Every time a new EGO comes out that people deem “out of character” (which is in quotes because every time I’ve seen this it’s been ooc to a sort of cardboard cutout vision of the character, rather than the full view of them) people seem to forget that EGO involves resonating with an aspect of the corresponding Abnormality and corrosion involves that Abnormality’s influence taking over more than it should
synopsis. The sunrise still comes. Every day. He hates it. Because you're not there to watch it with him. All he has left is a photo — worn soft, ink smudged, carried everywhere. He opens his wallet. He closes it. He opens it again. He can't stop. — A companion to "Golden Hour (and Saltwater Kisses)."
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (reader death), grief, mourning, angst with NO comfort, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, crying, tissues required, you will NOT be okay after this
part 1. please read "Golden Hour (and Saltwater Kisses)" here!
word count. 3k+
A/N. this is the optional angst ending to part one (this is not canon to the series: "Satoru as Your Boyfriend: The Series.") DO NOT READ IF YOU WANT TO BE HAPPY. you have been warned. i'm sorry in advance.
The sunrise still comes.
Every day. Without fail. Without mercy.
He hates it.
He used to love sunrises — back when you were here, back when you'd groan and shove your face into the pillow and call him insane for waking you up at 2 AM. He'd drag you to the beach anyway. He'd carry you to the car when you fell asleep, your head heavy on his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. He'd watch the sky turn gold and think: "This is it. This is happiness."
Now he watches the sun rise from his apartment. Alone.
The curtains are half-closed. He hasn't opened them fully in months. The room is dark, even when the sun is up. He tells himself he likes it that way.
It's a lie.
Because the darkness doesn't save him. The darkness doesn't hide anything. The darkness has your face.
He closes his eyes. You're there — smiling, laughing, rolling your eyes at him. He opens them. You're still there — a ghost in the shadows, a memory burned into the back of his eyelids.
He can't escape you.
He doesn't want to.
But sometimes — in the dark, in the quiet, in the moments between sleeping and waking — he wishes the grief would stop squeezing his chest.
It never does.
He doesn't go to the beach anymore.
He tried once. A year after. He drove there at 2 AM, the same time he used to wake you. He sat in the car for an hour, staring at the waves, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.
He couldn't get out.
He couldn't walk on the sand where you'd walked. He couldn't look at the water where you'd laughed and shrieked and called him insane. He couldn't sit on the spot where he'd taken that photo — the one he now carried everywhere, the one that was falling apart in his hands.
He drove home.
He hasn't tried again.
He carries it everywhere.
Not his phone — he leaves that on the counter, the screen dark, notifications piling up unread. Not his keys — he doesn't go anywhere that requires locking up anymore.
Just his wallet.
It's worn now. The leather is soft, cracked at the edges from being opened and closed too many times. The stitching is coming loose in three places. A corner is bent from being shoved into pockets too fast, pulled out too many times. He should replace it. He won't.
Inside, there's no money. No cards. No ID. He took them all out months ago. They meant nothing. They were just plastic and paper, replaceable, forgettable.
Only one thing matters.
A photo.
It's almost unrecognizable now. The colors have faded — the gold of the sunrise is now a pale yellow, the blue of the sky a washed-out grey. The edges are soft, blurred from being touched too many times. The paper is thin, worn through in some places, like the spots where his thumb has traced your face over and over and over again.
The ink has smudged. Not from rain. From tears.
He's cried over this photo more times than he can count. In the car. In the bathroom. In bed, when the other side is cold and he can't pretend you're just in the other room anymore.
You're mid-eye-roll. Mid-smile.
He took it that morning. The morning he'd called you beautiful and you'd rolled your eyes and he'd clicked the shutter anyway. He'd told you it was his favorite. His everything.
He meant it.
He's never meant anything more.
He goes back once.
Just once.
It's 2 AM. The same time he'd woken you up all those years ago. The same moon hangs low over the water. The same stars scatter across the sky. The same waves crash against the shore, endless and patient and utterly indifferent to his grief.
The beach is empty.
He walks to the spot — the exact spot, he's sure of it. He's replayed that morning in his head so many times that he's memorized every detail. The way the sand felt beneath his feet. The way the water lapped at his ankles. The way you'd looked at him when he pulled out the camera, half-annoyed, half-in-love.
He sits down.
The sand is cold. It hasn't changed.
He takes out his wallet.
Opens it.
Looks at your face.
The photo is almost gone now. The paper is so thin he can see light through it. Your smile is faded, your eyes are blurred, the curve of your cheek is barely visible.
But he knows it by heart.
He knows the exact angle of your eyebrow when you rolled your eyes at him. He knows the exact shape of your lips when you laughed — that bright, beautiful sound he'll never hear again. He knows the exact way the sunrise caught your hair, turning it gold, making you look like something from a dream.
He presses his thumb to the photo. Right where your cheek would be.
"Hey," he whispers.
The waves don't answer.
"Sunrise is in a few hours. Remember, sweetheart? You used to complain about the time. Said I was insane." He laughs — a hollow, broken sound that echoes across the empty beach. "You were right. I was insane. Insane about you."
He traces your face. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.
"I miss you," he says.
The words hang in the air. No one hears them.
He stays until the sun comes up.
The gold spreads across the water. The clouds turn pink. The world wakes up without you.
He doesn't take a single picture.
He can't.
The camera is at home, buried in the back of his closet, under a box of things he can't bear to look at. He hasn't touched it since that morning. He doesn't know if he ever will.
He watches the sunrise alone.
And when it's over, he stands up, brushes the sand off his pants, and walks back to his car.
He doesn't look back.
He can't.
The camera is in his closet.
It's been there for years. Buried under a pile of old clothes — your old clothes, the ones he couldn't throw away, the ones that still smell like you if he presses his face into them and breathes deep.
The lens is dusty. The strap is tangled. The memory card is still inside.
He knows he should look at the photos. He knows he should print them, frame them, keep them somewhere safe where he can see your face every day.
He can't.
Because the last photo — the one he called "my everything" — is already in his wallet. It's the only one he can bear to look at. The rest are too much.
The rest are proof that you were real.
That you existed.
That he had you — your laugh, your voice, your hand in his — and he lost you.
There's a photo of you eating a strawberry, juice dripping down your chin, your eyes wide with surprise. He'd taken it without you noticing.
There's a photo of you sleeping in the car, your head against the window, your lips slightly parted. He'd taken it while you were dreaming, his heart so full it hurt.
There's a photo of the two of you, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest, the sunrise gold behind you. He'd set the timer and run to your side, and you'd laughed at him for tripping over the sand.
He can't look at them.
He closes the closet door.
He doesn't open it again.
The apartment is too quiet.
It wasn't always like this. Before, it was filled with your laugh — that bright, beautiful sound that echoed off the walls and made him smile even on his worst days. Your voice, calling his name from the other room. Your footsteps, padding across the floor in the middle of the night when you couldn't sleep.
You'd leave your shoes by the door — always in the way, always tripping him. He'd complain. You'd apologize. Neither of you meant it.
You'd steal his hoodies — the black one, the one that was too big for you, the one that swallowed you whole. He'd find them in your closet, folded neatly, still warm from your body. He'd press them to his face and breathe you in.
You'd fall asleep on the couch watching movies — bad ones, the ones you knew he hated — and he'd carry you to bed, your head on his shoulder, your arms around his neck, your breath warm against his skin.
Now the shoes are gone.
The hoodies are folded in a box at the back of his closet, next to the camera. He can't bring himself to open it. He can't bring himself to throw them away.
The couch is empty.
He sleeps on one side of the bed.
The other side is cold.
He hasn't washed the sheets on that side in years. He can't. They still smell like you — faintly, barely, just a whisper of your shampoo, your skin, your presence.
He presses his face into your pillow sometimes. In the dark. When the grief is so heavy he can't breathe.
He pretends you're still there.
He pretends you're just in the other room.
He pretends he'll hear your voice any moment now, calling his name, laughing at something stupid he said.
But the silence never breaks.
He reaches for you in his sleep. His hand finds empty air. He wakes up with his arm stretched across the cold sheets, his fingers curled around nothing.
He doesn't stop reaching.
They notice, of course.
How could they not?
He's different now. Quieter. He doesn't joke anymore. Doesn't tease. Doesn't ruffle Yuji's hair or argue with Nobara or smirk at Megumi from across the room.
He just... exists.
He teaches. He trains. He goes through the motions. But there's no light in his eyes — no warmth, no mischief, no life.
Yuji is the first to say something.
"Gojo-sensei," he says one day, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. They're in the training yard. The sun is setting. The sky is gold.
Satoru looks at him. The boy's eyes are worried. Kind. Too kind.
"Are you okay?" Yuji asks.
Satoru opens his mouth to say the usual lie — I'm fine — but the words won't come.
He looks at the sky. At the gold. At the sunset that looks too much like a sunrise, too much like that morning, too much like you.
"No," he says finally. His voice cracks. "I'm not."
Yuji doesn't know what to say. He's just a kid. He's not supposed to carry this weight.
But he steps forward anyway. He puts a hand on Satoru's arm.
"I'm sorry," Yuji says quietly. "I didn't know her. But I know she must have been amazing. Because you —" He stops. Swallows. "You loved her so much."
Satoru closes his eyes.
He doesn't cry. Not here. Not in front of them.
But when he opens his eyes again, they're wet.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I did."
Nobara doesn't ask.
She just watches him — the way he forgets to eat, the way he stares at nothing, the way his hands shake when he thinks no one is looking.
She starts leaving snacks on his desk. Rice balls. Sandwiches. Little things she knows he won't eat but hopes he will.
He never eats them.
But he never throws them away either.
They sit on his desk until they go bad, and then she replaces them with new ones, and the cycle continues.
She doesn't say anything.
She doesn't have to.
Megumi says nothing at all.
But one day, he finds Satoru sitting alone in the dark.
It's late — or early, he can't tell. The lights are off. The blinds are drawn. Satoru is on the floor, his back against the bed, his wallet open in his hands.
There's a photo in his wallet. Megumi can see it from the doorway — worn soft, ink smudged, barely visible.
He knows who it is.
He's seen it before. Years ago, when you were still here, when Satoru would pull it out to show him, his voice bright with pride.
"Look, Megumi. Isn't she beautiful?"
Megumi had rolled his eyes. But he'd looked. And he'd thought: "Yes. She is."
Now Satoru's face is wet. Silent tears slipping down his cheeks. He's not making any sound — just sitting there, staring at the photo, his thumb tracing the outline of your face.
Megumi doesn't say anything.
He just walks into the room, sits down on the floor beside Satoru, and leans his shoulder against his.
They stay like that for a long time.
Silent. Together.
Satoru doesn't close his wallet.
Megumi doesn't ask him to.
It's late. Or early. He can't tell anymore.
Time has lost its meaning. Days blur together. Weeks disappear. He measures time in sunrises now — each one a reminder that you're gone, that you're never coming back, that the world keeps turning without you.
He's sitting on the floor of the bedroom. His back against the bed. His legs stretched out in front of him.
The wallet is open in his hands.
The photo is almost gone now. The paper is so thin it's translucent. The ink has bled so much he can barely see your face — just a soft, faded blur of color, a ghost of a smile, an echo of an eye-roll.
But he knows it by heart.
He closes his eyes and pictures you. The exact shade of your eyes. The exact curve of your lips. The exact sound of your laugh — bright and surprised and full of joy.
He presses the photo to his lips.
"I love you," he whispers.
The words are worn soft, like the photo. He's said them so many times — to you, to the empty room, to the silence, to the sunrise — that they've lost their shape. But not their meaning.
Not their meaning.
He thinks about that morning. The beach. The cold water. The way you'd shrieked and grabbed his arm and called him insane. The way you'd laughed when his sandcastle collapsed.
He thinks about the photo he took. The one where you're mid-eye-roll, mid-smile, the sunrise gold behind you.
He'd called it his everything.
He meant it.
He's never meant anything more.
He closes his wallet.
He opens it again.
He looks at your face — what's left of it — and his chest constricts, his throat tightens, his eyes burn.
He doesn't cry.
Not yet.
He just looks.
And looks.
And looks.
He can't stop.
He'll never stop.
The sunrise comes.
It always comes.
He watches it from the window — the gold spreading across the sky, the clouds turning pink, the world waking up without you.
He used to think sunrises were beautiful.
Now he thinks they're cruel.
Because you're not here.
Because you'll never be here again.
Because they won't bring you back to his arms.
Because the only thing he has left is a crumpled, ink-smeared photo in a worn-out wallet, and it's not enough. It's never enough.
He takes out the photo.
He looks at your face — the soft blur of your smile, the faded gold of the sunrise, the ghost of the woman he loved.
And for the first time in months — years — he cries.
Not the silent kind. Not the kind where tears slip down his cheeks and he wipes them away before anyone notices.
The kind where he breaks.
The kind where his shoulders shake and his chest heaves and sobs tear out of his throat, raw and ugly and desperate.
The kind where he buries his face in his hands and cries until there's nothing left.
He cries for the mornings he'll never have. For the sunrises you'll never see. For the future you were supposed to have together — the wedding, the children, the old age, the hand-holding until the very end.
He cries for the photo that's falling apart. For the memory that's fading. For the way he can't quite remember the sound of your laugh anymore, no matter how hard he tries.
He cries until the sun is fully up.
He cries until he falls asleep on the floor, the wallet still open, the photo still in his hand.
When he wakes up, the light has shifted. The room is quiet. The photo is crumpled, wet with tears, the ink smudged beyond recognition.
He doesn't care.
He puts it back in his wallet.
He closes it.
He opens it again.
He can't stop.
He never will.
The sunrise still comes.
Every day.
He still hates it.
But he gets up anyway. He puts on his shoes — the same ones he wore that morning, the ones with sand still in the soles. He grabs his wallet. He walks to the door.
And for the first time in years, he goes back to the beach.
The drive is long. The roads are empty. The sky is still dark when he arrives.
The sand is cold. The waves are loud. The stars are fading.
He walks to the spot. The same spot. He knows it by heart.
He sits down.
The sun rises.
Gold spreads across the water. Pink bleeds into the clouds. The world wakes up.
He takes out his wallet.
He opens it.
Your face is gone now — just a soft, faded blur of color. The ink has bled too much. The paper is too worn. He can't see you anymore.
But he remembers.
He'll always remember.
He closes his eyes and listens to the waves.
And for a moment — just a moment — he swears he hears you laugh.
"Hey, sleepyhead."
His eyes snap open.
The beach is empty.
The sun is warm on his face.
He looks down at the photo. At the blur that used to be your smile. At the ghost of the woman he loved.
He smiles.
Just a little.
Just for you.
"Hey," he whispers back.
The waves answer.
And for the first time in years — the first time since you left — he doesn't feel quite so alone.
A/N. i'm sorry. i'm really sorry. i cried multiple times writing this, i couldn't open this draft for days cz my heart ached so much 🥹 i hope you enjoyed reading this.
P.S, did anyone notice how the header image for part 2, miaoyi looks away from yiran just like how you left satoru? while in part 1 the header image shows yiran looked at the camera and not miaoyi? that's because satoru thought he still had time left with you.
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
