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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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."
"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.
"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?"
"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."
"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.
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."
"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.
"nothing." you giggled. "just... choso."
"yeah, he's good, right? my cousin's obsessed."
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.
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.
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."
"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."
"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
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.
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.
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?"
"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
