the vows we never said.
synopsis. You used to stay up late, talking about your future wedding. You wrote down your vows in a journal — silly things, sweet things, promises you meant with your whole heart. Then he pushed you away. Years later, you're marrying someone else. He's in the back of the church. He doesn't know why he came. Then you start reading your vows. And he realizes — they're not for the groom.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. major angst, angst/no comfort, reader dies, sad/bittersweet ending?, emotional hurt, wedding, reader marries someone else, he watches, he pushes you away, he never tells you why, breakdown scene, suicidal ideation (brief, not acted on)
word count. 4.9k+
A/N. i decided to bring it up a notch, my apology for not posting too much lately !! :,)
You used to stay up late, talking about the future.
It was silly, really — two people who had no idea what tomorrow would bring, planning for a lifetime. You'd lie on his chest, your fingers tracing patterns on his skin, and you'd ask him questions.
"What kind of wedding do you want?"
"Small," he'd say. "Just us. And maybe Shoko. She'd kill me if I didn't invite her."
"How about Suguru?"
"He'd come. He'd complain about the food."
You'd laugh — that soft, sleepy sound — and he'd hold you tighter, like he could keep you there forever if he just didn't let go.
"What about vows?" you asked once.
"What about them?"
"What would you say?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I'm not good with words."
"You're good with me."
"That's different."
You sat up, reaching for your journal — the leather-bound one you'd had since college, the one with the cracked spine and the coffee stain on the cover. You flipped to an empty page.
"Then I'll write mine now," you said. "So I don't forget."
He watched you write. Your hair fell across your face. Your brow furrowed in concentration. You pressed your lips together when you were thinking — he always loved that. You were beautiful.
"Done," you said.
"Let me see."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's a surprise! For our wedding."
He smiled — that rare, real smile he only gave you. "You're assuming I'm going to marry you."
You looked at him. The room was quiet. The city hummed outside the window.
"Are you?"
He didn't answer.
He just kissed you.
And you let him.
You kept the journal in your nightstand. Right next to your side of the bed — the side he always left empty for you, even when you weren't there.
You added to it sometimes. A new line here. A new promise there.
He'd watch you from across the room, pen in hand, brow furrowed, and he'd wonder what you were writing. He'd wonder if you were writing about him.
You told him once that you'd written the perfect closing line. Something that meant forever without saying the word.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I'm not telling."
"Tell me."
He pulled you into his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder.
"It's a surprise," you said, laughing.
"I hate surprises."
"No, you don't. You love when I surprise you."
"I love you, the surprises are just a bonus."
You turned your head. Kissed his cheek.
"You'll find out someday. At our wedding."
He held you tighter.
He didn't know that someday would never come.
He never found out.
It happened on a Tuesday.
He came home from a mission. His hands were shaking. His eyes were dark — not the playful dark you teased him about, but something hollow. Something empty.
He didn't look at you when he walked in.
"Satoru?"
He didn't answer.
"What happened?"
"I need you to leave."
You blinked. Thought you misheard.
"Leave?"
"Pack your things." His voice was flat. Empty. A stranger's voice in the body of the man you loved. "Go."
"Satoru, you're scaring me."
"Good." He finally looked at you. His eyes were red — not from crying, but from something else. Something you couldn't name. "You should be scared."
"I don't understand."
"I know."
"Then explain it to me."
He shook his head. "I can't."
"You can't or you won't?"
"Both."
You stepped closer. He stepped back. The space between you felt like miles.
"Satoru, please—"
"You need to go." His voice cracked. Just once. Just a little. But you heard it. "You need to go, and you can't come back. And I can't tell you why."
"Then I'm not leaving."
"Yes, you are."
He walked to the door. He opened it.
The hallway was dark. The air was cold.
"Please," you whispered. Your voice was small. You hated how small it sounded.
He didn't look at you.
"Farewell."
You stood there for a long time after he left. You waited for him to come back. You waited for him to say it was a joke. A mistake. A nightmare.
He didn't come back.
You left.
You didn't know why.
You never found out.
The invitation came on a Tuesday.
Cream-colored envelope. Gold foil. Your handwriting — no, not yours. Someone else's. Someone who got to know your address. Someone who got to hold your hand. Someone who got to wake up next to you.
He stared at it for a long time.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of…
Your name. And someone else's. Someone he didn't know. Someone safe. Someone normal. Someone who could give you a normal life.
He traced your name with his thumb.
He thought about throwing it away. He thought about burning it. He thought about showing up and telling you the truth — that he'd pushed you away because he was scared, because his enemies would use you against him, because he'd rather lose you than watch you die.
He put the invitation on his fridge.
Right next to your photo. The one he'd taken on your first anniversary. You were laughing, your head thrown back, your hair a mess. His arm was around your waist. You looked so happy.
He didn't reply.
He went anyway.
The church was small — just like you'd always wanted. Pretty red roses. Soft lighting. Wooden pews. A few dozen guests — friends, family, people who got to stay in your life.
He stood in the back.
Alone.
His hands in his pockets. His sunglasses on. His mask in place.
He saw Shoko. She was sitting near the front, next to someone he didn't recognize. She turned — just for a second — and saw him.
Her eyes widened.
Then they softened.
She didn't say anything. She just nodded.
She knew. She always knew.
The music started.
He stopped breathing.
You walked down the aisle.
You were beautiful — more beautiful than he remembered. Your dress was simple, elegant, the kind you'd described years ago. White lace. A long train. Flowers in your hair.
You were smiling.
You weren't looking at him.
He watched you walk past him. He watched you stop beside the groom. He watched you take someone else's hands.
He watched you choose someone else.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
The officiant spoke. Words he didn't hear. Promises he didn't want to witness.
He stared at the back of your head. At the flowers in your hair. At the way your dress fell across your shoulders.
He wondered if you'd thought about him this morning. If you'd hesitated. If you'd looked in the mirror and seen his ghost standing behind you.
Then it was time for the vows.
The groom went first.
Standard things. Nice things. Things you say when you're marrying someone safe.
I love you. I'll protect you. I'll be there for you.
Polite. Safe. Forgettable.
Then it was your turn.
You unfolded a piece of paper. Your hands were shaking.
And you began to read.
"I wrote these a long time ago."
Your voice was steady, but your eyes were not. They were bright — too bright. Like you were holding something back.
"I wrote them when I still believed in fairytales. When I thought love was enough to conquer anything."
The groom smiled. The guests aww-ed.
He stopped breathing.
"The first time I saw you, I thought you were going to break my heart. I didn't care. I still don't."
The groom laughed softly.
He didn't.
Because that wasn't for the groom.
That was for him.
"I promise to love you on the days you forget to love yourself."
He remembered that line. You'd written it at 2 AM, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your waist. You'd mumbled it against his skin, half-asleep, and he'd pretended not to hear.
He heard it now.
"I promise to stay even when staying is hard."
Another line from the journal. Another promise you'd meant to keep.
"I promise to remind you every single day that you're more than the strongest — you're human. You're kind. And, you're mine."
The groom didn't flinch.
He didn't know. He couldn't know.
You were looking at the groom when you said it.
But just before the last line — the closing line, the one you'd never told him, the one you'd kept secret for years — your eyes flickered.
To the back of the church.
To him.
And he saw it.
He saw everything.
The hurt. The confusion. The love. The love you'd never stopped feeling, even after he'd thrown you away.
You held his gaze for one heartbeat. Two.
Then you said the words you'd written just for him.
"I promise to love you," you said, "even when we're not in the same lifetime."
He felt his heart stop.
That was the line.
The one you'd never told him.
The one that meant forever without saying the word.
You were looking at him when you said it.
And then you looked away.
He didn't stay for the reception.
He waited until the ceremony was over. Until the applause had faded. Until the couple was walking back down the aisle — your hand in someone else's, your smile for someone else's eyes.
He watched you pass him.
Your dress brushed against his shoes.
You didn't look at him.
He turned. Walked out. Didn't look back.
The sun was setting outside. The sky was orange and pink — the kind of sunset you used to drag him outside to see. The kind you'd watch from your apartment window, your head on his shoulder, your fingers intertwined with his.
He stood in the parking lot for a long time.
Shoko found him there.
She didn't speak at first. She just stood beside him, quiet, her hands in her pockets.
"You should have told her," she said softly. Not accusing. Just sad.
"I know."
"You should have fought for her."
"I know."
"She would have stayed, Satoru."
He didn't answer.
She sighed. "She asked about you, you know. Before the wedding."
He looked at her.
"She called me. Three days before." Shoko's voice was quiet. "She asked if I thought you'd come. She said she didn't know if she wanted you to or not."
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth." Shoko looked at him. "I told her you'd come. Because you've never been able to stay away from her."
He closed his eyes.
"Go home, Satoru."
He didn't move.
"Go home."
He got in his car.
He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, your voice still echoing in his head.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He started the car.
He drove home.
He never told anyone why he really came.
Years passed.
He never moved on. Not really.
He dated — once, twice. He told himself he was fine. He told himself he was happy for you. He told himself a lot of lies.
He kept the invitation in his drawer. Right next to your photo. Right next to the dried flower he'd saved from your first date — a white lily, pressed between the pages of a book you'd lent him.
He never looked at it.
But sometimes, late at night, he'd take out your journal.
He'd stolen it before you left. You never knew. He'd found it in your nightstand, hidden under a stack of books — your favorite books, the ones with the cracked spines and the underlined passages.
He'd told himself he'd give it back.
He never did.
He read your words. The vows you'd written. The promises you'd meant to keep.
He memorized every line.
He traced your handwriting with his finger — the way your loops curved, the way your dots hovered above your i's, the way you crossed your t's with a sharp line, like you were in a hurry to get to the next word.
He read the closing line over and over.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He wondered what you meant by it.
He wondered if you'd known — even then, even before he pushed you away — that you wouldn't get to spend your life with him.
He wondered if you'd written it as a goodbye.
He never stopped loving you.
He got the call on a Sunday.
The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The world was going on like nothing was wrong.
Shoko's voice was quiet. Careful. The way she got when she had to deliver news she didn't want to deliver.
"She's sick, Satoru."
He didn't ask what. He didn't ask how. He just listened.
"It's bad."
He hung up.
He stared at the wall.
He thought about going to see you. He thought about telling you the truth — that he'd never stopped loving you, that he'd pushed you away to protect you, that he'd regretted it every single day for years.
He thought about holding your hand. About telling you he was sorry. About asking for forgiveness he didn't deserve.
He didn't go.
He couldn't.
He didn't deserve to.
He sat in his apartment for three days. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He just sat there, staring at your photo, your journal in his lap.
He read your vows over and over.
I promise to love you on the days you forget to love yourself.
He forgot to love himself a long time ago.
I promise to stay even when staying is hard.
He was the one who left.
I promise to love you, even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He wondered if you still meant it. If you'd even written it for him at all.
He knew you did.
That's what made it hurt.
He stood in the back.
Same church. Different flowers. Different occasion.
The flowers were white — your favorite. White lilies, the ones that smelled like spring even in winter. He'd bought you those multiple times, and bought you a massive bouquet of them for your birthday. You'd cried. You said no one had ever bought you flowers before.
He watched your husband — the man you'd married, the man who wasn't him — stand at the front, holding your child's hand.
A little girl.
She had your eyes.
She was crying.
He wondered if you'd ever told her about him. If you'd ever shown her his photo. If you'd ever whispered his name in the dark, when no one else was listening.
He wondered if you'd ever thought about him at all.
The service started. Words he didn't hear. Memories he didn't share. Songs he didn't know.
He stood in the back, alone, his hands in his pockets, his sunglasses on.
He didn't cry.
He didn't make a sound.
He just stood there — the strongest sorcerer alive — and watched them lower you into the ground.
Shoko found him after the service.
She didn't speak at first. She just stood beside him, quiet, her hands in her pockets.
"You should have come sooner," she said softly. Not accusing. Just sad.
"I know."
"You should have told her."
"I know."
"She never stopped loving you, Satoru."
He looked at her.
"She kept your photo in her drawer." Shoko's voice was quiet. "I saw it once. When I helped her move. She tried to hide it, but… I saw."
His throat tightened.
"She used to talk about you," Shoko continued. "When she was sick. At the end. She asked me if I thought you were happy."
"What did you say?"
"I told her the truth. I told her you weren't. I told her you'd never been happy a day since she left."
He closed his eyes.
"She didn't know why you left," Shoko said. "She thought it was her fault. She thought she wasn't enough."
"I was protecting her."
"I know." Shoko's voice was barely a whisper. "But she didn't, Satoru. She died not knowing. She died thinking you didn't love her."
He couldn't breathe.
"She's gone," Shoko said.
He looked at the front of the church. At your photo. At your smile.
"I know."
Shoko touched his arm — brief, gentle.
"Say goodbye," she said. "For real this time."
She walked away.
He stood there for a long moment.
Then he walked to the front of the church.
He stood in front of your photo.
You were smiling. The same smile you'd given him a thousand times. The same smile he'd thrown away.
He reached out. His fingers touched the frame.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The photo didn't answer.
"I'm so sorry."
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out your journal — the one he'd kept for years, the one he'd read a hundred times, the one full of promises you'd meant to keep.
He set it beside your photo.
He opened it to the last page. The page with the closing line.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
"I never stopped loving you," he said.
He took off his blindfold.
He wanted you to see his eyes. Just once. Even if you couldn't see him back.
"I never stopped."
He turned.
Walked away.
This time, he looked back.
Just once.
Then he left.
He made it home.
Barely.
The apartment was dark. Cold. Empty. Just like every other night for the past several years.
He closed the door. Locked it. Leaned his forehead against the wood.
He didn't move.
He stood there for a long time — minutes, hours, he couldn't tell — with his eyes closed, his hands pressed flat against the door, his breathing shallow.
Then his knees gave out.
He slid down to the floor. His back against the door. His legs stretched out in front of him.
He didn't cry at first. He just sat there, staring at the wall, his hands limp in his lap.
Then he thought about your laugh.
The way you used to throw your head back when something was really funny. The way your nose crinkled. The way your eyes squeezed shut. The way he could never help but smile when he heard it — even on his worst days, even when the world was falling apart.
He'd never hear it again.
He thought about your hands. The way they felt in his. Small and warm and safe. The way you'd trace his knuckles with your thumb when you were falling asleep. The way you'd hold on tighter when you had a nightmare.
He'd never hold them again.
He thought about the last time he saw you. The wedding. Your dress. Your eyes. The way you looked at him when you said that last line — even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He'd never see you look at him like that again.
He thought about the last time he'd touched you. The last time he'd kissed you. The last time he'd said "I love you" and meant it.
He couldn't remember when that was.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd held you.
He couldn't remember what your skin felt like.
He couldn't remember the sound of your voice when you said his name.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
His shoulders started shaking.
The first sob was quiet — barely a sound. Just a sharp exhale, a crack in his chest.
The second was louder.
The third was worse.
He curled in on himself, his forehead touching his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs. He cried like he hadn't cried in years — ugly and raw and desperate, the kind of crying that left you hollow and empty and gasping for air.
He didn't try to stop it.
There was no one to hear him. No one to see. No one to pretend for.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the dark. "I'm so sorry."
The apartment didn't answer.
He cried until there was nothing left.
And then he sat there, hollow and empty, staring at the wall.
He didn't move.
He didn't know how.
Your journal was still at the church. He'd left it there. He'd left the last piece of you behind.
He had nothing left.
Six months later, he got another call.
Shoko's voice was quiet. Careful. The same tone she'd used when she told you about you.
"It's him, Satoru. Your husband. He... he couldn't do it without her."
He didn't ask what. He didn't ask how.
He already knew.
"He stopped eating," Shoko said. "Stopped sleeping. Stopped taking care of himself. He just... gave up."
He hung up.
He stared at the wall.
He thought about the man you'd married. The man who wasn't him. The man who'd held your hand at the end. The man who'd watched you die.
He thought about what it would take to lose you.
He already knew.
He went to the funeral.
He stood in the back — same church, different flowers, different coffin.
He watched your daughter — your little girl, with your eyes, your hair, your smile — stand at the front, holding a stranger's hand.
She was seven years old.
She'd lost both her parents.
He didn't cry.
He didn't make a sound.
He just stood there.
He thought about what you would say.
"Take care of her, Satoru. Please."
He didn't know if he could.
He didn't know if he deserved to.
He walked to the front of the church after the service. He knelt down in front of your daughter.
"Hey," he said softly. "I knew your mom. A long time ago."
She looked at him with your eyes.
"She loved me," he said. "And I loved her. And I'm so sorry I wasn't there for her."
The little girl didn't say anything.
He held out his hand.
"You're not alone," he said. "You're never going to be alone. I promise."
She took his hand.
And for the first time in years, he felt something other than grief.
He felt responsibility.
He felt purpose.
He felt you, standing beside him, saying "thank you."
The apartment was different now.
It wasn't empty anymore.
There were toys on the floor. Drawings on the fridge. A child's laughter echoing through the halls.
Your daughter — his daughter now, in every way that mattered — was sleeping in the room down the hall.
He sat on the couch, your journal in his hands.
He still read it sometimes. On the hard nights. On the nights he couldn't remember your face.
He heard a small voice from the hallway.
"Satoru?"
He looked up.
Your daughter was standing there, rubbing her eyes. She had your hair. Your nose. Your way of tilting her head when she was curious.
"Can't sleep?"
She shook her head.
He opened his arms. She climbed onto the couch, curling into his side.
"Tell me about my mom," she said.
He froze.
It wasn't the first time she'd asked. It wouldn't be the last.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
He took a breath.
"Your mom," he said, "was the bravest person I ever knew."
She looked up at him with your eyes.
"She was funny," he continued. "She laughed with her whole body. She snored — don't tell anyone I told you that."
Your daughter giggled.
"She loved flowers. White lilies. She said they made her feel like spring even in winter."
"Like the ones at her funeral?"
His throat tightened.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Like those."
"She loved you?"
He hesitated.
"Yeah," he said. "She did. And I loved her. More than anything. More than I knew how to say."
"Then why did she marry someone else?"
He closed his eyes.
"Because I was stupid," he whispered. "Because I was scared. Because I thought I was protecting her, but I was really just hurting her. And by the time I realized, it was too late."
Your daughter was quiet for a moment.
"Do you still love her?"
He opened his eyes.
"Every single day," he said.
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Me too."
He wrapped his arm around her.
He thought about what you would say.
"You're doing okay, Satoru. She's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
He didn't know if he believed it.
But for the first time in years — he wanted to try.
He drove to the bridge where you had your first kiss.
It was 3 AM. The city was asleep. The stars were out — the ones you used to point at, the ones you'd name even though you always got them wrong.
He stood at the edge.
He looked down at the water.
He thought about how easy it would be. One step. That's all it would take. One step, and he wouldn't have to feel any of this anymore.
He thought about you.
He thought about the vows.
He thought about the line you'd written — the one you'd never told him, the one you'd said at your wedding, the one you'd meant for him.
Even when we're not in the same lifetime.
He wondered if you were waiting for him. If there was something after this. If he'd get to see you again.
He wondered if you'd forgive him.
He closed his eyes.
He leaned forward.
Just a little.
Just enough to feel the wind against his face.
And then—
He thought about your daughter.
Her eyes. Your eyes. The way she'd cried at both funerals.
He thought about what it would do to her. Losing him. The only parent she had left. The man who wasn't her father, but the man who'd raised her. The man who'd held her hand when she was scared. The man who loved her because she was yours.
He thought about what it would do to Shoko. Finding out this way.
He thought about what you would say.
"Satoru. Don't you dare."
He could hear your voice. So clearly. Like you were standing right next to him.
"Don't you dare leave like this. Don't you dare take the easy way out."
"She needs you. I need you to be there for her."
"I didn't fight to love you for you to throw it away."
He opened his eyes.
He stepped back.
He sat down on the cold concrete. His back against the railing. His legs stretched out in front of him.
He watched the stars fade as the sun started to rise.
The sky turned orange and pink — the kind of sunrise you used to drag him outside to see.
He thought about the last time he'd watched a sunrise with you. You'd made coffee. You'd wrapped a blanket around both of you. You'd leaned your head on his shoulder and said, "I want to watch every sunrise with you. For the rest of my life."
He'd said okay.
He'd meant it.
He broke that promise too.
He sat there until the sun was fully up.
Then he stood.
He drove home.
Your daughter was waiting.
He still goes to the bridge sometimes.
Not as often now. But sometimes.
On the hard days. On the days he can't remember your face. On the days he can't remember the sound of your laugh.
He sits on the cold concrete. He watches the sunrise. He pretends you're sitting next to him.
He talks to you.
"I dropped your daughter off at her university earlier," he says. "She's tall now. She has your eyes. She laughed at something her friend said. She sounded just like you."
The wind answers.
"She's in college now. She's studying art. Just like you wanted." He smiles — a small, sad smile. "She's so much like you, sweetheart. It breaks my heart every day."
The wind answers.
"Your husband — he was a good man. He loved you the way I should have. The way I couldn't. The way I was too scared to."
The wind answers.
"She calls me Dad now. The first time she did, I cried. I cried for three hours. I didn't tell her that. I told her I had allergies."
The wind answers.
"I read your journal again. I have a copy now. I made it before I left yours at the church. I couldn't let it go. I'm sorry. I know I should have let you go. I can't."
The wind answers.
"She asked me about you yesterday. She asked if you were proud of her. I said yes. I said you were always proud of her. I said you were watching. I didn't know if I was lying or not."
The wind doesn't answer.
It never does.
He stays until the sun is fully up.
Then he stands. Brushes off his pants. Puts his hands in his pockets.
He walks back to his car.
He drives back to the university.
Your daughter — his daughter — is waiting.
He was the strongest.
But he couldn't save himself from losing you.
And everyone else gets to heal.
Everyone else gets to move on.
Everyone else gets to forget.
He doesn't.
He can't.
He never will.
But now he has something to live for.
Not for himself.
For her.
For you.
For the promise he made at your funeral — the one he never told anyone about.
"I'll take care of her. I'll love her. I'll be there for her. For you. For both of you."
He does.
Every single day.
Because the strongest sorcerer alive still doesn't know how to let go of the only person who ever made him feel human.
But he learned how to carry the weight.
A/N. cred goes to @cursed-carmine for the beige div!! :D i hope you guys enjoyed this fic as much as i did <3
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3