#seen

[feral-ballad]

Carrie Fountain, from Burn Lake; “Burn Lake 4”

[yeesiine]

Making someone feel seen, heard and understood is the loudest way to love them.

[kikker-oma]

[love-romance-relationships]

[kxsagi]

“𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧”

a/n: quick drabble because i am so tired of people mischaracterizing his character, and like don’t get me wrong, we go crazy over him for a reason, but when you strip all that away – the hype, the power status, the “he’s literally untouchable” thing – and just let him be a person? it’s so much more devastating. 

because gojo isn’t just attractive or strong – he’s lonely, in a way that never gets acknowledged. everyone wants something from him. everyone expects something from him. so when someone just sits with him, doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t worship him? i believe that’s the kind of intimacy that would actually undo him. 

ac goes to mossmaybe1 on X

they speak his name like a prayer. 

like something sacred, untouchable – like if they say it enough times with enough reverence, they might borrow a fraction of his divinity. 

the strongest. 

it follows him everywhere, stitched into every introduction, every whisper, every expectation. 

it hangs off his shoulders heavier than any curse ever could, yet he wears it like it weighs nothing at all – smiling, joking, dazzling. satoru gojo, the man who tilts the world’s balance just by existing. 

and you hate it. 

not him, never him. just the way they look at him. like he isn’t allowed to be anything else. 

because you’ve seen the cracks. 

not the kind anyone else notices. not the ones hidden behind blindfolds or infinity or that infuriating, perfect grin. yours are quieter discoveries. softer. 

the way he lingers a second too long when conversations drift to the past. the way his laughter sometimes comes a beat too late, like he’s remembering how it’s supposed to sound. the way silence doesn’t sit comfortably with him unless you’re there. 

you don’t call him “the strongest.” 

you call him satoru. 

and the first time you did, he blinked like you’d said something absurd. like you’d misread the script everyone else followed so perfectly. there was no awe in your voice. no expectation. just his name, plain and simple, as if it belonged to a man and not a myth. 

he didn’t know what to do with that. 

so he laughed it off, of course. leaned closer, teasing, testing – waiting for you to correct yourself, to fall in line like everyone else eventually does. 

you never did. 

and somehow, that’s what unraveled him. 

because you don’t look at him like he’s untouchable. you look at him like he’s… human. like the distance he keeps between himself and everything else doesn’t apply to you. like you can see past the infinity without even trying. 

it unsettles him more than any curse ever has. 

“you’re staring,” he says one evening, sprawled across your couch like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there. his blindfold’s off, tossed carelessly aside, those sky-filled eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

“you look tired,” you reply. 

not you look invincible. not you look amazing. just tired. 

he goes quiet. 

it’s subtle, the way the air shifts. the way his fingers twitch like he’s about to deflect, to joke, to turn it into something lighter, easier, safer. 

but he doesn’t. 

“i don’t get tired,” he says instead, too quickly, too rehearsed. 

you hum, unconvinced, and it echoes louder than any argument. 

because that’s the thing – everyone believes him. everyone accepts what he says at face value because it’s easier that way. easier to believe the strongest doesn’t falter, doesn’t break, doesn’t feel. 

you don’t. 

you lean back beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his, close enough that he can feel the steady rhythm of your breathing. grounding. real. 

“you don’t have to be that with me,” you murmur. 

he turns his head then, slowly, like the motion itself is fragile. like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter. 

“be what?” he asks, quieter now. 

you meet his gaze, unflinching. “untouchable.” 

it lands somewhere deep. somewhere he’s spent years pretending doesn’t exist. 

for a second – just one – his expression slips. the smile fades, the sharpness dulls, and there’s something achingly young in his eyes. not the strongest. not a god. just a boy who learned too early that being seen meant being used, being needed, being alone. 

you don’t reach for him. you don’t have to. 

because he’s the one who closes the distance. 

it’s hesitant, almost clumsy – the way his hand brushes yours, like he’s unsure of the rules, like he’s expecting the universe to correct him for wanting something so painfully ordinary. your fingers intertwine without hesitation, and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for years. 

“you’re weird,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. just something soft, something grateful. 

you smile, squeezing his hand. “you love it.” 

he huffs a quiet laugh, and this time, it’s real. no delay. no performance. 

just satoru. 

a man that can’t deny that you’re right. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[ksjanes]

“While there is perhaps a province in which the photograph can tell us nothing more than what we see with our own eyes, there is another in which it proves to us how little our eyes permit us to see.” ~Dorothea Lange

[dumblr]

“I was looked at, but I wasn't seen.”

— Albert Camus, The Misunderstanding