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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru
synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.
contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably
notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P
The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.
Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.
“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.
“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.
“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”
“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”
You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”
“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”
You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”
He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”
“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”
He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”
You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.
His glasses are tilted again. Of course.
You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”
“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”
You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”
“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look.
“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”
You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”
It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.
He doesn’t say anything.
You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.
But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.
Another type. That’s not you.
“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”
He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”
“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”
He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”
“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”
He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”
You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.
You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.
But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.
So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”
He goes still.
His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.
“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”
His jaw tightens.
You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”
He finally turns to look at you.
His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.
You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.
Then he shrugs.
“…Nah.”
It slices through the air with quiet finality.
Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.
You laugh. It sounds forced.
“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”
He’s silent.
You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”
“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”
Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.
“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.
And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.
You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.
It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.
You’d been doomed since day one.
And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.
But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”
You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.
“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”
“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”
You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”
“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”
You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”
Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.
Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”
You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”
Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”
You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”
She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”
You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”
Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”
You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”
Utahime grinned.
“Whatcha doing?”
Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.
You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”
The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.
He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”
You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.
“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.
You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”
His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”
“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”
“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”
Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.
“Satoru!”
“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”
Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”
“Nothing~”
You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.
“Give it back!”
“Patience.”
“Gojo Satoru—”
“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.
You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.
“…What did you do?”
“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”
You narrow your eyes, suspicious.
“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”
“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”
“Good.”
The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.
You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”
He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”
You snort. “You are a guy.”
“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”
You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”
“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.
You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.
“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”
Silence.
It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.
Gojo freezes.
You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”
But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”
You blink.
And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.
“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”
You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.
You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.
Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.
You want to scream.
Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?
Yeah. Not going great.
Not at all.
You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.
Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.
“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”
You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.
But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.
When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.
He didn’t notice you at first.
Then he looked up.
His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.
“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”
You blinked. “Hi to you too.”
He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.
He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”
You blinked.
Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.
And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.
You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”
“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”
Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.
But the moment passed.
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”
Different.
Not better. Not prettier.
Just different.
You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.
“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.
In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines.
What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.
He didn’t even notice.
“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.
He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”
Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”
Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”
It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.
Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”
Exactly. That was the point.
You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.
“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”
Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—
Satoru.
In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.
You blink. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”
“At this café? On this side of campus?”
“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”
Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”
“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”
“…Kazuya.”
“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”
But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”
Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”
“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”
Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”
“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”
Gojo beams. “Told you.”
Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.
“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”
“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”
You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”
Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”
“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”
Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”
You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.
“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”
“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.
“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.
By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.
Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,
“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”
The question hangs awkwardly.
You and Satoru answer at the same time.
“No,” you say quickly.
“Yes,” he says with a smile.
You both turn to stare at each other.
“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”
Kazuya blinks. “Right.”
You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.
“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.
Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”
You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.
Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.
Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.
You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”
“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”
“By who?”
“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.
You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.
“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”
You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.
“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.
“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.
You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”
He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”
You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.
You don’t answer.
You don’t have to.
Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.
Almost good, even.
Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.
You let yourself believe it, just a little.
And that was your first mistake.
It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.
You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:
“So, guess who asked me out?”
You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”
“Ayane.”
The name hits you like a slap.
You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”
“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”
You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.
She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.
But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.
“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”
You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”
“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins.
Your stomach sinks.
This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.
But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.
“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.
Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.
It’s that he chose her.
Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.
You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.
He doesn’t follow.
You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.
For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.
You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”
You go silent.
And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.
You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.
It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.
And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.
You weren’t just losing your best friend.
You were losing the love of your life.
And he didn’t even notice.
It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.
Well—no. That’s a lie.
He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”
But he tells himself you’re busy.
Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.
So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.
But then Friday comes.
And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—
You’d be making fun of me right now.
You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.
Ayane is lovely.
But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.
She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.
He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.
Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.
And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.
He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.
No new messages.
Just the last one you sent days ago:
“Laundry. Rain check?”
And nothing since.
He waits. Another day. Then two.
You don’t show up to class again.
You don’t like his latest meme.
You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.
You are silent.
And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.
That he didn’t just lose a study partner.
He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.
The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.
And for the first time since he was a kid—
He’s afraid.
It’s been a little over a week.
A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.
And Satoru is suffering.
He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.
But you were always one step ahead.
You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.
Gojo Satoru is just tired.
Miserable.
So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.
You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.
“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.
He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”
You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”
Gojo looks down at his feet.
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.
Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”
You glance up.
“I can’t either.”
Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”
“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
The words stop him cold.
“What?” he breathes.
You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”
His heart stutters. You don’t stop.
“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”
He looks like he’s been hit.
“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”
You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.
And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.
Not yet.
Not until he stops you from walking away.
“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.
“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”
Your breath catches.
He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.
“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”
You gape.
“Wait—”
“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”
You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.
“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”
You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”
“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”
He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.
“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”
A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.
“You idiot,” you murmur.
“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”
Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.
“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”
You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.
“It’s not too late,” you whisper.
He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.
Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.
“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.
And then, finally, he kisses you.
It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..
When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”
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❝ soulmates are just one big, dumb theory, right? ❞
In which lovesick!nerdjo has secretly crushed on art student!reader since he met you in the last year of his bachelor's, protecting his rejection-fearing ass under a big ‘love is too plebian for me’ persona. He doesn't like you? No, no; he hates the idea of liking someone who doesn’t like him back in that all-consuming, cosmic-soulmates-destined-for-each-other, yin-needs-yang kind of way that he does.
ㅤwc ──── 3.7k
ㅤcws ──── pure fluff, unrequited -> requited love, pining, Satoru's a bit of an ass but he doesn't mean it, kiss scene so awkward but so cute, may have errors because I suck at proofreading
ㅤMORE ME | P.TAGLIST
So many girls have rejected him by now (you didn’t hear this from me), sometimes solely because of the fact that he’s simply too intense.
He wants love at first sight, the explosive chemistry, the we're-meant-for-each-other kiss, the knowing feeling at the center of his heart that he’s gonna be your husband one day and have five kids with you.
Crazy how a man can yearn for love so much, feel so much, and yet spend most his time cooped up in a stuffy lecture room enduring an uninspiring drawl from a pale-faced professor.
When he’s not suffocating in a physics lab or lonely classroom, or loitering in the halls with his best friend, he’s slipping back to his sulky dorm room to claim a moment of silence because god — nothing disturbs him quite like noise.
Satoru’s been so sensitive to noise, since he was little. Always perceived as a drama queen, or a diva, or a crybaby; but it truly gets to him.
He can’t stand it; the chatter, the birds, the city’s groans, a clank of silverware, a bad laugh, heels on brick. It causes his precious genius thoughts to disperse, and worse, pulls him out of his carefully-plotted daydreams of finding his one and only.
And what a coincidence that the idea of his soulmate happens to have your features, your hair, your walking gait, your laughter, your poetic way.
When I tell you that he’s been tormented from the moment he met you, it’s an understatement.
Head of white ducking the moment he caught sight of you, he walks straight backwards from the aisle you’re in, and hurries over to his best friend for reassurance.
“She’s over there.” Satoru points, whisper-shouting.
Baby blue eyes unblinking at Suguru, who is skimming through a fat calculus textbook.
A smooth voice replies, “Then go talk to her. She’s friendly; Shoko introduced me to her last week.”
“What! And not me?!”
Suguru mumbles, “... you tend to trash-talk the arts department, so I can see why...”
“—bitch, I love poetry!”
“Name one poet, Satoru.”
“Rachmaninov.”
“No.”
“Tchaikovsky?”
Suguru gawks. “Are you joking, or do you actually not know any?”
“Like you do!” Satoru hisses.
“T.S. Eliot, Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath...” Suguru lists off.
“Whatever, just—! The only poet I give a damn about is that one over there. Look, look! She was carefully crafted by angels, I swear to god!”
His best friend starts snickering, and Satoru grows frantic when he sees you heading for the library’s exit.
If you walk through that big wooden door, it’s impossible. It’s just impossible. He can’t fathom it. He’s got to introduce himself to you in that we-accidentally-bumped-into-each-other kind of way, it mustn’t seem like it’s on purpose — god, no!!
“You and Shoko fucking suck; I’ll introduce myself to her!”
“Go-go loverboy! I’ll be watching from here and laughing at you when you mess up, baby boy.” Suguru leans on his palm, eyes lidding at the hopeless romantic physicist.
Like a shy ghost, Satoru cranes his neck to get a good view of you, inching closer to your aisle with caution.
His heart hammers in his chest. Heat starts rising up through his body. Breathing hitching, stomach twisting — what kind of high-schooler reaction is this? Hell, did he even ever feel this way as a teenager?
Now, it’s peculiar at best to find a science student in the poetry section, and offensive at worst, because who are they to trespass on such sacred artistry?
With the way Satoru clumsily enters the aisle, it’s the latter. Those imposing, polished Oxford shoes are not making a good name for him. Neither is his upturned nose.
Why can’t he act any other way? He frustrates himself. It’s like his true self is trapped under this character he’s been playing since childhood. Truthfully, if anyone bothered to dig as deep as Suguru, they would find that he’s not haughty at all; actually, he’s rather amiable, in his opinion. Yeah, he’s got a nice smile, too. Very charismatic, very charming, in his opinion. And prodigiously intelligent — oh.
Satoru’s observing you, the way your fingertips drift across the shelf like a sweet caress before you finger out a wedged-in book. If only it was like in the movies; he’d love to show off his height and make your heart tick a little faster by pulling down a book that’s too out of reach for you. But that looks like it’s not gonna happen.
Stiffening like a statue, Satoru becomes aware of how coldly mechanical he seems and slackens his shoulders a bit, adopting a slight hunch as he sinks his trembling hands into his pockets.
Nothing is more impossible than this, trying to approach you.
What’s he so scared of? Why can’t he still his hand, why can’t he cool his blush?
Satoru inspires one long, deep breath, and exhales it shakily through his flared nostrils.
Just do it.
He approaches.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” you return, as any ordinary friendly stranger would.
Fuck.
He didn’t really plan past that. Now it’s all improvisation. And Satoru is a by-the-book kind of boy, not one improv bone in his body.
He tilts his head, “Dos-to-yev-sky?” — he pronounces — “Who’s that?”
“My favorite Russian author. Do you read?”
He responds, insulted, “Of course I read! Have you ever seen a calculus textbook? Could double up as a weapon. That thing is thick.”
You let out a laugh.
You let out a laugh and it makes his whole chest swell in triumph. He made you laugh, albeit very softly and over a poorly executed heat-of-the-moment joke — but this is good. This is very good.
He made your face light up when it was hanging so low; marriage should come in a few months time (sorry, he’s insane).
ㅤ⋆
And that was it; that was all it took for the story to begin. From then on, flames burst in his soul, and he always thought of you, from the bleak morning to his insomniac night.
But it’s only like that from his perspective; you’re complaining every day about Snooty Satoru and, as reciprocation for him talking-down your fellow artists, cussing out the entirety of the science department.
You may not be enamored, but he is.
It just doesn’t make sense, how his affection comes out as insults — he pushes you further away when really he wants to loop his arms around you and reel you into his warm chest.
His soul paws at you like a cat paws desperately at a closed door to open and let it in to the warmest room – and yet he acts completely aloof when actually stood before you, when his aphrodite appears in the flesh.
The boy's insufferable, pompous. Stiff like palm tree, swaying as awkwardly as one, too, in the breeze of your attention that he honestly can’t handle.
With the way his heavenly blues gleam behind those horn-rimmed glasses like you’re the only girl in his world, it's hard not to feel something tremble under your chest for the boy even if he mocks you at any given opportunity.
His charming dimples, so sweet on his cheek. Hands dainty yet enormous. Tallness made awkward with his poor posture.
It’s easy to hate him, and he’ll claw at any bit of your attention that he can get – so he fuels the fire, metaphorically slathers himself in gasoline and lets a lighted match drop to his feet.
Yes, just like that; hate him more more more until you accidentally fall miserably and irredeemably in love just like he has. Burn like he does, like a star, quaking and quivering for just one touch, just the traipse of a hand across his cheek, the brush of thigh against thigh, the artistic kiss.
Oh, it goes south so quickly; in a few months of knowing each other, he hits you with the "You're not my type." – he blurts it out stupidly and clamps his mouth shut in regret immediately, but his pride won’t let him correct his own bullshit.
So you believe you’re not his type — that’s fine, I guess, even if it squeezes your heart a little — but then you catch those violent blues casually clipping frames of your silhouette every chance they can. Then you find him seeking you out after every lecture, hair tousled from fisting at it throughout his draining lectures.
“Lunch? On me?”
“Sure, why not.”
It always goes like that; he says something painful, then rectifies it through gestures. Quality time. Pokes at your cheek all through lunch, gains attention from green-painted girls and boys when he slithers closer to you and steals a kiss of your cheek as a joke.
Oh, yeah, sure; ‘a joke’. Like a kiss doesn’t mean a million things.
And he's painfully nonchalant about feelings.
Right, like he reiterates; “Relationships are honestly? — sooo beneath me. I'm career-focused, that's why I'm top of the class, that's why I'm going to get somewhere in life—”
—that’s why he’s going through a mid-youth crisis over you, that’s why he’s totally unable to rub the visions of you out of his tired eyes at 1 AM when he's slaving over a due-tomorrow assignment from hell.
He can’t get you off his mind, or your lips, or the daydream of pushing his on yours and eating you up like it’s all he was meant to do, like he’s just a pathetic little bug chasing your glorious, heavenly shadow.
Love is beneath him, poetry is a waste— but oh then why is he scribbling poetry in the margins of his physics textbook, in imitation of your prose?
Every line is for you.
In your eyes I find home.
It’s like spring every time we meet.
And winter when I’m alone.
He’s an insufferable know-it-all, to the point he’s been nicknamed Hellish Hermione – but beneath his those lenses you can almost see the very moment he slips from this curated persona into something more like himself, something endearingly nerdy, childishly enthusiastic.
That’s when he drops his guard and begins spouting quantum-babble.
And wow, for someone who ‘doesn’t need company to be happy’ he sure as hell smiles big when you sit there and listen to him talk mathematics to you.
It’s like his way of flirting, you know? When he tells you ‘every quark flavour there is its antiquark’ he’s hoping you interpret it as “everybody has somebody’ and when he says ‘I want to be the anti-strange to your strange quark’ by that he’s actually saying ‘I love you’ – doesn’t make sense, does it?
Well, when has a physicist ever made sense except to other physicists, anyways...
He lights up so much that he nearly begins to glow, nearly vibrates as he sits cross-legged in his seat while he yaps your ear off about quantum-blah-blah.
Who cares about the polymaths that changed the world? Does it really matter to learn about theories that haven’t even been proven? Why worry that the universe might not be locally real?
Dunno.
But it matters to him. It’s his whole world, and he’s sharing it with you; that’s why you listen intently and why he relishes in your attention.
The stars matter as much to him as your pretty face does.
It’s as important to see them in the sky at night in their respective positions as it is for him to see you every morning on the dewy-grass quad before class. Every. Morning. Without fail. It’s his thirty minutes of heaven before hell.
Yes, you only ‘happen’ to visit his dormitory because you’re on good terms with his best friend, but when Suguru leaves the room, for some reason you fall into harmony with Satoru. Effortlessly so.
He’ll kick two feet up on his faux-wood desk, curl a pencil on his upper lip, and try to not-so-subtly show off his V-line by shifting his short sweater just a little further up his abdomen.
He’s silly.
Worse.
He has no idea how to communicate his feelings.
It’s like they get tangled and knotted by the time he translates them into words.
You’re realizing that more and more as you get to know him.
Yes, he scoffs at you; he scoffs at you more than anyone has ever scoffed at you in your life, when you don’t understand Euler’s theorem, when you don’t know the names of any of the great science daddies.
In fact, he goes so far as to ridicule your degree choice and bashes the entirety of the arts department as ‘daydreaming losers with the audacity to squander their daddy’s money’.
But then he’ll pause in apologetic silence before drawing a curious gaze to your sketchbook, and – with audacity – plop down on the dewy grass, nearly on top of you with how close he keeps, practically poking his nose in your spread-open sketchbook.
“What’s new? Show me. Ooh, I liiike this one.” – against your wishes he’ll pluck it right out of your hands and skim the pages like he’s grading them – “Good, very good. You’re improving. Nice shading. Foreshortening needs a little work, though. Wait, is that supposed to be me? Why have you titled it ‘the campus anus?’...? Oh you think you’re funny, huh? — what are these annotations?! LANKY?! FLAT-ASSED?! — Oh, big chest? Handsome face? Hehe. You doll. C’mere and smooch me already— owowowow. Sorry. Okay. No kiss for Toru. I get it. You prefer Suguru’s fat ass, is that it? Well, for your information, I have a bigger c—OWWW, MY HANDSOME FACE!”
ㅤ⋆
This mad scientist so casually drops an invitation to his birthday party.
That “Come if you want to. Or don’t. ’S cool either way.” was said with a shrug, without eye contact, yet the stifled strain in his voice crisply underlined his feelings.
He really really really really really really wanted you to come to his birthday party.
Suguru’s palming at Satoru’s back, soothing the big crybaby who pouts – yes, pouts – that “She’s not coming. Why! I invited her... does she not like me? I give up on this game. I feel stupid. She must think I’m an asshole. Oh my god...”
He spirals further, another ten minutes passing by in which Shoko and Suguru and Nanami all band together to calm down the drama queen birthday boy.
Then the relief in the air is nearly palpable they hear a knock at the door.
Then Satoru is no longer curled up on the couch.
Then he’s springing to life like a flower freshly bloomed. “DON’T OPEN THE DOOR I’VE GOT IT I’VE GOT IT — how do I look, is my hair okay? Fuck. Okay.”
You’re greeted with a froggy smile. A pair of blue eyes blown so wide open that the whites show all around the irises. Pupils dilated, like he can’t get enough of you.
Just like that, it’s like his soul is desperately sucking on yours through a straw. You’re his object of sincerest, adoring obsession for the rest of the night. What are his friends snickering in the kitchen about? Who knows. Who cares. He’s got you all to himself. He’s gonna shamelessly hog all your attention.
You give him his gift; a tiny square piece of paper on which you’ve carefully drawn Satoru as a frog.
“N’aw you were thinkin’ of me, huh? Didn’t I tell you... gifts are against the rules. What is this? Oh. Real funny. I do not look like a fuckin’ frog.”
His heart throbs. It actually fucking throbs.
Why are you so soft, so sweet? He can hardly relish in it enough, how you spent time drawing him – fuck, that means he was on your mind the whole time the pencil pressed to that paper. He felt like some sort of triumphant parasite, worming into your mind despite being nothing but a brat for semester after semester.
The next time you visit Satoru and Suguru’s dorm to return a borrowed book, you see your drawing pegged on the physicist’s strangely artistic string, along with the accumulating photos of you and him.
Huh. Funny, isn’t it? The duo that’s made it in the books as ‘worst enemies’ has made all these memories together.
And they’re smiling in every photo...
ㅤ⋆
He's hot on bragging about being top of his class, claiming to be lightyears ahead of every one else.
Then the baby blue-eyed prodigy visibly deflates the moment you’ve got to leave for class.
“I’m coming, too. Yeah, I wanna see what you nerds get up to in art school – gonna get freaky about Monet. Relax, I won’t get kicked out. Why would I be embarrassing! Okay. I’ll hold my tongue. Just for you.”
He got kicked out.
Your professor nearly let it slide until she heard his trumpeting laugh from the back of the classroom, so painfully loud that she ordered him out instantly.
So much for incognito.
The whispers started from then.
Rumors that you and Satoru were a thing.
ㅤ⋆
You’re rounding the pound at the center of the quad, furiously arguing about the rumors and furiously blushing at one another and furiously trying to close to distance between each other to the point you’re rubbing shoulders.
“I say we give the people what they want. We should make out.” he suggests — is it really a joke this time when he looks so longingly at your lips?
“Satoru, you’re sooo cringe.”
“Only when I open my mouth! Promise ’m not a lousy kisser. Just gimmie a chance, please? I’ll only steal one — one kiss of those pretty lips and I’ll stop bugging you.”
“Fine then.”
Oh fuck.
He didn’t expect to get this far.
He thought his rejection was nigh.
What fluctuation in the universe could have caused this?
Golden hour spills over the green expanse of the campus quad, koi quivering in the pond at the center where you and Satoru idle.
He has to bend down. Not just lean over a little — no; he has to assume the most egregious, spine-torturing posture ever just to meet you at your level. His back already carries that dull ache from sitting shrimp-arched over in the computer room for most the day.
For him, it felt like it took 3-5 working days to reach you.
And when he connected his lips to yours? Magic happened.
Yes, he bumped noses awkwardly. Yes, he was close to clashing teeth with you, like this was his first kiss all over again except minus the braces.
But the way he stroked at your cheek and cupped it in the palm of his gentle hand and held you like you were made of porcelain, it sent goosebumps down your skin in a way you haven’t felt in years.
Soft and quivering, his lips melded to yours.
And so what if he whimpered a little?
It was sweet. It was innocent. This was Satoru at his most vulnerable; lips connected with the love he’s sought out like a lonely puppy.
His heart is leaping. Stomach twisting. Heat scalding his cheeks and pinching at the very tips of his ears, as he tilts into the kiss to deepen it.
And my god, when he does that — when he kisses you just so right like that — it feels like the whole world stills to a quiet halt at last.
The noise of the world isn’t rattling his brain anymore. His thoughts are not dispersing. He’s focused.
His hand trembles softly upon your cheek, like he’s scared if he presses into you too hard that you will recoil at his intensity. He’s been locking that part of himself away. But now? It’s much too close to bursting forth from him.
But he breaks when he feels you deepen the kiss, pressing up on him chest to chest to the point he swore he could feel how hard your heart was beating.
His arms engulf you so softly, so carefully. It’s just the soft smacking of lips, tiny breaths inspired in between, and his warm breath mingling with yours.
Perfect. Your lips feel perfect. A kiss has never felt this right before.
The sun’s watching, clouds too, maybe one or two students passing by spare a dull curious glance. But nothing else exists to him right then but you; you’re the only real thing in his mind.
The universe that he’s been wracking his brains trying to figure out, scratched his head over, theories he’s been chasing since he was a kid, they all melt away because finally the theory of finding a soulmate is proven when he kisses you.
And it’s funny to you. Just that morning you were hardcore debating if romance died with the last great poets.
But lo and behold; it was alive on a physicist’s lips.
He lets out a boyish chuckle when he releases you from his lock, eyes alive with affection as he stares down at you, penetrating right into your soul.
Something is shimmering in those blues.
“I think I just had a eureka moment.” he admits.
“What, a little kiss enlightened you?” you tease, palming at his chest. “I thought all this was ‘beneath’ you?”
His hands come to a rest at the rise of your hips.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice lowering, “soulmates are just one big, dumb theory,”
God knows what causes him to blurt out this cheesy line, and many poets shed a tear from the heavens out of sheer pain at it;
“but y’think I could steal a few more kisses off ya ’till I can prove true love exists?”
“Satoru, you’re so cringe.”
“But you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Wait, really?! You do?!”
You smack at his chest and break away, “Honestly!”
His grin is massive, spanning ear to ear. With his index finger, he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“Theory: proven.”
You’re walking away, voice raising;
“You fuckin’ nerd!”
“But you’re into nerds!”
“UNFORTUNATELY.” you yell, now halfway across the quad. “Now stop following me, I’m going to class. See you later.”
“For a date?” he hopes, “I’ll spoil you!”
“No way!”
“Yes way! We’re soulmates! I’ve just proven it!”
“NERD. GOODBYE.”
ㅤan ──── A bit of an unexpected fic that I wrote overnight. I said this on my prof!Gojo fic (18+), but i have a deep fondness for physics students, or anyone who likes debating physics at 3 AM. I have a story based on a physics student and an artist that focuses on soulmate theory, so writing this made me feel a bit emotional and I realized that I have not written much of my own stories. Oh well!! I hope this was a fun read 💗
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