting cocaine and waking up in strangers' beds. searching for a thrill in all the wrong places. but life was wise, and it had sent you your biggest dream to prove that you could be saved. to prove that, perhaps, you deserved to be loved, flaws and all. that, sooner or later, your devotion would finally be met with the same level of commitment you gave.

you decided to listen to him so as not to ruin the evening.

the first round was chikyu no shiru served in a shallow bowl steamed with the scent of humus and roasted root vegetables, blackened leeks floating like archaeological artifacts. after that meal, the sumi arrived: bread blackened with bamboo charcoal, served on a slate slab with churned butter whipped until it resembled marble. the interior was unexpectedly white, steaming, the crust shattering with a sound like thin ice cracking.

between courses, you talked about how he forgot the lyrics to anata ga inai in colombia, or how he threw himself into the crowd in morocco and nearly drowned in that sea of people because he couldn't get back out. everything was about his adventures around the globe, and you, in the same place as always, had nothing interesting to tell him, only that you missed him. beneath the table, his knee brushed yours –accident or intention– and you felt his heat and the wool of his trousers through your fabric.

dessert was just chocolate mousse with a reduction of wild berries and a single crystallized violet.

"there’s something i have to tell you, but honestly, i am worried about your reaction." he sighed, then reached across the table, brushing the corner of your mouth where a trace of chocolate remained. you remained motionless, feeling your heart beat faster at the anticipation of his words. it could only mean that something terrible was coming. "i’m going to miami with my friends from high school."

"oh." you articulated, nodding slowly, digesting what that could mean. "am i invited?"

he shifted in his seat. "actually..." he cleared his throat, adjusting his cufflinks. "it's a guys' trip. i'd like to say yes, but no girlfriends are allowed, so i don't want them getting annoyed with me."

you clicked your tongue, locking your eyes onto his, which were as wide as apple pies. "then there’s no remedy." you said grudgingly, crossing your legs. "will you be gone long? i was thinking we could go to socotra. or we could go to santorini, now that you have more time before the next album."

"the truth is, both places are a dream. i’ve never been to socotra." his smile was lazy, automated. it was something different from the one that usually appeared: playful, charged with light. "but honey, i don't want you to take this the wrong way... i have no intentions of taking a trip when i get back. i need to focus on the next era, maybe experiment a little with my sound and style, and all that production is gonna take time. and after that, more tours. more trips out of the country. i want to be in japan as much as i can."

yes, of course. of course he was worried about your reaction, if he knew he was pushing you aside once again with no chance to make amends. you didn't notice that your hands had balled into fists in your lap, trapping the napkin, digging your long nails into your palms.

"and why with them and not with me?" you asked, a lump in your throat. "why are our plans the ones that always have to wait? is it really that bad to spend time with me?" you didn't mean to –you really didn't–, but the volume of your voice rose considerably due to your frustration. "i’ve been understanding. i’ve gone overboard being understanding, it's always me who gives in, but you? you have no consideration for me."

"i have no consideration for you?" he asked, indignant. the glint in his pupils declared how offended he was, but it also showed how much he was struggling to maintain his composure. "all these months i managed to cater to you. wasn't that enough for you?"

"and what good did it do me, gojo? just so you could put me below your friends again?" you spat, standing up from the table with a sharp thud. the screech of the chair made the waiter himself glance at you from his corner. "if you asked me to forget about mine, i would do it without thinking. because the person i want a future with is you. the person i’m supposed to build a family with is you, not them."

"what you're saying is crazy." he stood up with exceptional grace to reach your level. "i would never make you choose between your friends and me, because i love you and i know you need them. because i want you to have a life of your own."

a silent tear slipped down your cheek. the mascara wouldn't take long to run at this rate.

"are you saying i don't?" you sputtered, your throat constricted.

he remained silent for a few seconds before answering. "i’m trying to say that maybe you need to have something else besides me."

the waiter hurried to place on the table the bill in a heavy envelope of handmade paper, bowing deeply without looking at you before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving you completely alone. he handled the check without looking, as you focused on the dregs of your champagne, the way the legs of the liquid cling to the crystal before surrendering to gravity.

your lower lip trembled, and the tears wouldn't stop falling. it was as if he had turned on a faucet –a faucet that gushed out all the memories your previous relationships left you with, because once again, your love seemed to be suffocating them.

"you are everything i need." you muttered, wiping the drops away with your fingers. "why can't i be everything you need?"

your voice had broken. there was no way to repair it anymore. whatever came next would define the rest of your relationship.

-

"how are you?" nobara sounded worried on the other end of the line. the last time you spoke with her was before satoru returned to japan. long before he left again.

"we’re not good, no." you wiped away your tears. "that was last week, and he left last night. we agreed we would keep proposing things to improve the relationship, but he left. i thought that by seeing me doing poorly he would stay with me, but he didn't soften his heart. i didn't think gojo satoru would be capable of being such an insensitive piece of shit."

nobara sighed. since you began your relationship with the white-haired superstar, you hadn't spoken about anything else.

"where did you say he went?"

"to miami."

"meaning he could be at e11even and LIV? girl, if that's the case, consider yourself single. if he isn't already hooking up with his boyfriends, of course."

"stop saying nonsense."

"i'm just considering all the possibilities here."

"satoru wouldn't do that. satoru wouldn't do anything to hurt me. he told me so."

"and yet he left without resolving what you two had."

you said nothing. nobara was right. satoru had been all words and very little action. starting with his music, which brought the sky down to you on a plate of stars and made you drink the galaxies his promises molded into your ears –so fragile and susceptible to what you wanted to hear from his sublime lips. even at this very instant, with your headphones on and the volume turned all the way up, his voice was the anchor that kept you from shipwrecking.

but now, his songs had a different meaning.

all those love, yearning songs were no longer your backup for self validation; you couldn't pretend in front of the mirror anymore and project yourself because the lyrics were for a woman with whom he’d given everything, a woman who’d kept a piece of his soul and he’d never get it back. those songs now reminded you that the relationship between you wasn't as important in comparison to those of his past. they never had to beg him for a bit of his time, they never had to fight with his friends for the number one spot in social priorities. he’d always mentioned them in interviews, had been open about his celebrity crushes, had always boasted about what he had and wanted to achieve. and here you were, the person who had loved him the most in his entire life, the one who admired even the most hidden mole between his toes, who was falling apart in the bed you occasionally shared, who was a witness to your secret. here you were, hiding, as you had for the last two years.

three days later, nothing changed. you were sitting on the edge of your mattress, the sheets twisted into ropes beneath your thighs, the cotton damp where your body had been pressing against it for hours. your phone felt radioactive in your palm, glass surface greasy from the oils of your fingertips, the brightness turned to maximum in the dark room. why wasn't he texting? why was he taking longer than usual to reply? was he avoiding you? had his battery died? no, that wasn't it; the messages had gone through.

you could taste the metal of your own anxiety at the back of your throat, copper and alkaline. your heart was fluttering arrhythmically whenever you refreshed the screen –the empty void of his last seen timestamp– hunting for evidence of him in the pixels. while you suffocated in midnight blue, he was existing in broad daylight, the sun a white hole over biscayne bay, his skin probably already burning pink at the shoulders where his shirt ended.

you imagined him in south beach, perhaps, or a rooftop pool in brickell, the water turquoise and chemically refreshing, reflecting palm fronds and the undersides of balconies where women lounged in bikinis.

your fingers traced the edge of your phone case, while you envisioned the texture of whatever he was touching –marble pool decks heated to the temperature of blood, the condensation on a corona bottle, the small of a stranger's back where a tattooed chain of flowers might bloom.

you checked the location tags again (miami, gojo, satoru). bodies upon bodies, tanned legs arranged on daybeds, neon-pink sunsets. you searched for a sliver of white hair in the backgrounds, a tall figure in designer sunglasses, the telltale shape of his shoulders. but there was none. there wasn’t even a damn news story reporting that gojo satoru was on american soil. not a single photo from a fan.

and you couldn’t let it go. you couldn't stop thinking gojo’s friends, as a gift, had paid a fortune to avoid the press and let him have his fun. your stomach contracted as you imagined the afternoon sweat gathering at hairlines and dripped down spines, how someone might reach up to wipe it from his forehead with a manicured thumb, how he might lean into the touch because the heat made everything languid, permissible. you could smell the imaginary salt air, sharp and brackish, mixed with the sweet rot of tropical flowers and the bite of vape smoke.

somewhere over the pacific, 7,000 miles away, he was surrounded by noise –spanish and english overlapping, music with heavy dembow rhythms, the splash of bodies entering pools, laughter that rang with the particular timbre of flirtation. images of bodies pressed too close in crowded elevators of art deco hotels, of his hand on the small of a back that wasn't yours, guiding someone through a doorway into air-conditioned darkness.

when your phone buzzed with a notification, your heart raced against your sternum, but it stopped when you saw it was a spam email. your hand was shaking, sweating cold, and the lump in your throat struggled to come out due to the crushing weight of his silence.

this was medieval torture. while you were agonizing, he was having the time of his life.

and then, like a ray of hope:

i’m sorry, my love, my phone got wet at the beach and it wouldn't respond.

-

when gojo satoru returned from his nine-day, well-spent trip and walked into your room, the scene left him speechless: the stuffed animals neatly arranged on the shelves and on the bed were now decapitated, their stuffing spilled out; the acrylic figures were broken, while others were scattered all over the carpet; his posters were slashed with foul messages, threats, and his eyes had been stabbed through with scissors. half of the merchandise that had cost you so much to recover was lost again, and this time, by your own hand.

"i see you thought of me a lot." he joked, though he didn't sound happy. he left the massive bouquet of white and red roses on the edge of the bed and sat to one side, extending his hands for you to take them. an invitation to come closer.

"i always miss you." you said, unable to smile. the bags under your eyes were so swollen they looked like prosthetics. your lips were raw from all the biting, a trickle of blood peeking through and drying at the corners. the skin around your cuticles had been picked raw.

"i'm so sorry i was out of touch these days. the time zone and what happened to my phone made everything worse. but i was thinking about you the whole time." he kissed your knuckles with a devotion that seemed like a reflection of your own. his declaration was enough for your shoulders to relax.

"i thought you didn't want to talk to me." you pouted, and he didn't waste a second before kissing it.

"yeah, who would want to talk to this gorgeous woman, with vanilla-flavored kisses and a magical touch? definitely not me." his fingers began to tickle your ribs, his ears craving to hear your laughter, which felt like it had been lost.

the outburst of laughter made you lower your guard. his touch was the one that was truly magical, because as soon as it came into contact with your skin, it had access to every part of you, and it healed everything. it healed every pain, every sadness, every wayward thought. looking into his eyes, as clear as the ocean, the bubbling feeling of love hit you and made you dizzy in one fell swoop. out of your sight, it was very easy to feel that he despised you, that he failed you on purpose, that to him this wasn't all that serious. but having him there, hugging you and breathing in the scent of your hair, you felt safe again. at home.

"how was it?"

you had a golden rule: don't ask about things you didn't want to know. you had to learn that the hard way after he told you everything you wanted to know, but couldn't bear. this time, you didn't even think about it.

"it was fine. we didn't leave the hotel much. suguru told us he's getting married and we bought –well, they bought a lot of alcohol, enough to give away at an autograph signing. then yu took us to a nudist beach, and poor kento looked so uncomfortable."

"what?"

"yeah, kento is actually shier than he looks."

"why did you go to a nudist beach?"

satoru raised an eyebrow. "do you have a problem with that?"

you pulled away from his grip abruptly, shoving him hard toward the bed, where he bounced. if you weren't so angry, you would have laughed at his expression.

"of course i have a problem, satoru! what the hell were you thinking?"

he jumped up, trying to take your hand again, but only met your rejection. "do you consider it cheating?"

"didn't it occur to you to ask me first?" you pulled at your own hair, exasperated. another inconsiderate move. another action made while thinking only of himself. "didn't it cross your mind to call or text me before going?"

he sighed, respecting your space. "it’s the beach. it’s miami. things like that could happen. are you going to be like this when i go to suguru’s bachelor party? because they’ll probably hire naked women."

you couldn't believe what you were hearing. who was this stranger, and what had he done with the real gojo satoru? this guy was an abomination, an insult to all the nights you’d spent listening to the real one behind the scenes and reading the dedications on his albums. to all the days you spent defending him from behind your monitor. to the one who kept you sane when kaede was driving you crazy. to the one who caught you from falling into the bottomless pit when your ex boyfriend abandoned you without taking your entire history into account.

this gojo satoru was disgusting.

"you disgust me." you whispered, looking up. for the first time in your existence –and disbelieving that you were actually doing it–, you looked at him with a resentment greater than all the love you’d ever had for him.

"what?" he seemed surprised by your choice of words.

by reflex, you grabbed the bouquet of roses and ripped them one by one from the peduncles to throw them at his face with fury.

"i hate you." you shrieked, unable to stop. tears blurred your vision, but you had memorized the exact shape of his body so well that you knew exactly where you were attacking. he covered his face with his arms, though that couldn't stop the rain of petals that exploded on contact with his body. when there wasn't a single head left, you began to strike his abdomen with the bundle of stems that had been stripped of their thorns. "i hate you, you fucking jerk. i wish you had died. i wish you had drowned in the damn sea or your damn plane had crashed, along with your whole band of enablers."

in one swift motion, he pinned you against the wall, holding your hands above your head.

"let me go, you bastard son of a bitch. get away from me, or i swear to god i’ll kick you right in the balls."

"i need you to calm down." he exclaimed, ignoring your threats. he looked worried, even terrified, but there was something you didn't notice in that expression you had praised so many times in the past: regret.

"if you don't let me go right now, i’m going to ruin you. you know i’m one post away from doing it."

his grip loosened until his arms fell to his sides, and yours were left hanging. maybe the NDAs were never a rumor, which was why he didn't invite you on the international tour. maybe the plan from the start was to go wild in miami, which was why they didn't want to bring any of their girlfriends. and you, like an idiot, had given in. as always. and they had made a fool out of you, just like everyone else did. you gave them an inch, and they took a mile. he was no different from any other human trash: he was just as stinking and wretched. for so many years, you’d been deceived, believing he could be the exception, the faith that remained unshakable in adversity, but he was only a charlatan. he was a goddamn hypocrite. he had never valued you. he had only climbed down from the pedestal you had built for him in the clouds.

"if i had done anything wrong, i couldn't look you in the face. is it that i shouldn't tell you so you won't get angry?"

"and should i be grateful because you told me?" you walked to the other end of the room, far away from him. "you knew i wouldn't be able to stand you looking at anyone else, and you expect me to take this calmly? to trust you blindly? to believe you didn't have a single reaction among those people?"

"at what point have i done anything to make you doubt me?"

you sniffled, turning your gaze toward one of the walls with his face printed all over it. "you already did. by not telling me at the time. you just ruined this."

he took a step forward, but stopped immediately. the only things you could hear were your ragged breathing and the pounding of your heart.

"i just want us to be okay. for everything to go back to how it was before."

how it was before. like when he didn't know you. when he could take advantage of what you felt for him without suffering any consequences. when you didn't tell him what bothered you. when you allowed him everything because you were so afraid he would leave you if he saw who you really were.

a hysterical laugh escaped your mouth. it was similar to that occasion when you first found his message, but now it was cynical, stripped of happiness. apparently, even gojo satoru could break the best things without asking for forgiveness.

before you could wonder what you were doing, your hands rushed to the posters and ripped them down without mercy, tearing to pieces the entire history you had with him, from the moment you discovered him to this very second. you shredded them until they were an identical copy of your heart.

-

gojo’s humming was soft, hypnotic. the vibrations from his bare chest rumbled against your cheek, the harmonic thump-thump of his heart acting as the backing track to his improvised song. the day had committed suicide, and the night glowed behind the curtains of your window.

one of his hands traced slowly up and down your back, while the other rested on your head.

"i like you more than chocolate-covered candy apples." he murmured, planting a loud kiss on your forehead. "next time let's take off the condom to get you pregnant."

you’d been curled up for hours, taking short breaks for another round. by now, you’d counted four complete ones without a word about the incident. after the meltdown, he’d tried to stop you, and you’d seized the opportunity to avoid a goodbye.

"you’re not gonna leave me, are you?" you whispered, clinging to his solid torso. "you don’t regret being with me?"

"what is life without a little madness?" he chuckled softly, pressing his chin against your head. his warm feet met your cold ones.

you let out a sigh of relief, though deep down, the urge to cry was getting the better of you. you hated gojo. you despised him. he was a filthy being who had disappointed you in every way possible without any intention of changing the narrative.

you wished a truck would hit you tomorrow on your way to work, leaving you unconscious or broken enough to die, just so he would regret not valuing you. you wished he wanted back the time he gave to others to give to you instead. you wished he lamented setting such sharp boundaries with you when he allowed everything for everyone else. you wished he would miss you and loathe himself for having let so much time pass without answering your messages, because he would never receive another one. you wished all of this would confirm that there was no one who could fuck him with as much hunger as you could. much less love him.

and you didn't know how you could touch him with all the disgust you felt for him. seeing him sensitive, on the verge of breaking, his face distorted with pleasure, made you think that this was the same view some girl on the other side of the world had; that his pecs, his legs, and most importantly, his member, were devoured by other lustful eyes and not by yours, which could only radiate adoration every time you contemplated him.

you felt dirty. so dirty that not even a bath could wash it away.

"what are you thinking about?" gojo’s voice pulled you from your daze. his fingers tangled in your messy hair.

you raised your gaze, hesitant. "i don't think i can fully trust you now."

he stopped. carefully, he pulled his arm from beneath your body and sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. he was serious. more serious than he had ever shown himself to be.

"what do you mean? are you breaking up with me?"

"no, no," you sat up too, scared. "i would never leave you."

"then what is this? you take the initiative to go to bed with me, and then you say you’re uncomfortable with me?"

"i just want you to know that i can't see you the same way. i feel bad about what you did, and every time you go out, i’m going to have uncertainty. i... i can't trust you like before."

gojo swallowed hard, his long, thick eyelashes fluttering like a fan. "and yet you still want to be with me?"

you didn't answer. at least, not with words. your body was the first to react, your head coming to rest on the firmness of his warm shoulder. a tear slid down your flushed cheek, followed by another heavy one that landed on his collarbone.

"you’re my favorite person." you murmured.

a couple of seconds later, his temple rested against your head.

-

the following days, you didn’t leave gojo’s side. you didn’t go to work, you didn’t even notify anyone from there that you were taking time off (which you weren't entitled to anyway); you just went home with him and didn't leave his bed.

he tried to cheer you up by playing your favorite movies or acting out the funniest scenes from icarly like a ridiculous clown. he also put on little concerts for you, using a kitchen ladle as a microphone while he presented the day's breakfast dish to you. you couldn't remember the last time you’d been so at ease with each other, laughing and eating burnt toast with butter. like that, in the humidity of his room, going out only to use the bathroom, it seemed like everything had been fixed. life felt simpler, perfect.

there was nowhere he could go outside of your sight. in addition to eating and sleeping together, you showered together, brushed your teeth together, went to the store together if necessary, and ordered groceries online so you wouldn't have to leave the refuge you were building as yours –even though it was still his. it was evident by the clothes in his closet, with no room to hang yours. but it wasn't so bad, not when there was no other alternative but to dress yourself in everything he wore. sometimes you caught yourself pulling his clothes out of the dirty laundry basket just to wrap yourself in them for his scent, because having him a few meters away wasn't enough. not when you had to look at his face and remember he’d failed you.

you looked for it in his eyes, in the way he held your hand, in how he drank milk, even in how he sat down to use the toilet. you searched for proof that it was all over, but you only found a gentleness that infuriated you. how could he be so calm even when you had told him how much he had hurt you? his betrayal didn't keep him awake at night, tossing and turning in bed, staring at the ceiling until it lost its shape and meaning. he didn't cry in the showers or avoid any oral contact, kisses included.

his phone didn't yield any damning evidence, either. whenever the device vibrated with a ringtone or a notification, your heart went a thousand miles an hour, and you felt a hollow sensation in your stomach that soon turned into an unsustainable vertigo. even him answering in front of you or opening everything without turning the screen away wasn't enough. and to tell the truth, you didn't know what consolation it was that you needed, because in all the scenarios you’d composed inside your head, none could amend what you’d lost.

you couldn't accept that the gojo satoru you knew had never existed.

"ijichi is waiting for me at the studio to sign the next contract. after that, i’m heading to suguru's bachelor party. we’ll be in toshima until tomorrow, so you’ll have me back before you go to sleep."

that was what he said before taking off. again. once more, you were alone with your thoughts and a barrage of messages he sent, never letting more than twenty minutes pass without checking in. it was overwhelming; he wasn't writing to you because he wanted to talk, but so you would stop being a damn psycho and wouldn't annoy him or ruin his night out. always thinking about himself, and no one else.

you had to find a way for him to feel that pain, too. because if you weren't having a good time, he didn't have the right to, either.

"here. maybe this will help you relax. or maybe not." said ryomen, who had crushed three grams of mushrooms into powder before letting them soak in lemon juice. fifteen minutes later, the shot was ready, dangling from his tattooed hand, his black-painted nails standing out.

"how long until it kicks in?" you asked, looking at noritoshi. the latter just shrugged.

"half an hour. maybe much less. it's a heroic dose."

"for her, it'll be a walk in the park, you’ll see." ryomen knocked his back in one go; the taste of old cork was masked better with the citric acid disguising it.

"i’m not surprised she called us to get messed up." noritoshi continued, taking his portion and grimacing at the bitterness sliding down his throat. "what surprises me is that we’re in her famous boyfriend’s mansion. saying it like that, it feels like the drug has already hit me."

"just shut up." you growled, drinking the liquid without a second thought. "he doesn't even know about the drugs. much less about you pricks."

ryomen let out a mocking laugh. noritoshi simply rolled his eyes. "whatever. as long as there aren't any security cameras that can jeopardize us, i don't give a shit."

ryomen rolled a cigarette across from you when the first wave came behind your eyes as a pressure, like someone was erotically thumb-screwing your frontal lobe. there it was. the trip.

you could see the dust motes suspended in the amber light from the single lamp, each one spinning like a tiny solar system, and you realized you'd been staring at them for– how long? two minutes? twenty?

"hey." noritoshi snapped his fingers in front of your face. "you good?"

you nodded, far away from the couch where you were sitting just a few minutes ago.

the music was coming from somewhere –maybe the phone, maybe the walls, maybe your own blood. it was that voice, that huge, haunting voice filling the room like smoke, and you were lying on your back on the carpet (which was no longer skin, thank god, just very orange shag) watching the ceiling fan drew slow, hypnotic circles in the air.

"who sings this?" you asked. your voice sounded round, like you were speaking into a tunnel made of velvet.

ryomen was sprawled next to you, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. his pupils were blown wide. "choso."

you blinked. the ceiling fan left tracers, blue and gold ribbons that hung in the air like christmas tinsel. "choso?"

"yeah, man. choso. he does covers on youtube or some alternative, indie shit. my cousin showed me."

your brain didn't question this. why would someone be named other way when everybody could be named choso? it made perfect sense. choso.

suddenly you were not in the big house anymore, or rather, you were, but the walls became screens, projecting images in soft focus. the voice kept singing –masculine, rougher– until you could saw him.

he was standing in a doorway that shouldn't exist, backlit by sodium-vapor light that turned the dust around him into floating embers. he was wearing a white tracksuit, unzipped to the sternum, and there was blood under his fingernails. maybe he'd been busy, maybe gardening, maybe fighting, maybe both. his dark brown hair was tied into two buns on the sides, and perpendicular lines appeared on his face, turning into arrows across.

"choso." you whispered, feeling his name like a melted marshmallow.

he didn't look like gojo. thank god. he didn't have that impossible beauty that hurt to look at, that perfection that made you feel like a troll under a bridge. choso looked real. there were marks under his eyes –red, like he'd been crying blood, or maybe just crying for a very long time.

he didn't say anything. he just walks toward you until standing over you. his hands were rough, calloused, the hands of someone who'd worked. actually worked.

"you believe i sang this?" he asked, his voice intimate, nothing like the booming baritone filling the room.

"i believe everything right now." you said.

he knelt, reaching out to touch your face, his fingers left trails of light, painting you with phosphorus. you leaned into it, hungry for touch that didn't come with history, with the weight of all your shared fights and fuck-ups and the miami beach that hadn't happened yet (or had it?).

"you're thinking about him." choso observed.

you laughed. "i'm trying not to."

"don't try." his thumb traced your cheekbone, and you could feel every ridge of his fingerprint, every spiral. "think about him until you're done. then think about me."

choso leaned even closer. he wasn't just pretty. he was something better: solid, constant, staying. he looked like he wouldn't know how to lie if he tried.

ryomen was saying something about getting water, and noritoshi was laughing at a painting on the wall that was distorting. but choso– he was undressing you with the kind of patience gojo never had. gojo was always too fast, too bright, too much. a lightning in a bottle that kept escaping your grasp.

gojo was neptune. choso was venus. and you were everything but alone right now.

he laid you back on the tiles and the ceiling above you was stars now, actual stars, wheeling in their patterns. his hands were on your waist, and they were warm, so warm, and you realized you'd been cold for months, maybe years, maybe since you started dating a man who was more concept than human.

"i would take you to the beach." choso purred against your neck, and you shivered because he knew. he knew about miami. "but i wouldn't look at anyone else. i wouldn't need to. you're enough skin for me."

you arched up into him, and his tracksuit was gone, covering you, surrounding you, and he felt like safety, like the opposite of abandonment. something you never felt before.

"choso." you whined, and ryomen paused on his way to the kitchen, chuckling.

"what?"

"nothing." you giggled. "just... choso."

"yeah, he's good, right? my cousin's obsessed."

"yup. he's enough."

the carpet beneath your bare feet was breathing, the fibers rising and falling in a slow, oceanic rhythm, and your toes were sinking into them like wet sand. like miami.

fucking miami.

you pictured gojo at haulover beach, where the atlantic lapped against bronzed, naked flesh. you weren't there. you were in tokyo while he was in florida, his skin glistening with saltwater and coconut oil.

thousands of naked bodies, writhing, interlocking, fucking in geometric precision. you blinked hard to make them disappear, but they were still there, on the ceiling too, and the walls, and when you looked down at your own hands, your fingers had elongated, stretching into taffy-thin tendrils that pulsed with blue veins.

"he betrayed me." you whispered.

ryomen laughed again. "who, that pretty boy? no shit. they all cheat, babe. especially the ones that pretty."

"no." your voice sounded underwater. "no, you don't understand. he was naked with them. all of them. he was supposed to be with friends. and now he's with strippers."

the room was fracturing. you could hear the waves, but they sounded wrong. they were moaning.

you were standing on sand that shifted beneath your feet, but all that sand was really skin. millions of grains of shed skin, flaking off sunburned tourists, sloughing off in the heat, and you were sinking into it, up to your ankles, your calves.

he didn't love you enough.

"he's going to leave." you said aloud.

"he already left. he left the second he took off his sunglasses for them. he wanted to see them."

noritoshi was babbling something, but his voice was coming from the wrong direction, from inside your skull. you turned your head –too fast the room spun– and the wall became a mirror, reflecting the shitty beach.

and gojo was there.

he was lying on a towel, stark naked, his impossible pale skin that you knew better than your own. but he wasn't alone. there was a woman– no, women, plural, and men too, multiplying like cells dividing, splitting and replicating until he was surrounded by a writhing mass of limbs and breasts and dicks and open mouths. and he was smiling.

"look at me." one of the women begged, and she had your voice. "satoru, look at me."

but he wasn't looking at her. he was looking past her, through her, at the horizon where the sky was bleeding into the ocean. then, the ceiling of the house teared like wet paper. the blue ran, streaking downward in viscous rivulets, getting into your eyes, your mouth. you could taste the ozone and the despair, the particular flavor of abandonment that you'd known since childhood, since before gojo, before everything.

the sky was falling, and so were you.

you were not a person anymore. you were a walking wound. the space between his fingers and hers. the distance from tokyo to miami, measured in kilometers of insecurity and liters of tears you refused to cry.

"everyone saw him. they saw him in the way i'm only supposed to see him." you told the room, your voice coming from somewhere deep in your chest where you kept the things you didn't let yourself feel. "and he liked it. he wants to be seen, and he wants to see. nothing is ever enough for him."

you could feel the sand in places sand shouldn't be. you could feel his hands, but they were not his hands anymore; they were everyone else's hands, every person who ever touched him, every fan who screamed his name, every woman who looked at him on stage and imagined what was under that black uniform.

"make it stop." you gasped.

the room was dark now, or maybe your eyes were closed, or maybe you didn't have eyes anymore. you're floating in a void that tasted like his kissed and sounded like his snores.

it was beautiful, actually –a golden ratio of heartbreak, stretching from that beach in miami to this couch in this room where your friends were becoming shadows, becoming furniture, becoming nothing.

"he didn't cheat." a voice said. "you cheated yourself. you believed him. that's what you get from loving him."

you could feel the weight of it, infinite and suffocating, and you were screaming but there was no air left to scream with because the sky had taken up all the space.

ryomen had a blast watching noritoshi and you writhe through your hallucinations, but nothing amused him more than the way your phone interrupted the trip every few minutes with its bizarre alarms. when he couldn't take it anymore, he unlocked it, shoving the screen right in front of your face. he realized your inbox was saturated with selfies gojo had been sending to keep you updated on his night: no floozies, no bars, just wandering through the otaku streets and his friends gorging themselves on mountains of snacks.

miss you already. the lads want to go urban exploring. hope i make it out alive. are you asleep yet? take this pic so you can dream of me. have you eaten? take good care of yourself. suguru is so fucking weak. he got food poisoning from some salami. lol.

ryomen snorted, and in response, he snapped a selfie with you to send to him. the caption read ‘hello, cheater’.

he didn't bother reading the reply.

-

gojo came home on monday afternoon, just as he’d warned that morning.

your mouth was still dry, and your stomach growled for food. it was now that you regretted having sent the cleaning staff home to rest. you wanted to sleep a little longer before he arrived and you had to face him, before you had to explain the stupid photo ryomen sent and beg for him to believe you –because how were you supposed to justify him staying the night by your side while you were both high as kites? and with a second man, no less. if it were the other way around, you knew you wouldn't believe him.

you hadn't even replied to his messages. you hadn't sent him a single one since he left. you didn't want to lower your guard or give him the satisfaction of checking in. no. you’d hoped he would have racked his brain thinking about every possible way your trip could go wrong. although apparently, he hadn't; if he had, he would’ve been here sooner. he would’ve left his friends behind and come running back to kick your junkie friends to the curb. to mark his territory. but, as always, you didn't matter enough to him.

the front door opened while you were finishing preparing some quick french toast to take back to bed. his footsteps sounded heavy on the floor, dragging themselves to the kitchen threshold. as you turned, you saw him petrified, arms crossed, staring directly at you.

"hi." you greeted, forcing a smile.

"can you explain what the hell you did?" he attacked immediately, taking a couple of strides to close the distance between you. he snatched the toast you were bringing to your mouth and put it back on the plate, sliding it far out of his peripheral vision. "you got high. in my house. with men. are you gonna blame me for that, too?"

"i don't want to talk to you, gojo. i was very peaceful without you this weekend." you lied, averting your gaze toward the unused utensils. "i had as much fun as you did out there. don't try to ruin my moment."

"no, no," he pulled your arm, not hurting you, but firm enough to force you to stand. "i was never out of my senses, vulnerable to whoever doing who knows what to me. what game are you playing? are you taking it out on me just because you're still worried about the miami thing? if i already told you that–"

"yes! yes, i know what you told me, gojo! i remember it very clearly; it's all i can fucking think about!" you exploded, shaking yourself free from his claws. you had a massive urge to land a punch on his precious nose and fracture that pointed chin, but you stepped back the moment you imagined it. "nothing happened. it’s your turn to believe me."

"i’m not worried about whether you slept with them voluntarily." he retorted, leaving you stunned. "you could’ve overdosed. they could’ve disposed of your body just to keep from getting caught. and you trust them? because in the best case scenario, they could’ve abused you. and there’s nothing 'best' about that. it’s an unnecessary risk. why are you being so stupid and bratty? you’re gonna have to do better if you want us to move forward, because we are getting worse." he threw his glasses onto the table with violence, sitting down abruptly on the stool in front of the one you had just vacated.

his blue eyes shone like fireflies in a desolate valley. he didn't say it, but the situation was overwhelming him, and not even all the love he felt for you could be used as glue to magically repair your relationship. it took two people to do that, and apparently, you weren't willing to yield. was he really such a monster that you didn't even want to hold him at night, as you used to do?

the memory was bittersweet: when he would stay in your room because his felt too great, and that greatness only brought loneliness. a loneliness you had dispelled with your praise, your admiration, your verbiage expressing how incredible he was and how well he was doing. all that encouragement you gave him had gotten under his skin; it had made him believe that there was someone willing to see beyond the persona who stepped onto the stage –someone who provided a place to land after the cold concerts, a place to find warmth.

but now, as he reflected on it, he couldn't give a concrete answer as to why he was in love with you that didn't have to do with the love you had for him.

all his reasons ultimately rested on the way you treated him, on the fact that he was the world to someone –which was ridiculous, since he was the world to all his fans, but that was artificial. it was like walking down a staircase blind; and he was being far too selfish for wanting it all: friends, family, a partner. without being willing to sacrifice any of it. because rejection, having a door closed on him, terrified him to his very core. that was why he tried so hard to go out in secret, to make sure no one had proof that he wasn't worth it, even if that stripped him of his humanity.

loneliness didn't terrify him, exactly, but then why did he only seek relationships to escape it? he didn't even understand it himself. he just wanted to have someone to tell what was happening to him, and for that person to keep looking at him as if he were the most beautiful treasure a pirate had ever buried, with those heart-eyed, rose-colored-lens gazes. that person was you. and now he doubted he could ever find anyone as devoted and loyal as you; no one would adapt to his arrogant attitude, his persistence, his soliloquies, his gigantic ego, and his ambition. but he also didn't know how to hold onto you. he didn't know what to decide without it backfiring on them both. because he was looking out for the both of you, for the fusion that had emerged from your relationship.

you weren't prepared to see it, and he wasn't prepared to say it. little did he know, you were just infatuated too.

"i'm sorry." you whispered, your voice so small it was barely audible. your hands scrambled to take his, which lay limp in his lap. "i don't want you to be mad at me. i won't do it again. i’ll be better. i’ll never touch that stuff again as long as i live. i won’t talk to them ever again. i swear i’ll do better. please, just don’t be mad at me."

your pleading turned his stomach. it wasn't the first time he'd heard you this distraught, convinced you’d done something that would change his mind about you, but it was the first time he’d truly identified it for what it was. how many times had he ignored it? how many times had he brushed it off, thinking it was just about him?

"why are you apologizing?" he ventured, gently taking your wrists, as if you were porcelain about to shatter.

"because i made you mad. i don't want you to be mad at me." you repeated, pressing your forehead against his, intoxicated by his natural scent: peppermint and bare skin. he pulled back to look at you.

"you shouldn't be saying that because of this, but because you put yourself at risk." his voice sounded defeated. he let you go and stood up, turning his back so he wouldn't have to look at you. if he looked at you now, he wouldn't have the strength to keep talking. "i don't want you doing things you don’t want to do just to keep me happy."

"but," you hugged him from behind, your arms acting like a belt, "my priority is that you’re happy with me."

"you aren't living for yourself; you're living for me." his tone was sharp and final, and if you didn't know him, you’d say he was being cruel. "i don't want to spend my life worrying that you’re going to pull some stunt. i thought this was just a phase; i thought you just needed time to get past it, but it’s more than that." he sighed, pressing his lips together. you couldn't see his face, but something told you he was about to say something you wouldn't want to hear, and your muscles automatically tensed.

"no, what are you saying?" you used all your strength to turn him toward you. he looked at the floor, unable to make eye contact. "i’m not going to do anything stupid. i just need to be with you." desperation surged, fluttering like a lid on a pot at a full boil, about to burst and spill over. you prayed you were misinterpreting it, that it was just another senseless argument, that you’d both move past it soon. you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him, but he dodged it before you could make contact.

"we aren't okay." he muttered. "i don't remember the last time we were okay. i… i told you i wanted peace, and… you aren't giving that to me."

oh, no. not again.

"i’ve done everything to be enough for you, but you always find something that’s wrong. you’re hypervigilant all the time, fixating on what i say or don't say, how long it takes me to answer, keeping a tally of every time we postpone our plans. and i’m terrified of your reactions. sometimes i don’t want to tell you certain things because of how you’ll take it, but if i don't, it’s worse. i’m trapped between a rock and a hard place with you, and honestly, i get the impression that you aren't enjoying this either."

your body felt cold, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on you. you opened your mouth to respond, but it took you a few seconds to form a coherent thought –or anything close to one. "that’s a lie, i– gojo, you are my whole life. i couldn't be without you."

"stop saying that. i can’t be responsible for a life other than my own."

he sounded pained saying it. but what he actually seemed to be saying was that you weren't enough. that you weren't beautiful, interesting, intelligent, or fun enough to keep trying. you weren’t worth fighting for. just like that voice in your head repeated until you were exhausted, the one you usually agreed with. because no one had ever stayed to prove otherwise. you were just too much to handle; nobody could stand you. you were a nightmare, a headache, a curse that was almost impossible to break.

yes, you were the problem, and this confirmed it. didn't you deserve love like everyone else? wasn't there something beyond this void in your chest, which felt like being dead inside?

you couldn't go back to having nothing. no, you couldn't, not when you’d become accustomed to the company and the emotions. to feeling something. something more than an ineffable nothingness. blank. infinite. anything was preferable to that. to waking up without a purpose, working on autopilot, and counting the days until you were dead or brainstorming ways to not have to endure that kind of suffering anymore. you couldn't be abandoned again.

without thinking, you dropped to your knees, clutching his legs. "please, don't leave me. i’ll do anything. i won’t talk about miami again. let’s have a kid. i’ll stay a secret, just please, stay with me."

gojo tried to pull away. he didn't want to see you like this. maybe he was ashamed that you didn't have an ounce of dignity left, but under these circumstances, you had to do whatever it took to keep him.

"honey… this is for the best. i want you to be stable and live a life with someone who can love you the way you want and give you what you need." a treacherous tear burned down his cheek, which he didn't bother to wipe away. "i don't want your begging, because i am not that person."

no, no, no, no.

"please," you insisted, your body trembling violently. you were already starting to hyperventilate. "i’m going to die without you. i don't want to live if you aren't here. if it isn't you."

"no. you have to live. i know you can."

gojo had already made his decision. and then, the kaleidoscope of moments between you began to play behind your eyelids like a movie.

thump.

the first time you saw him on stage. you were in the nosebleeds, barely able to afford the ticket, but when the lights hit him –when the spotlight carved him out of the dark– your lungs stopped working. he was wearing white, head-to-toe, blindfolded (a gimmick, just theater), and his voice was impossible. it filled the stadium like water, like drowning, and you felt it in your teeth, in your bones. you didn't know then that three months later you'd be in his dressing room, touching the fabric of that same white coat while he watched you in the mirror.

thump-thump.

his first promise of many. you were crying in his arms at 4 am because you'd had a nightmare about him leaving, about the fans finding out, about the thousands of women who loved him more purely, more sanely than you ever could. he didn't tell you to stop. he didn't call you crazy. he just held you tight while you sobbed into his shoulder.

"look at me." he said, and you did, and you saw the fiery intensity of his eyes for the first time. "this is only for you. this part. and it’s right here. i’m right here."

you believed him. god, you believed him.

thump-thum-thump-thump.

the tour bus. motion sickness and his laughter vibrating through the mattress as he held your hair while you threw up from too much vodka, too much adrenaline, too much him. the way he sang to you afterward –not his songs, but stupid nursery rhymes, off-key, his nose pressed to your temple while the world rushed past the windows in streaks of neon. you were sick and delirious and happier than you'd ever been in your life because he was yours, he was yours, and you were convinced this was forever, convinced this could burn without consuming.

thump-thump-thump.

the award show. you were hidden in the wings, watching him accept the trophy with that practiced smile, that idol smile, and then, he looked at you. just a glance. a half-second where the mask slipped and the smile became real, became his, and you felt seen, felt chosen, felt like the only person in a stadium of thousands. later, in the limo, he fucked you with the trophy still on the seat beside you, his blindfold loose around his neck, his eyes open and fixed on your face like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

"sing for me." he whispered, and you did, broken and breathless, and he swallowed the sound like communion.

thump-thump.

"so you feel things... more?"

"i feel things until they kill me."

"then i'll have to be careful. i'll have to be worth the intensity."

thump.

his voice in your earpiece during a show. "i saw you in the third row. you were wearing those holographic shorts. i could see you through the blindfold, did you know that? i can always see you."

the way he traced your scars with his tongue, like he could heal them with worship.

the time he wrote a song about you and played it acoustic, just for you, in an empty arena at midnight, your name hidden in the lyrics like the secret you always were.

crash.

even now, even here in the ruins, the goodbye showed you what came before miami: the morning he left, when he kissed you so hard your lips bruised, when he said "i'll be back next week, wait for me, forever." and you promised you would, you would, you would.

you waited. you were still waiting. you'll wait forever, in there, on your knees, clinging to his legs. because without the great gojo satoru, you were nothing more than a ragdoll that no one wanted to play with.

-

the key hadn't been used in five weeks, not since the breakup, when gojo was still here. but this time, your house was silent, suffocating, the kind of quiet that made him hesitate in the entryway. a hand hovered over the light switch.

"anybody home?" a masculine voice cut through the dark, uncertain.

the living room was a graveyard of evidence: bottles –soju, mostly, the cheap kind that burned going down and burned worse coming up– lined the coffee table like glass soldiers. your phone was face down on the carpet, screen cracked, notifications silenced but occasionally lighting up with another news article, another tweet, another photo of him. gojo satoru. six eyes. your ex. the nation's idol. currently trending because his new single, namida no riyuu, had just broken streaming records. another song that everyone analyzed and drew their own conclusions from. an activity you’d participated in just to torture yourself and realize it was about you. the only clue to the world that you’d been together and hadn't been a product of your imagination.

megumi's chest tightened. he moved slowly, stepping over an empty pizza box, a sweater that hadn't been washed in days, the detritus of a life that had stopped requiring cleanliness or order.

your bedroom door was ajar. just a sliver of darkness leaking out.

he pushed it open.

the smell hit him first: sour sweat, stale alcohol; then, his eyes adjusted to the gloom, to the curtains that hadn't been opened in days, to the figure curled on the floor beside the bed.

you were wearing gojo’s oversized orange hoodie. the fabric hung off your frame, swallowing you whole. you'd lost weight –too much weight–, your cheekbones sharp enough to cut, your hair greasy and tangled, matted against your forehead.

"hey." megumi's voice broke.

you didn't move. you were staring at the wall, at a poster of ‘six eyes’ you hadn't taken or ripped down, your eyes glassy and unfocused. there was also an empty bottle of pills on the nightstand. he saw it with his heart stuttering, and he was across the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside you; his hands hesitated for a second, afraid to touch, but also afraid not to.

"hey." he whispered again. "hey, look at me."

your eyes drifted to his face, slowly. recognition flickered, dull and distant. "megumi."

"yeah. it's me." he reached out, his fingers brushing your shoulder, and you flinched –not away, but into it, starving for contact. "how long have you been like this?"

you laughed, or tried to. it came out as a wheeze. "dunno. what day is it?"

"thursday."

"then... four days? maybe five?" your head lolled back against the mattress. "the pills didn't work. i took them all and i just... threw them up. i’m so stupid. i can’t even die right."

"don't." megumi choked out, his hands finding your shoulders, gripping too tight. "don't say that. don't ever say that."

you looked at him then, and something in your face crumbled. "he's everywhere, megumi. everywhere i look. the convenience store. the train. my phone. singing about me, us, how i loved him deeply, how i bled him dry." your voice rose, cracked, shattered. "and i'm here, i'm here, and i can’t get over it. i can't– he was everything i had. all i wanted was him."

the sob that tore out of you was animalistic, a sound of pure agony that started in your gut and ripped through your throat. you curled forward, your forehead hitting megumi's shoulder, your fingers clawing at his shirt.

he caught you. of course he caught you. his arms came around your back, one hand cradling your head, the other pressing you close, close as he could get you. you didn't know where yuji and nobara were. fuck, you didn't even know how they were doing, but the only one here was megumi, and that said it all.

"i can't breathe." you screamed into his neck, your tears hot and endless, soaking through his collar. "i can't breathe without him, megumi, i can't, i can't, it hurts. where does all this sadness come from?"

"i know." he muttered. "i know, i know."

but he didn't know. he couldn't know. you were empty, broken, alone.

"i tried to be good," you sobbed, your body convulsing with the force of your crying, your nails drawing red lines on megumi's back through his shirt. "i tried to be chill, to not love too much, but i couldn't. i couldn't hide it forever, and when he saw– when he really saw–"

"he was a coward." megumi said, his arms tightening until you could barely breathe, until the pressure was the only thing keeping you from flying apart. "he was a fucking coward. you didn't do anything wrong by needing him. he just didn't have the strength to be needed."

you screamed then, your whole body shaking so violently that megumi had to hold you down, had to anchor you to the ground with his weight and his warmth. you beat your fists against his chest, not to hurt him, but because the pain inside had nowhere else to go, because if you didn't push it out you would dissolve into it.

he took it. he took every hit, every scream, every ugly, snotty, desperate cry. he pressed his cheek to the top of your head and rocked you, slow, steady, whispering your name like a prayer, like a spell.

time stopped meaning anything. you cried until your throat was raw, until you had no tears left, until you were just hiccupping, gasping, clinging to him. your hoodie had ridden up, and his hand found the bare skin of your back, tracing circles there like he could smooth out the fractures in your spine.

"i quit my job." you mumbled, the words slurring. "couldn't get out of bed. couldn't stop drinking. my parents think i'm fine. i told them i'm fine. but it’s obvious i’m not, and nobody notices. if you had taken any longer, i would already be dead."

megumi's jaw clenched. he reached up, gently, and brushed the matted hair from your forehead. "yes. you're not fine. and you don't have to be."

"i tried to die. i really tried. i wanted to stop feeling like this. like there's a hole inside me that just keeps getting bigger, and i fill it with him, with alcohol, with pills, with anything, but it's never enough."

"i know." he said, and this time he sounded like he meant it. "i'm here. and i’m not him. i won't leave. i'm not a band-aid. i'm not a fix. but i'm here for you."

you knew it wasn't fair, dumping this on him, making him the solution to a problem that had nothing to do with him. but with him, things felt better, lighter, safer.

with megumi, everything had been calm and predictable since the day you met. he’d always been there for you –through every breakup, every relapse, every low point. he knew your entire history, and he would never be capable of hurting you. he truly knew how to be a gentleman, a man of his word. someone who stayed true to his feelings. he always put the person he loved most above everything else.

maybe he wasn't what you thought you wanted back then, but he was exactly what you had always needed. for the first time in thirty days, it wasn't gojo’s face that made your pupils widen.

@violetyearner @cnavyblue

[musatoru]

I am ASTONISHED by the lack of engagement your posts receive?? you write as if these are situations you’ve yourself have experienced in real life, truly I feel so lucky to have stumbled across your writing! I hope you never lose interest in writing lol 🗿

Awww, thank you so much! 🦥

Truth be told, I feel so much excitement whether I have fifteen interactions or five hundred; it makes no difference because I know that someone (like you) took the time to delve into that little world I created and it sparked something inside them. It makes me so happy that we found each other.

And I would never lose interest! I’ve been writing my whole life, hehe. 🩶

[musatoru]

Your stories are genuinely so healing for me to read I think I'm gonna go binge them all over again. Thank you for existing bro 🙏

I luv you forever and ever 💫

[musatoru]

hii!! i’ve been to ask this for awhile but i got too nervous! i really loved the inumaki deaf mute fic you wrote a bit ago, and i was wondering if you could do a mute reader one? i struggle with selective mutism and ive never seen a mute reader character before. i love your writing and i know you’d portray it so well. also, im very excited for your idol gojo oneshot that you’re releasing soon! sending love <33

hi beautiful! <3

truth is i don't take requests, but because of how grateful i am to you for being present in every one of my stories, i’ll make an exception. 🤍 just give me a couple of days, i’ve had quite a lot on my plate, and the idol gojo one still isn't finished :(

all the love x

[musatoru]

the longest one shot i’ve ever written is coming up. i hope you'll be able to read it.