In light of my beloved—Satoru Gojo's birthday, I present this to you.
Happy Birthday, my love! 🩵
Satoru’s birthday only comes once a year, and it also happens to be on the very last, frost-bitten month. As his wife, you had always made sure that everything, down to the atoms vibrating in the air around him, was perfect on that very special day.
The water temperature for his morning bath was warm enough to chase the winter chill but never hot enough to sting. On the kitchen counter, his favorite breakfast pancakes were already stacked high—fluffy, perfectly golden, and drenched in maple syrup with rich, dark hot cocoa, made just the way he liked it: with an extra pinch of cinnamon in his mug that says “Best Sensei in the world!”
But Satoru’s favorite is when you bake a cake for him. In the first year of your relationship, you had baked a chibi version of him: a ludicrously oversized head, a mischievous grin, and wide, crystalline blue eyes version of him. He was so happy that his phone hadn't stopped buzzing for hours as he sent pictures—hundreds of them—to Shoko, Suguru, Nanami, Yaga, and even to Utahime.
The following year, it was a simple, flat white cake. Utterly plain. You had to whip it up hours after finishing a grueling, back-to-back mission. He looked at the stark white frosting, and his usual teasing grin dissolved instantly into a line of worry. His eyes, usually glittering with mischief, were dark with self-reproach. He knew you were exhausted, knew the toll the missions took, and yet you had still used the last dregs of your energy to make something for him.
Satoru didn't thank you that night, he simply wrapped his arms around you, pulling you away from the sweet dessert and into the bedroom. In exchange, he used his hands to soothe the aching knots of your body, delivering a massage that was less about relief and more about possessive, silent adoration, his movements slow, traveling onto places that pleasured you more intimately than any mere relaxation could.
And then last year. Last year, the cake was also white, a simple white vanilla sponge, but when he cut the first slice, the crumb inside was vibrant pink. A color that signaled a daughter, a new life, the tiny, future-sized heart that was beating beneath your ribs. He had stared at the slice for a full, unmoving minute, his eyes wide and wet, before he finally broke the silence with a shaking, incredulous laugh. He kissed you until you were dizzy, promising that the baby would inherit his white hair and your fierce eyes.
This year you opted for a small cake.
Your hands, usually so steady and confident when handling cursed energy, shook as you worked the spatula. It was a replica of his face, the features sculpted with photographic memory. You piped the white hair high, impossibly glossy, and used the smallest brush to paint the curve of his mouth—that arrogant, breathtaking smirk that had always promised mischief and victory.
You mixed the blue until it was the exact shade of his eyes, you piped them, wide and piercing, onto the buttercream.
You felt your throat constricting, tears threatening to fall down as you stared at the finished product that you made. You felt proud of yourself because it looked real—too real. And you hated that.
A soft, small sound interrupted the silence—the sound of tiny footsteps on the hardwood floor.
She was a smaller, more concentrated version of the world’s strongest sorcerer. Her hair was the same white cloud, her cheeks perpetually chubby, and her lips held the same bright, smiley curve. Just as Satoru had anticipated, her eyes were the exact shade of yours.
You forced your head to nod, cupping her face with your trembling hands, shallowing the pain you're feeling as you did.
You are Satoru Gojo’s wife. You cannot crumble. You needed to be strong so you could carry the weight he carries—the weight he had carried until his last breath.
“Gumigumi said Daddy’s already in heaven,” she said, tilting her head with the exact curiosity of her father, referencing Megumi, who insisted on watching over her as you baked Satoru's birthday cake.
“How do we go there, Mommy? How do we go to Daddy?”
The question struck you, stabbing you like it meant to kill every bit of you. You swallowed the tears that burned your sinuses. Satoru would love this. He’d be so proud of how quick, how smart, his little girl was. She'd be her Daddy's little girl.
“We don't go yet, sweet girl,” you whispered, the sound catching, rough like sandpaper. “Heaven is a place for heroes who did a very important job. And Daddy… Daddy used all his power to make sure we stay right here.”
“But it's his birthday,” she insisted, her small voice tightening with the logic that demanded answers. “How do we celebrate his birthday if he can't come to us? Does he not want to see us on his birthday?”
“Oh, darling,” you breathed, gathering her tiny body to your chest, burying your face in the fragrant white cloud of her hair. “I’m sure he wants to see us more than anything in the world. He wants to see you grow up. He wants to hear your laugh. I’m sure he’s watching, every second, with his eyes wide open.”
“He’s watching, Mommy?” she repeated, her voice muffled against your apron.
“Do you remember what Gumigimi always told you about Daddy's special eyes?” you whispered, your voice steadier now, laced with the strength you were borrowing from his memory.
She nodded quickly, a single bounce of white hair. “They can see everything.”
“That’s right,” you confirmed, managing a small, trembling smile. “And that means, sweetheart, that even from where he is, he can see us, perfectly clear. He sees this cake, he sees you, and he knows how much you love him.” You gently took her hand and led her back to the cake on the counter. “So, for his birthday, we should give him something he loves to see. We give him our biggest, happiest smiles.”
She nodded, her bright eyes fixing on the cake replica of her father’s face. Then, in a voice booming and loud enough, she started singing the "Happy Birthday" song. It was a cheerful, slightly off-key rendition, filled with the simple, unrestrained joy of a child.
You joined her, your voice a softer counterpoint to her strong declaration. As the last note faded, she closed her eyes, blowing a loud, earnest kiss toward the ceiling before blowing the candle. In that small, silent kitchen, watching your daughter, you realized the truth. Satoru wasn’t entirely gone.
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