⋆˙⟡𝕄𝕚𝕜𝕒⋆˙⟡

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!reader Genre: Childhood friends to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending. Word Count: 5K Warnings: Alcohol use, mentions of death (Geto), minor violence, heavy angst, comfort, injury, follows canon story.

December 7th, 1996

The Gojo clan estate wasn't a home, it was a cage designed to contain the world’s most powerful anomaly. December 7th, 1996, was the day the world was meant to bow to the 'Great Satoru.' Inside, the air was thick, clogged with expensive incense and the desperate ambition of sorcerers. They had all come to buy favor, hoping to bury the young heir under a mountain of gold and silk.

In the center of the main hall, seven year old Satoru sat perched on a raised dais. Surrounded by towering piles of offerings intended to impress his parents, he looked less like a child and more like a miniature deity.

Speaking of his parents, they were currently lost in a high-stakes huddle with a ranking elder. Their backs were turned, their minds fully immersed in the suffocating politics of the jujutsu world. To them, Satoru was their golden ticket to cementing the Gojo clan as the undisputed peak of the Big Three. To Satoru, however, they were just two more tall people blocking his view of the exit.

Then, his Six Eyes caught a flicker of movement across the crowded room.

Underneath a long table draped in heavy white linen, a pair of small, quick hands reached up. With practiced precision, the hands snagged a daifuku, the premium, strawberry-filled kind, before vanishing back into the shadows.

Satoru didn’t hesitate. He slipped off his seat, his footsteps completely swallowed by the chaotic drone of the party. He trailed that faint signature of energy through the back corridors, weaving past frantic kitchen servants, until he stepped out into the biting, crisp air of the inner garden.

There, crouched against the cold stone wall, was the thief. It was a girl in a faded kimono, her hair a bit of a mess, staring at the stolen sweet with a look of pure adoration.

"That’s a high-grade dessert for a low-grade servant," Satoru noted, leaning casually around the corner.

"AH!"

You nearly jumped out of your skin, the daifuku slipping from your grip. You managed to catch it against your chest at the very last second, spinning around to glare at whoever had ruined your victory. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, but your eyes flashed with immediate, unearned defiance.

"You nearly made me drop it!" you hissed. You didn't seem to notice (or care) that this boy was draped in silks that cost more than your father’s yearly wages.

"Who do you think you are, sneaking up on people like a stalker?"

Satoru actually blinked. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Usually, people couldn't even look him in the eye without a visible tremor. He tilted his head, those impossibly bright blue eyes scanning you for a long beat.

"I’m the one who technically owns that snack," he pointed out with a smug little smirk. "And the table it came from, along with the house it’s in."

The realization hit you then. This was the "God" child. You looked down at the sweet, then back up at his pale, expectant face. You knew you were probably supposed to bow or apologize, but your pride was feeling even hungrier than your belly.

"Well, you’ve got a hundred more inside," you countered, clutching the daifuku protectively. "But since you followed me all the way out here, you clearly want this one."

You let out a dramatic sigh and tore the soft cake in half with a messy, sticky squish. You held the larger piece out toward him.

"Here. Half for the 'owner,' and half for the person who actually did the hard work of stealing it. Deal?"

Satoru stared at the mangled, doughy lump in your hand. It was messy, completely informal, and broke every rule of etiquette he’d ever been taught.

He loved it.

"Deal," he said. He reached out, took the piece, and popped it into his mouth. The sweetness exploded on his tongue, tasting infinitely better than the stiff, formal meals he’d been forced to choke down all morning.

He sat down on the grass right next to you, not giving a second thought to the dirt staining his pristine white hakama. "I’m Satoru. What’s your name, thief?"

The silence of the garden was a massive relief compared to the suffocating noise of the party. For a while, the only sound was the quiet chewing of two seven-year-olds sitting in the dirt. As Satoru finished his half, his blue eyes drifted across the garden. He felt strangely... light. Usually, the world felt way too "loud." Between the endless cursed energy signatures and the raw data flooding his brain, it was a lot to handle. But your presence felt different. It was simple.

You introduced yourself, using your sleeve to wipe a smudge of powdered sugar off your chin. You gave him a side glance, eyeing the expensive fabric of his clothes.

"Aren't you supposed to be inside? My dad says today is a very important day for you."

Satoru snorted, leaning back on the concrete wall to watch the winter sky.

"My dad says every day is the most important day of my life. It gets boring. People just come to stare at me like I’m some kind of statue."

You tilted your head. "Do they give you the snacks, at least?"

"They give them to my parents," he grumbled. "I just have to sit there and look 'untouchable' or whatever."

You looked at the last scrap of daifuku in your hand, then back at the boy who was supposed to be a god but sounded like a kid who just wanted to be a kid. Without saying a word, you reached into the deep pocket of your kimono and pulled out a small, slightly dented wooden spinning top.

"Here," you said, shoving it toward him.

Satoru stared at it as if you’d handed him a live grenade. "What is it?"

"It’s a top, dummy. Haven't you ever seen one?" You scoffed, scooting closer until your shoulders brushed.

"The trick is all in the flick of the wrist. If you time it right, it’ll spin all the way across the stone path."

Satoru reached out, his fingers hovering just millimeters from the wood. His Infinity usually kept the entire world at a distance, a constant, invisible wall between him and everything else. But looking at your face, totally unimpressed by his status and waiting for him to play, he consciously let the technique flicker off.

He took the top. It was still warm from being in your pocket.

"Show me," he commanded, though the usual arrogance in his voice had softened into something that sounded a lot like genuine curiosity.

For the next hour, the strongest sorcerer of his generation wasn't pretending to be a god. Instead, he was hunched over a stone walkway, his tongue poked out in total concentration, trying his best to beat a servant’s daughter at a game of tops.

Every time he messed up, you laughed, a loud sound that would have gotten you a lecture from any elder in the house. Every time he succeeded, he let out a triumphant "Hah!" that echoed over the compound walls.

"Satoru-sama!"

A panicked voice drifted from the garden entrance. His absence had finally been noticed, the prize had gone missing.

Satoru didn't jump or look worried. He simply tucked the wooden top into his expensive silk sash and looked at you. There was a spark in his eyes that hadn't been there in years.

"You're coming back tomorrow, right?" he asked.

You stood up, dusting the dirt off your kimono, and gave him a feisty grin. "Only if you bring more of those cakes. I’m not playing for free."

Satoru laughed, a real, honest, childish sound. "Deal. I’ll steal some just for you."

As he turned to face the frantic servants, he didn't feel like a god-child being hauled back onto a pedestal. He felt like a boy who had finally found someone who saw the person behind the power.

___________________________________________________________

September 14th, 2006

The atmosphere inside the elders' hall was like stepping into a tomb. The air was stale, smelling of old paper and the cold, damp scent of old shadows. Behind the bamboo screens, the silhouettes of the higher-ups sat like statues, judgmental and detached.

"A special assignment," the voice from the center screen droned. "An isolated village in the mountains of Miyagi. Reports of a Grade 1 curse, though the 'Windows' suggest it may be evolving. Since the Great Satoru is... occupied with his duties here, we believe it is time you proved your standing without his shadow looming over you."

You knew what they were doing. Or, at least, you thought you did. They were challenging your pride. But beneath the formal request was a jagged edge you couldn't quite see….a hope that if you disappeared, Satoru Gojo would finally return to being the obedient weapon they had spent centuries perfecting.

Later That Evening...

The neon lights of Shinjuku flickered through the windows of the cramped barbecue restaurant. It was a stark contrast to the elders' hall. Here, the air was thick with the smell of sizzling wagyu and Satoru’s loud, obnoxious laughter.

"I’m telling you, the guy nearly fainted when I told him his tie was cursed," Satoru crowed, leaning back and taking up twice as much space as any human needed. "The look on his face—"

"Satoru, stop terrorizing the bureaucrats," Suguru sighed, though he was hiding a smile behind his tea. Shoko was busy expertly flipping a piece of meat, her eyes half-lidded in relaxation.

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice steady as you reached for the tongs. "I’m heading out tomorrow. Miyagi. A solo Grade 1 mission."

The table went dead silent.

Shoko paused, the meat sizzling unheeded on the grill. Suguru’s eyes sharpened. But it was Satoru who changed the most. The playful, arrogant mask didn't just slip, it shattered. He sat upright, the blue of his eyes turning piercing and frantic behind his glasses.

"Miyagi?" he repeated, his voice devoid of any humor. "The mountain village near the ridge? No. Absolutely not. Cancel it."

"I’m not canceling a direct order from the elders, Satoru," you said, your brow furrowing. "It’s just a Grade 1. I’ve handled worse."

"There have been sightings there," Satoru snapped, his hand slamming onto the table and making the plates rattle. "Not a Grade 1. Things that haven't been classified yet. Disasters. I’ve felt the ripples in the energy from the reports. It’s a trap, or at the very least, a suicide mission for anyone who isn't me."

Your stomach twisted, but not with fear. It was a hot, sharp spark of resentment.

"For anyone who isn't you? Is that what you think?"

"I think you're being sent to a slaughterhouse!" Satoru yelled, his voice rising high enough to make other patrons turn their heads.

"So you are saying I’m weak," you countered, your voice dropping to a dangerous, icy level. "You’ve spent so much time playing 'God' and 'Protector' that you’ve forgotten I earned my rank just like everyone else. I’m not a souvenir you keep in your pocket, Satoru."

"That’s not what I meant and you know it!" Satoru stood up, his height looming over the table. The Infinity flared so high that the air around him seemed to warp. "I’m the only one who can see the actual scale of what’s happening out there. You’re going in blind because your pride is bruised!"

"My pride? You’re the one who can’t handle the fact that the world keeps moving when you’re not looking at it!" You pushed your chair back, the screech of wood against the floor sounding like a finality. "I’m a Grade 1 sorcerer. I’m doing my job. If you can’t respect that, then maybe you’re the one who needs to grow up."

"If you walk out that door, I’m not coming to bail you out," Satoru hissed, his jaw tight. It was a lie, everyone at the table knew it was, but the words stung like a slap.

"Good," you snapped back, grabbing your jacket. "I didn't ask you to."

You turned and walked out of the restaurant, the heavy humidity of the street hitting you like a physical weight. Behind you, the table remained in a suffocating silence. Suguru looked at Satoru, who was still standing, his hands shaking with a mixture of fury and raw terror.

"You handled that poorly, Satoru," Suguru said quietly.

"Shut up," Satoru breathed, his eyes fixed on the door where you had vanished.

"She has no idea. They’re going to kill her just to spite me."

The Next Morning...

The sun hadn't even fully risen when you boarded the train to Miyagi. You didn't check your phone. You didn't look for a tall, white-haired figure standing on the platform. You kept your eyes fixed on the window, watching the city disappear into the mountains, unaware that a pair of Six Eyes had watched your train leave from the highest point of the station, vibrating with a protective instinct that was seconds away from snapping.

The air at Jujutsu High had turned toxic.

For seven days, Satoru Gojo had been a hurricane trapped in a bottle. He hadn't touched a drop of sugar nor cracked a single joke. He spent his time standing on the roof of the high school, the Six Eyes scanning the horizon with such predatory intensity that the local birds had stopped chirping. The blue of his eyes had turned a cold, blinding electric white, the color of a star about to go supernova.

"Satoru, you need to step down," Suguru said, his voice weary as he stood on the roof tiles behind him. "The 'Windows' haven't reported a corpse. That’s a good sign."

"The 'Windows' report what the elders tell them to report," Satoru spat, not turning around. The air around him was vibrating, the Infinity hum so loud it sounded like a hornet’s nest. "They think they’re clever. They think if they remove the 'distraction,' I’ll be their perfect little puppet again."

He turned, his face a mask of pale, frozen fury. "If she doesn't walk through those gates, Suguru, I am going to burn every screen, every scroll, and every single gray-haired coward in that council room. I'll do it by dinner."

Then, his breath hitched. The constant, thrumming output of his cursed energy suddenly flat lined. Down at the base of the mountain, a flicker of energy appeared. It was faint, barely a spark, but to Satoru, it was the only light in the world.

He didn't say a word. He didn't even use the stairs. He simply vanished in a warp of blue light, reappearing at the main torii gate just as you stumbled into the light of the setting sun.

You looked like a nightmare.

Your left arm was hanging uselessly at your side, and a deep, jagged gash across your brow was weeping blood into your eye, blinding you on one side. Your uniform was a tattered, crimson rag. You were using a broken piece of a wooden fence as a crutch, each step a visible battle against gravity.

You stopped when you saw the tall, unmistakable silhouette waiting for you. You tried to find that feisty grin you’d used a week ago, but your lips just trembled.

"Satoru..." your voice was a dry, broken rasp. "The mission... it wasn't a Grade 1."

The wooden crutch snapped as your strength finally evaporated. You started to tilt forward, the world turning black at the edges, but you never hit the ground. Satoru caught you with a desperate, crushing urgency. He dropped to his knees on the gravel, pulling you into his lap and tucking your head against the crook of his neck. The "Strongest" was shaking with a terror so raw it made his teeth chatter.

"I’ve got you," he choked out, his hands fluttering over your wounds, terrified that touching you would break what was left. "I’m here. I’m right here. Look at me."

He pulled back just enough to see your face. His glasses were gone, dropped somewhere in the dirt, and his Six Eyes were wide, swimming with a frantic, heartbroken light.

"You were right," you whispered, a single tear tracking through the blood on your cheek. "I should have... listened. They set a trap."

"Don't you dare," he hissed, his voice cracking as he pressed his forehead against yours. "Don't you dare apologize. You survived. You fought off what they sent for you."

He looked at the blood on his own hands, your blood, and a low, guttural growl built in his chest. It wasn't the sound of a teenager, it was the sound of a god deciding who had to die.

"Shoko! Fix her!" he screamed, his voice echoing off the mountain.

As Shoko knelt down, her hands glowing with Reversed Cursed Technique, Satoru didn't move. He stayed anchored to the ground, holding your hand so tightly it was as if he were trying to pour his own life force into you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into your ear, his voice trembling with a rare, shattering humility. "I'm sorry I let you walk away. I'm never doing it again. I don't care if you hate me for it. I'm staying. I'm staying right here."

The first thing that returned to you wasn’t sight, but smell, the sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic and the faint, earthy trail of clove cigarettes. Then came the weight. Your body felt like it had been filled with lead, every limb pinned to the mattress by a heavy, dull ache.

When you finally managed to crack your eyes open, the afternoon sun was filtering through the infirmary blinds, casting long, golden bars across the white sheets.

"Finally," a raspy voice said from your left. "I was starting to think you were just staying asleep to avoid talking to Gojo."

Shoko was sitting in a metal chair pulled flush against your bedside. She looked exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes were deeper than usual. "You were a mess. Even with RCT, the sheer exhaustion and blood loss took a toll. Your body just... quit. It needed to reboot."

"Where is..." you started.

"He's right outside," Shoko sighed. "He hasn't left that hallway for seventy-two hours. He’s a wreck. He wouldn’t even let me clean the blood off his hands for the first six hours. He just sat there staring at you like he was waiting for the world to end."

Before you could answer, the door slid back with a force that nearly took it off the hinges. Satoru stood in the frame. He looked terrible, hair a chaotic nest, uniform rumpled, and glasses missing. His Six Eyes locked onto you with a terrifying, singular focus.

Shoko didn't even wait for him to speak. "Don't break her," she muttered as she exited. "I just got the stitches to take."

Satoru sank onto the edge of the bed. He didn't say anything at first, just reached out, his hand trembling as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His skin was warm, and for the first time in years, the Infinity wasn't there.

"You're awake," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"I'm awake," you croaked, reaching up to cover his hand with yours. "I'm sorry, Satoru. You were—"

"Don't," he interrupted, his fingers tightening gently against your cheek. "If you apologize, I might actually lose it. Just... stay awake. That’s all you have to do."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder, and you felt the heavy, shuddering exhale of a boy who had been holding his breath for three days straight. The silence was heavy, but no longer suffocating.

"What did you do, Satoru?" you prompted softly. "Shoko said you didn't leave the hallway, but I know you."

Satoru’s jaw tightened. "I paid the elders a visit," he said, his voice casual but carrying a jagged edge. "I leveled their hall. Not the whole thing, just... enough to let the wind in. I showed them that their seals and their 'tradition' are just paper against me."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a fierce, possessive whisper. "I told them that if they ever look at you as a 'distraction' again, I’ll take away everything they have. I made it so they can’t even say your name without their hands shaking."

You stared at him, realizing the scale of the storm you’d unleashed. He wasn't just protecting a friend, he was marking his territory against the world.

"You're going to be in so much trouble," you whispered, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.

"Let them try," Satoru scoffed, the familiar, smug smirk finally returning to his face. "I don't care about their rules. I only care about this. About you being awake." He leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead in a gesture that was more of a vow than a kiss. "They know now. You’re off-limits. Permanently."

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "Are you mad?"

"I should be," you admitted, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. "But honestly? I'm just glad you're here."

Satoru let out a real laugh then, a bright, childish sound.

"That's my girl. Now, eat your chocolate before I decide I’m the one who needs the sugar rush."

December 31st, 2017

The clock on the wall read 11:15 PM when your phone buzzed against the coffee table. You’d been trying to lose yourself in a book, a futile attempt to ignore the hollow ache that had settled in your chest since the news of Suguru’s death reached you a week ago.

You expected a "Happy New Year" text. You didn't expect Nanami’s voice, sounding more exhausted than you’d ever heard him.

"He’s at a private bar in Roppongi," Nanami sighed, the background noise of a jazz record and a rowdy table barely muffled. "I’ve tried to get him into a car for the last hour. He’s... reached a state of intoxication that should be medically impossible for someone with his metabolism."

"Satoru?" you asked, already grabbing your keys. "Satoru doesn't drink. He hates the taste. He says it 'muddies' the Six Eyes."

"Well, he’s currently trying to see how many maraschino cherries he can fit in his mouth while singing 'A thousand miles'." Nanami deadpanned. "And he won't stop calling your name. Please. I have a scheduled sleep cycle to maintain."

The bar was tucked away in a basement, the kind of place that cost a month’s salary just to sit down. When you pushed through the heavy oak doors, the sight was surreal.

Satoru Gojo, the man who walked on air and looked down on gods, was slumped over a mahogany counter. His blindfold was askew, revealing one eye that looked glassy and dangerously bright. Nanami sat two stools away, nursing a single ginger ale and looking like he was contemplating a career change to accounting.

"Where is she?" Satoru’s voice boomed, slurred but still carrying that inherent power. He slammed a hand onto the bar, narrowly missing a half-empty bottle of high-end whiskey. "Nanami! You said she was coming. If you lied to me, I’ll... I'll teleport you to Hokkaido. Right now."

"I am right here, Satoru," you said, stepping into his line of sight.

He froze. He turned his head so fast he nearly lost his balance, his stool wobbling dangerously. When his gaze landed on you, his entire expression crumpled. The "Strongest" vanished, replaced by a man who looked like he’d been wandering in a desert for seven days.

He whispered your name, his voice cracking. He reached out, his coordination shot, and managed to snag the sleeve of your jacket. "You’re real. You’re not a ghost. Everyone's a ghost lately."

"I'm real. And you're a mess," you said, nodding to Nanami, who stood up immediately, looking like he’d just been granted a stay of execution.

"He’s all yours," Nanami said, adjusting his tie. "He paid the tab. Or rather, he threw a black card at the bartender and told him to buy the building. Happy New Year."

As Nanami vanished, Satoru lunged forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your stomach. He was heavy, his Infinity completely absent, letting his full weight lean into you. He smelled like expensive peat and cold winter air.

"I had to do it," he muffled into your coat, his grip tightening until it was almost painful. "I had to be the one. My hands... they still feel like they’re buzzing. I tried to wash it off with this stuff, but it just makes the room spin."

"I know, Satoru. I know," you murmured, threading your fingers through his messy white hair.

He pulled back, looking up at you. His eyes were swimming, the blue depth of the Six Eyes clouded by grief and alcohol. A single tear escaped the edge of his eyes.

"Don't leave," he pleaded, his voice small and raw. "Everyone leaves. Suguru left. Shoko stays in the morgue. Even the students... they'll grow up and leave. You’re the only one who stayed from the beginning. You’re the only one who knows Satoru, not just Gojo."

He stumbled as he tried to stand, and you caught him, bracing your shoulder under his arm. He was a foot taller than you, but in this moment, he felt like the seven-year-old boy who had sat in the dirt with you.

"Take me home," he whispered, leaning his head against yours as you guided him toward the exit. "Not the estate. Not the school. Just... wherever you are. I just want to go where you are."

As the cool night air hit his face, he looked up at the stars, his thumb tracing the back of your hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm.

"I love you," he blurted out, the alcohol stripping away his usual layers of cocky irony. "I should have said it sooner… I should have said it ten years ago. Please don't be a ghost. Stay where I can see you."

The car ride back to your apartment was a blur of neon lights and Satoru’s heavy, rhythmic breathing. He spent the entire trip with his head resting on your shoulder, his fingers interlaced so tightly with yours that his knuckles were white. Every time you tried to adjust your seating, he’d let out a low, panicked hum until you stilled.

Once you finally navigated him through your front door, the silence of your home felt loud. Satoru stumbled slightly, his socks sliding on the hardwood, and he practically collapsed onto your sofa, pulling you down with him.

"The world won't stop moving," he groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes. The blindfold was completely gone now, his eyes peering out, wide and unfocused. "Everything is spinning."

"That’s the whiskey, Satoru," you said softly, trying to pry yourself loose to get him some water. "Stay put. I'm getting you a glass of water and some aspirin."

"No!" He surged upward, his hand snapping out to grab your wrist. He didn't use his strength, but the desperation in the gesture was enough to stop you cold. He looked up at you, his face pale and his lips trembling. "Don't go into the kitchen. Don't go anywhere where I can't see the cursed energy of your heart."

"Satoru, I'm ten feet away."

"It’s too far," he whispered. He let go of your wrist and instead reached for the edge of your shirt, tugging you back down until you were sitting on the cushions beside him. He crawled forward, resting his heavy head in your lap. "I killed him exactly seven days ago. Do you know how many seconds that is? I do. I’ve counted every single one because the Six Eyes won't let me forget the exact frequency of his soul as it went out."

His voice broke, and he turned his face into the fabric of your jeans, his shoulders finally beginning to shake. This wasn't the cocky teacher who mocked the higher-ups. This was a man who had been forced to execute his bestfriend and had no idea how to live in the silence that followed.

"I’m the strongest," he choked out, a bitter, jagged laugh escaping him. "I can rewrite the map of Japan with a flick of my wrist. But I couldn't save one person from himself. And now I’m sitting here, drunk in your living room, because I'm terrified that if I fall asleep, I’ll wake up and find out you were a dream I had in 1996."

You sighed, a lump forming in your own throat as you ran your fingers through his hair, smoothing the white strands away from his damp forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere, Satoru. I’ve been here for twenty-one years. I’m not starting a disappearing act now."

He went quiet for a long moment, his breathing hitching. Then, he looked up at you, his eyes a devastating, watery blue, clearer than the winter sky.

"Then tell me," he pleaded, his gaze searching yours with a raw, agonizing vulnerability. "Tell me you love me. Not the 'Great Satoru.' Not the 'Strongest". Tell me you love the boy who was just a kid who you played tops with. I need to hear it before the year ends. I need one thing in this world to be true."

The clock on the wall began to chime, midnight. Outside, the muffled sound of distant fireworks began to pop, celebrating a year he didn't feel ready to face.

"I love you, Satoru," you whispered, leaning down until your breath hitched against his. "I love you. Just you."

He didn't wait. He surged up, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that tasted of salt and whiskey and a decade of repressed grief. It was desperate and messy, a drowning man catching a lifeline. He pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive, iron grip, as if he were trying to merge your very souls so he’d never have to be alone in the Infinity again.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead stayed pressed against yours.

"Happy New Year," he breathed, his eyes closing as he finally let out the breath he’d been holding since he killed his best friend. "Please... just stay. Stay until the world makes sense again."

_____________________________________________________________

Pairing: Hockey player Satoru Gojo x Personal Nurse Reader AU Type: Hockey AU, Non-Canon Status: Ongoing Warnings: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Eventually Smut, Serious Injuries, Trauma Backstories, Medical Recovery, Banter, Mutual Frustration, Gojo is an Absolute Menace. Word Count: 1K Summary: Satoru Gojo is the undisputed king of the NHL, but one brutal hit on the ice brings his entire world crashing down. Now, instead of sold-out arenas, he’s stuck in a grueling recovery with a private nurse who couldn't care less about his MVP status or his charm. Between his massive ego and your refusal to take his bait, every day is a total power struggle, until the long nights and quiet moments start making that "professional" line a lot harder to see.

Chapter 1:

Behind the locker room door boomed five minutes before puck drop. Players shouted, the coach barked the final game plan, and the air sizzled. This was Satoru Gojo's world, between the adrenaline rush, the roar of the crowd, and the heavy gaze of everyone's eyes.

Gojo was born for captaincy. His confidence bordered on arrogance, and he had a knack for reading and manipulating any situation he faced.

Five Minutes to Game Time

Gojo finished pulling on his gear, leaving only his helmet on the bench.

"Everyone, bring it in!"

The room went dead silent. Every player turned toward him.

"The team across the hall is praying for a miracle," Gojo said, voice low and steady. "We don’t need miracles. We have talent. They know exactly who they're up against. We’re not here for a close win. We’re here to remind them of the gap. Don’t just win, take their dignity and make it look easy."

He scanned the room, a sharp smirk cutting across his face. "Now move."

The room erupted. The players surged out of the tunnel, fueled by a fresh wave of untouchable confidence.

The cold air bit as the starters glided to center ice. The home crowd was deafening, but for the six men in the lineup, it faded to white noise.

At the center dot, Gojo dropped into his stance, his blade hovering a fraction of an inch above the ice. He didn’t look at the ref or the puck,only staring straight into the eyes of the opposing center. He gave a small, mocking grin, the look of a man who had already seen the final score.

The puck hit the ice.

Gojo won the draw, snapping it back to Nanami on defense. The game exploded. Blades carved the ice as wingers surged into the neutral zone.

Five minutes in, it was a physical grind. A hit along the boards rattled the glass, sending ice spray over the front row. Gojo caught a hard backhand pass, spun through a reaching defender, and leveled a shoulder into a winger trying to close the gap. He didn’t even look back as the guy hit the ice, as he was already threading a saucer pass across the slot.

"Keep the pressure!" Yuta, the goalie, screamed from the far end, his voice echoing off the rafters.

With three minutes left in the period, Gojo’s pre-game talk became reality. He intercepted a lazy clearing attempt at the blue line, danced the puck through his own skates to freeze the goalie, and flicked a casual, no-look pass to Geto.

Geto didn’t miss. The puck buried itself in the top shelf, the red light flooded the rink, and the horn wailed. Gojo didn't celebrate with a jump or a shout. He simply skated past the opposing bench, tapped his stick once on the ice, and gave them that same cold smile.

The second period began with the same suffocating dominance. But as the minutes ticked by, the atmosphere shifted. The opposing team realized skill wouldn't save them, so they started playing dirty.

Gojo remained unshaken. His white hair gleamed under the stadium lights as he glided through the defensive zone, breaking up plays with effortless reach.

"They're getting desperate, Satoru! Watch your back!" Geto yelled as they transitioned.

Gojo just laughed, a sharp, melodic sound. "Let them try," he muttered, pulling the puck into a tight toe-drag.

With five minutes left in the frame, that desperation finally boiled over. Gojo chased a loose puck into the corner, his eyes already scanning for an open man. He dug his left skate into the ice, preparing for a high-speed pivot, a turn he’d executed thousands of times.

But the ice was rutted and scarred.

As he shifted his weight to power through the turn, his blade caught a deep groove. There was no slide. Instead, a sickening pop echoed through his frame, followed by a sensation like a jagged, red-hot blade being driven into his hip.

Gojo’s eyes widened, the icy blue fracturing with shock. His center of gravity vanished. He collapsed, sliding awkwardly into the boards with a dull thud.

The whistle blew instantly.

The arena froze. The "untouchable" captain stayed facedown, his gloved hands clawing at the ice. He fought to pull his leg beneath him, but a scorching flare of pain immobilized him.

"Satoru! Don't move!" Yaga screamed, vaulting over the boards.

Gojo forced his head up, his face drained of color and slick with sweat. He tried to flash his signature smirk, but it came out as a pained grimace.

"I'm... I'm fine," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Just caught an edge."

But as the medical staff began to stabilize his leg, his eyes shifted from confidence to a distant, glazed terror. The King of the Ice wasn't getting up. As the stretcher came out, the invincible aura he’d worn like armor finally shattered.

The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the stretcher wheels against the rubber flooring was the only sound in the tunnel. It was a haunting contrast to the muffled, chaotic roar of the crowd still vibrating through the walls.

Gojo lay flat, chest heaving under his gear. Fluorescent lights flashed overhead. For the first time, gravity held him down.

"Rate your pain, one to ten," the paramedic asked.

Gojo tried to let out a dry laugh, but it twisted into a strained gasp. "Ten is for... mortals," he drawled, gripping the metal rail. "Call it an eight. Let's not be dramatic."

Despite the bravado, sweat soaked him. Every bump felt like lightning in his pelvis. The pop echoed in his mind, a failure in a body built to be unbreakable.

They reached the exit doors. The cold night air rushed in, a brutal shock after the arena's heat. The ambulance sat idling, its lights pulsing red and blue against the brick.

"Wait," Gojo rasped as they began to lift him.

He turned his head painfully, looking back toward the doors. His teammates stood there in a huddle of bruised faces and jersey-clad shadows. They looked small. They looked terrified.

He forced his trembling fingers to give a weak, arrogant thumbs-up. He didn't have the breath to tell them to finish the game, but the message was clear.

The medics pushed him into the sterile, cramped world of the ambulance. The heavy steel doors slammed shut, cutting off the distant sound of the rink. The siren let out a low yelp before rising into a scream, leaving the arena to vanish in the rearview mirror.

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Reader

Genre: Angst / Hurt / No Comfort

Summary: You had enough of his memories that haunt you ever since you two broke up. You turn the most important person in your life into a stranger. Erasing the memories is easier than being haunted by the "Strongest." Word count: 2.5k

a/n: more angst! This was inspired by "We can't Be Friends, Wait for your love" by Ariana Grande's music video. The song makes me cry sometimes.

The rain was a steady downpour, draping the world in a heavy, wet blanket of grey. Above the small clinic doors, the sign for Brighter Days Inc. creaked in the wind, its paint peeling and weathered by time.

You pushed through the heavy door, your knuckles white as you gripped a cardboard box filled with the assorted fragments of a past life. Inside, the clinic was a contrasting, sterile white. It smelled of rubbing alcohol and industrial cleaner. The scent of things being scrubbed away.

A short, elderly woman sat behind a glass partition at the reception desk.

"Do you have an appointment, dear?"

A lump formed in your throat, making it hard to swallow. The moment was actually here. You couldn't find your voice, so you simply nodded and whispered your name.

"Ah, yes. I have you right here," she said with a kind voice.

"Please fill out this consent form. The nurse will call you shortly."

You took the clipboard with a trembling hand and found a seat in the corner. You sat your box on the chair beside you and looked down at the paper.

BRIGHTER DAYS INC. | MEMORY ERASURE CONSENT FORM __________________________________________________________ I voluntarily consent to the permanent removal of all memories, emotional attachments, and associations connected to: Individual: Satoru Gojo I understand that:

This procedure is irreversible.

Both positive and negative memories will be erased.

Portions of my identity and history may be lost.

I may experience emotional echoes without understanding their source.

I accept that:

Relief is not guaranteed.

A sense of absence may remain without explanation.

What is removed cannot be restored.

By signing, I acknowledge I am choosing to forget someone who once mattered to me, along with everything they brought into my world. Patient Signature: ___________________________

The pen hovered. Your heart pounding against your ribs as you hesitated. But then the door opened.

"We’re ready for you," the nurse called.

The haze broke. Before you could change your mind, you scrawled your name and followed her into the back, clutching the box to your chest.

The procedure room was cold and minimalist. In the center sat a white reclining chair surrounded by monitors displaying jagged lines of heartbeat and brain activity. The nurse took your box, placing it on a sleek scanner, and ushered you into the seat.

As she fastened the Neural Memory Extraction Unit to your temples, you looked at the doctor. He asked if you were ready. You gave a single nod and closed your eyes. The device emitted a soft, green glow. The system was online.

The nurse reached into the box and pulled out a light brown teddy bear. She placed it on the scanner. As the laser swept over the plush fur, the first memory surged to the surface.

_____________________________________________________________

The lighting was warm and hazy, washed in the nostalgic, golden glow of a fading afternoon. Satoru sat cross legged on the floor, leaning back on his elbows with a casual smile. His blindfold was pushed up, revealing the playful crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

He grabbed the teddy bear’s paws, making it "dance" to an invisible song. His voice was a low, melodic hum. "I’m telling you," he grinned, "the claw machine was practically begging me to take him. It was a matter of professional pride."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, watching the bear’s goofy movements. He paused, resting the toy's head on your knee. For a moment, the world was perfectly still. He turned to look at you, his expression softening into that rare, unguarded vulnerability he only showed you. He leaned in, his forehead pressing against yours.

Just as the memory peaked, a blinding, clinical white flash tore through the vision.

As the light cleared, it revealed you sitting alone in a sparse, modern apartment. You were huddled on the floor, staring at the empty space where he had been lounging. The teddy bear was there, propped against a cold wooden chair, but the man was gone. The playful banter had vanished, replaced by a hollow silence. You reached out to touch the spot where his hand should have been, but your fingers grazed only the rough, inanimate fabric of the bear’s leg.

The context was erased permanently. Looking into the bear’s glass eyes, you felt a phantom tug of grief for a split second, a sense that someone should be laughing at the lopsided ears. But you blinked, and the feeling died. You offered a small, lonely smile to the toy, convinced you had simply bought it for yourself on a day you could no longer remember.

The machine pulsed, pulling a darker memory from the depths.

____________________________________________________________

The room was bathed in a suffocating, deep indigo light. Satoru sat on the edge of the bed, his back to you, his large frame hunched in isolation. Without his blindfold, his silver hair fell forward, obscuring his face.

You sat behind him, your eyes fixed on the tension in his shoulders. You leaned forward, searching for any sign that this distance was temporary. You wanted to reach out, to press your palm to his heart, but the air around him felt charged. His Infinity was active, creating a silent glass wall designed to keep you out.

"Satoru," you whispered. You extended a hand, your fingertips trembling as they grazed the invisible pressure of the barrier.

He didn't turn. He simply exhaled a long, shaky breath and shifted further away. The rejection was quiet, but it was deafening.

The indigo light flickered. A harsh flash of white dissolved the walls. When it cleared, the bed was smooth. Satoru was gone. You were sitting alone on the edge of the mattress, staring at the door with a blank expression. The machine had meticulously smoothed over the hurt. You reached back to pat the empty sheets, straightening a wrinkle, fully convinced you were just lost in a fleeting thought you could no longer grasp.

As you turned to stare back at the door, it opened into the void of your mind.

Suddenly you were transported into a world of cold, white radiance.

_______________________________________________________________

The ground was a blanket of fresh snow, sparkling like diamonds.

Satoru was there, vibrant and untouchable. He wore a cozy, cream colored sweater, his hair silver against the winter sky. He was laughing, a breathless, genuine sound. You fell backward into the drifts together, your breaths fogging in the frigid air.

"Mine’s better! It’s the strongest snow angel ever made!" he exclaimed. He threw a handful of snow into your face, his electric blue eyes bright with amusement. You reached out, your mitten brushing his arm, feeling the solid, living warmth of him.

He leaned over you, blocking out the sun. His smile softened, but his voice began to sound distorted, hollowed out by the machine. "Remember?" he whispered. "This is what we were."

He reached out a hand to help you up. But as your fingers were about to touch, the laser of the erasure cut through the air. The scene shimmered into static. When the flash cleared, your hand was reaching up into empty air, catching nothing but falling flakes. The snow beside you was undisturbed. His footprints had been scrubbed away, leaving only yours, etched lonely and deep into the ground.

________________________________________________________________

The nurse replaced the bear with a framed photo of the two of you behind a cake. The laser scanned the frame, triggering the memory associated with this object.

The room of the memory was intimate, lit only by the golden halos of candles. Satoru sat across from you, the light dancing in his eyes like reflected stars.

"Make it a good one," he whispered, leaning in. "Don't waste a wish on something I can just buy for you. Wish for something only you want."

The pull of his presence was magnetic. You close your eyes, feeling the heat of the candles on your face and the magnetic pull of his presence. When you open them, he is leaning in closer, his face just inches from yours. The playful smirk is gone, replaced by a look of profound, quiet affection. You can feel the ghost of his breath on your skin as you both move in, about to share a moment of whispered promises over the flickering flames.

Just as the tip of your nose brushes his, the warmth of the room suddenly drops. The golden light of the candles turns a sharp, fluorescent white. Satoru’s image begins to stutter, his features blurring like ink dropped in water.

The blinding white flash of the machine tears through the center of the kitchen. When your vision clears, the table is still there, and the cake is still there, but the chair across from you is tucked neatly under the table, empty.

You are leaning forward, your lips parted as if to speak to someone, but you are met only with shadows from the candles. The machine has rewrote the memory, there is no second set of footprints, no second plate.

You realize you are alone. The memory now plays back as a solo celebration. You look at the candles, which are beginning to melt down the sides of the cake. There is no one there to prompt your wish, no one to catch your eye.

With a hollow expression, you lean in to blow out the candles, the smoke curling up into an empty, now dark room.

______________________________________________________________

The machine hummed with a clinical heartbeat. You were drifting back into consciousness mid-process. Your eyes flew open, the world a blur of thoughts.

It’s working. He’s disappearing.

The machine detected your resistance and surged, dragging the most stubborn memory to the surface.

Amber light. A quiet evening. Satoru stood behind you, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back. His hands reached around your neck, fastening a delicate necklace. You looked at him through the mirror. He wasn't a sorcerer or the "Strongest" in that moment, he was just a man in love.

"Don't ever take it off," he murmured against your hair. "As long as you’re wearing this, I’ll always be able to find you. No matter where you go."

Your breath hitched. A sudden, violent sob tore through your throat in the real world. Your hands reached for your neck, realizing that once this memory died, the necklace you’re wearing will become a "meaningless" piece of jewelry. You are paying to turn the most important person in your life into a stranger.

You tried to scream for them to stop, but the process is already in its final phase. Tears stream down your face, soaking into the sensor pads.

The memory of Satoru begins to glitch violently as the memory is overridden.

You are sitting comfortably on a couch. Curled up on your lap is a sleek, black cat, purring contentedly. You reach down, your fingers moving in a slow, rhythmic motion to scratch behind its ears, and the cat blinks lazily at you.

The shelves that once held shared mementos or framed photos of significant moments are now curated with minimalist ceramic vases and abstract art prints that hold no sentimental weight. There is no trace of the relationship that once defined this space.

You are still wearing the necklace Satoru gave you. It catches the light as you adjust your position, resting against your skin. But it no longer feels heavy with meaning. To you, it is simply a favorite piece of jewelry you’ve owned for as long as you can remember, its true origin story deleted from your mind.

You pick up a book from the side table and settle back, a small, content smile on your face and no trace of the man with the electric blue eyes. The cat shifting closer as you open the book, fully convinced that your life has always been this quiet, this simple, and this solitary.

The machine let out a final, high-pitched whine. The monitors flat lined into a steady "COMPLETED."

You blinked slowly. A single, final tear fell, but as you reach up to wipe it away, the grief was gone. Your sobbing slowed into shaky, shallow breaths. Your eyes, once wide with desperation, glazed over with a terrifying peace.

You stood up and greeted the medical staff with a warm, genuine smile. There was no trace of the woman who had been sobbing.

"Thank you," you said, your voice steady. "Truly, thank you for everything."

In the corner, a staff member picked up the box of your life and carried it to the disposal unit. You watched as the teddy bear and the photos were dumped into the chute. You saw the flash of orange heat through the reinforced window. The fur shriveled; the photos turned to ash. You felt nothing but the slight satisfaction of a room being tidied.

You adjusted your necklace, grabbed your coat, and walked out into the crisp evening air. The world was perfectly quiet. Perfectly simple. And entirely empty of him.

One Month Later

The city lights glowed as you walked down the crowded sidewalk, your arm linked with a new man. You were laughing, your expression bright and untroubled. You adjusted your necklace, a habit you don't quite understand, but your smile remained wide. You were a clean slate.

Coming from the opposite direction was a tall, striking figure. Satoru walked through the crowd with his usual effortless stride. He wasn't wearing his blindfold, his blue eyes were scanning the faces of the crowd with practiced indifference.

Then, he saw you.

For Satoru, the world slowed to a jarring crawl. His chest tightens, a physical ache blooming in his chest. He recognized the curve of your smile. He saw the necklace, the one he had fastened with a promise, resting against your skin.

As the two of you draw closer, the space between you closes to a mere few inches.

You look up, your gaze sweeping over the crowd. Your eyes meet Satoru’s for a fleeting second. To you, he is simply a handsome stranger with strikingly white hair and intense blue eyes. There is no jolt of electricity, no phantom pain, no sense of "home." You offer a polite, impersonal half-smile, the kind you give to any stranger on a busy street, and then look back to the man on your arm, continuing your conversation without missing a beat.

Satoru watches the recognition fail to happen. He sees your eyes slide right over him as if he were part of the background. He sees you lean closer to your new partner, your happiness genuine and unburdened by him. He realizes, with a devastating finality, that he is the only one left carrying the weight of "us."

You keep walking, your footsteps light and rhythmic, fading into the distance as you disappear into the glow of the city lights.

Satoru stands frozen for a split second after you pass, the woman beside him saying his name in confusion. He doesn't turn back. He keeps his gaze fixed forward, his expression hardening into a mask of stoic loneliness. He remembers the arcade bear, the snow angels, and the birthday candles; he remembers the way you looked at him before the light turned white.

Satoru Gojo was known as the strongest sorcerer in the world, but in the privacy of your home, he was something else entirely, the father of your unborn child and a husband who took "sympathy symptoms" to a whole other level.

He often acted more pregnant than you did. Whether it was his sudden bursts of clinginess or his "need" to devour the exact sweets you had been craving, one would think his hormones were the ones off the charts.

Today’s meltdown was no different from the other ones. You, who is actually the one growing a human, had just finished the last slice of cheesecake from the local bakery. It was the only thing capable of silencing the nagging sugar craving that had been bugging you all afternoon.

It was late when the car finally pulled up. Gojo had spent the day buried in the paperwork he’d been dodging for weeks. Principal Yaga had finally snapped, successfully barricading Gojo in a classroom with a cursed puppet "babysitter" until every form was signed. To the higher-ups, the bureaucracy of the jujutsu world was as vital as exorcising Grade 1s, and Gojo had finally run out of excuses.

Ijichi pulled the car to a stop, shoulders hunched. "H-here we are, Gojo-san. Home."

Gojo didn’t offer a word of thanks. He exited the vehicle and slammed the door with a force that made Ijichi jump (to be fair, a stiff breeze could do the same.) Gojo took a deep breath of the night air, exhaling the stress of the day in a long, weary sigh. A small smile tugged at his lips as he looked at the house. The kitchen light was a golden beacon against the dark lawn, a reminder that you were waiting inside.

He covered the distance to the porch in a few long strides, the key turning smoothly in the lock.

"Honey bunches! Your handsome husband has returned!"

His voice echoed through the quiet house. Aside from the kitchen, the rooms were nothing but darkness. He moved toward the light, his stomach letting out a treacherous growl as the scent of sweetness hit him.

He stepped into the kitchen, and his world ground to a halt. His eyes locked onto the plate in your hand, and the half-eaten remains of the cheesecake.

As if the entire world came to an abrupt stop, Gojo collapsed to the floor in a heap of dramatic despair. He let out an absurdly loud, wounded gasp.

"NO! My cheesecake! How could you?!" he wailed, clutching his chest. "I have been dreaming about that slice since my third mission briefing!"

You turned toward him, completely unfazed by the performance.

"Well, hello to you, too," you said, arching an eyebrow.

You stood there with one hand on your hip and the other firmly guarding the plate. Your bump was prominent beneath the muʻumuʻu nightgown, a garment he’d originally bought as a gag gift, but which had quickly become your everyday attire.

Gojo looked up from the floor, pushing his blindfold up just enough to reveal those shimmering, "puppy dog" Six Eyes. "You ate it without a second thought! No consideration for your hardworking husband?" Tears,surely fake, welled in the corners of his eyes.

You stared him down before taking another deliberate bite. "Excuse me? The only thought on my mind was satisfying this brat’s demands. This baby has been driving me crazy all day." You licked the fork clean for emphasis. "Are you sure you aren't the one who’s hormonal, 'Toru?"

Gojo pouted, his lower lip trembling with practiced precision. "You don’t love meeee!" he cried, the sob sounding almost (almost) convincing.

You rolled your eyes, but the sight of the world’s strongest sorcerer sulking on the linoleum brought a smile to your face. "Goodness... fine. How about we go get some Kikufuku mochi?"

The transformation was instantaneous. The "tears" vanished, and his eyes lit up with a glow. He bounced onto his feet, practically vibrating. "Really?! Can we?! Are you up for it?" He looked like a dog whose favorite word had just been spoken, an imaginary tail wagging at high speed.

You chuckled, reaching up to ruffle his silver hair. "Mhm. Let me get changed, and we can go."

Gojo’s gaze softened, turning from childish excitement to something warmer, with a flash of his usual mischief. "How about I have you for dinner and the Kikufuku for dessert?"

He punctuated the offer with a wink and a lick of his lips, following you toward the bedroom like a lost puppy.

December 31st | 11:30 PM

The house didn't just feel empty; it felt like a grave. On a night when the rest of the world was shouting countdowns and clinking glasses, your world was muffled by a thin layer of dust. It coated the framed photos of a life that felt like a fever dream now.

Your bedroom was a tomb of "the night before." You hadn't moved a single thing since he left for the battle with Sukuna. A half-empty soda, a crumpled candy wrapper—remnants of a mundane Tuesday that had accidentally become the end of the world. You were buried under the blanket, your face pressed into the fabric, hunting for the fading ghost of his cologne. It was getting harder to find.

On the nightstand sat the letter. 'To My Mochi Bun!' The ink of the doodle—a ridiculous, cocky chibi doodle of himself was on the envelope.

11:55 PM

The clock was a heartbeat you didn't want to hear. Five minutes until a year he wouldn't see. Your fingers traced the jagged lines of his handwriting, the paper rattling against your shaking hands as you finally forced yourself to break the seal.

Mochi-Bun, I am currently watching you drool in your sleep while writing this. You’re still beautiful, by the way. Even with the snoring. I know you're going to hate me for this... but I’m sorry, Mochi. I couldn't come back home. Please know I fought for you. I fought until my blood ran cold just so I could get back to my girl. I was reckless. I was the strongest, right? I thought I had all the time in the world to say the things that actually mattered. Now, I’m stuck writing them on a scrap of paper. I used to think love was the most twisted curse of all—until you. You weren't a curse; you were the only thing that felt like a blessing. You saw through the 'Strongest' act, you laughed at my bullshit, and you loved me anyway. I still remember the way you looked at me when we first met—those big doe eyes, like I was the only person in the universe. I’d give every bit of my power just to freeze that one second. I’m going to miss your annoyed frowns. The way you pout when I steal your food. The way your face scrunches up like a tiny, angry owl when you’re mad at me. But mostly? I’ll miss your real smile. Not the one you use to keep the students from worrying, or the one you give Shoko when you’re pretending you aren't tired. I mean the one that breaks through when I whisper 'Mochi~' in your ear and your whole face lights up. That’s my biggest regret. How many hours did we waste arguing about nothing? How many times did I take for granted that you’d just... be there? How many times did I let the 'I love you' stay stuck in my throat because I thought I’d say it tomorrow? I know you’re reading this alone. I know it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your arms. But don't let this hollow you out. Don't let the grief win. Promise me you’ll keep being you. The stubborn, warm, ridiculous woman who stole my soul without even trying. Keep going. For the future we talked about. For the mornings I won't be there to ruin. If you ever forget how loved you are... just remember: I chose you. Every single day, I chose you. When you look at the stars tonight, know I’m the one flicking them at you from the other side. I’ll be there every morning, teasing you in the quiet, even if you can’t see me. - Toru.

12:00 AM

Outside, a distant firework muffled the sound of your heart breaking.

The paper felt like lead. You couldn't breathe; the air in the room was too thick with his words and his absence. A jagged, ugly noise that was half-laugh, half-sob escaped from your throat. You curled into a ball, clutching the letter to your chest as if you could press the ink back into your skin.

The room grew colder as the new year arrived. You realized then that he hadn't just left; he had taken the light with him. He knew. He had written that letter while watching you sleep because he knew he was saying goodbye.

"Satoru..." The name was a fragile thing, shattering as it hit the air. "Come back. Please, just... come back home."