The days were beginning to stretch again, the weak winter sun climbing a little higher each morning.

Sukuna noticed the light creeping across the floor earlier than it had the week before, a pale wash of gold that made dust motes shimmer like tiny stars.

Outside, the plum trees along the street were cautiously budding. Tiny pink-green tips clung to the dark, gnarled branches, as if winter had loosened its grip just enough for life to peek through. When a warm afternoon breeze stirred the branches, he could almost smell a faint sweetness on the air.

And life continued — scattered moments of clarity shining through like the resilient green of pine needles as the snow, once thick and heavy, began melting in patchy splotches.

You were forgetting yourself more, yes. But that also meant he could reintroduce you to yourself through his eyes — show you the version of you he loved so fiercely.

It started with small things — your reflection, for instance.

One late afternoon, he found you standing in the bathroom doorway, staring into the mirror with a puzzled, almost shy expression, as if the person looking back wasn’t quite familiar.

You touched your cheek. Your hair. Then your fingers paused at the collar of your sweater, tracing it lightly, as though assessing the shape of a life you no longer completely recognized.

“Is this… really what I look like?” you asked softly.

There was no fear — only uncertainty. A careful, tentative curiosity.

Sukuna stepped in behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder as he rested a hand against the doorframe. “Yes,” he murmured. “That’s you.”

You blinked at the mirror, then at him, then back again. “I… don’t remember feeling like her,” you whispered. “Like the girl in the glass.”

He moved behind you, his hands gentle as he placed one on your waist. “Then let me remind you.”

Your eyes flicked to his reflection, waiting.

“See your hair?” he said softly. “You always think it’s messy. It’s not. It’s soft. You tuck it behind your ear when you’re thinking too hard. Like this—”

He reached around and brushed a strand behind your ear. You watched the motion in the mirror, fascinated as if witnessing a habit belonging to someone else.

“And your mouth,” he continued. “You smile more than you think. You have since you were a kid.” A small smirk tugged at his lips. “You do it when you’re lying, too.”

You let out a small laugh — surprised, almost delighted.

Then your gaze lowered to your hands resting at your sides. “These feel… small,” you murmured. “Smaller than I remember.”

“That’s because you don’t remember how often I hold them,” he said quietly. He laced your fingers with his. “You always grip twice before you relax. Been doing it since you were little.”

You looked at your joined hands in the reflection, as though seeing them for the first time. “I… like that,” you said softly. “Knowing that.”

Something tightened in his chest — a tenderness almost painful in its intensity.

“Look,” he murmured, lifting your chin gently so your gaze aligned with the mirror again. “This is who you are. Curious. Stubborn. Kind. Annoying. Brilliant. Beautiful.”

You studied the face in the mirror again — and this time, the hesitation eased. As though his words were sketching sharper lines, restoring definition to a you that kept slipping away.

Then an impish grin curled on your lips. “...You forgot funny.”

“Alright, I don’t know about that one.”

Sukuna heard you before he saw you.

A small, broken sound — half-sob, half-breath — echoing strangely against the tile.

He froze for a heartbeat, then rushed toward the bathroom.

Just inside the doorframe, you stood trembling, one hand braced on the counter, the other held stiffly away from your body as if afraid to touch yourself. Your eyes were wide, unfocused with panic, cheeks streaked with tears.

“Sukuna… I’m s-sorry,” you hiccuped, voice cracking. “I should’ve t-told you…”

Fear seized him by the throat.

Still, he managed a rough, tense, “Should’ve told me… what?”

“Something’s wrong,” you whispered. “It was hurting inside… and now I— I’m bleeding.”

All the air left his lungs.

Not from shock — but recognition. He’d expected something like this eventually, given everything.

It still took him a moment to soften his expression, to steady his voice as he stepped closer. “Show me.”

Swallowing hard, you pointed to the inside of your thighs. Bright, unmistakable red stained your underwear, smeared faintly across your skin.

“I don’t know what happened,” you cried. “I didn’t fall, I—I didn’t do anything—there was pain and then— Am I hurt? Please—”

Your voice broke apart.

And suddenly you didn’t look twenty-something at all — you looked impossibly small, disoriented, like someone waking up inside a stranger’s body.

Sukuna’s chest tightened painfully.

“No,” he murmured, reaching for you gently, “you’re not hurt.”

“But there’s so much blood—something’s wrong—”

“It’s your period,” he said quietly. “That’s all.”

You blinked rapidly, confusion deepening. “My… what?”

“Your period,” he repeated, guiding you to sit on the edge of the tub before your knees gave out. “It’s normal. It happens every month, remember? You’ve had it… most of your life.”

Your breath stuttered, fast and shallow. “I… I don’t remember that.”

“I know.” He brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “That’s alright. You don’t have to remember. I remember.”

You swallowed thickly. “Are you sure I’m not… dying?”

“No,” he said firmly, kneeling in front of you. “You’re not dying. This just means everything’s still working the way it should.”

He watched your breathing slowly ease, the tension in your shoulders loosening as if you were unclenching from the inside out.

Then you sagged forward, forehead pressing against his collarbone, sobbing quietly. “I didn’t know what was happening… I thought something terrible—”

“I know,” he murmured into your hair. “I know. You’re okay.”

After a moment, he asked gently,

“…How long have you been having pain? Lower belly, lower back?”

You sniffed. “I don’t know… it started last night while you were asleep.”

The hurt hit him as it always did — fresh, sharp, consuming. That you were in pain and he had no idea.

“Why didn’t you just… wake me up, sweetheart?”

“Because you were… sleeping,” you whispered, guilt trembling in your voice. “And you haven’t been sleeping enough lately because of me, so I didn’t want to w—”

Sukuna shushed you softly, stroking your hair. “Don’t think like that. Never think like that.”

He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was so sincere it felt like a confession,

“It has been my joy to take care of you. To be with you through all of it.”

There was more he wanted to say, but the words lodged in his throat:

That you gave him purpose.

That you taught him how to live.

That you taught him how to love.

That he didn’t know what would be left of him without you.

He held you like that for a while — steady and unmoving as the panic drained from you. You clutched fistfuls of his shirt, the same way you used to clutch him in your sleep when nightmares chased you awake.

Except this time, you weren’t waking from a nightmare. You were living inside one.

Clearing his throat gently, he rubbed your back. “Come on. Let’s get you changed and get some ibuprofen in you.”

Sukuna did everything he could to keep you comfortable over the next few days as you menstruated.

On the third day, he knew something was wrong the moment he heard drawers opening and slamming shut—too fast, too frantic.

When he stepped into the bedroom, you were standing with your back to him, shoulders tight, one hand gripping a balled-up piece of clothing.

“Hey,” he said softly, “what are you doing?”

You startled. “N-nothing. I just… I’m just cleaning.”

But your voice was thin, high, strained. Wrong.

He took a few steps closer, and you curled the fabric tighter in your fist, trying to hide it behind your back.

That alone told him everything.

“Let me see.”

“No.” You said it too quickly. “It’s mine. I’ll wash it. It’s fine.”

“Baby,” he murmured, gently, “show me.”

Your lips trembled before you even understood why. Your shoulders hunched inward.

“I just… I made a mess,” you whispered. “I don’t know how. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t be mad.”

Sukuna remembered something the counselor had told him: people with Alzheimer’s often retain emotional conditioning even when they lose factual memory.

Blood—especially one’s own—could trigger instinctive shame, confusion, fear. Even without the memory of what it meant.

And now he saw all of it at once—the shame, the fear, the desperate instinct to hide what you didn’t understand.

His chest squeezed painfully.

He reached out slowly, palm open. “I’m not mad.”

You hesitated, then slowly uncurled your fingers.

The balled-up underwear sagged open in your hands, the dark stain stark against the fabric.

Tears gathered in your lashes. “I’m… bleeding. But I’m not hurt. I don’t think I’m hurt. I don’t remember hurting myself. I don’t know what I did wrong—”

He moved instantly, taking your shaking hand in his.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured. “You’re not hurt.”

Your lip quivered. Confusion swirled in your eyes. “Then why am I bleeding?”

“It’s your period,” he said gently, steadily. “It happens every month. It’s normal. You’ve had it for years.”

Your brows knitted, trembling. “I… have?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Most women get it, not just you. It’s normal. You’re okay.” Then, gently, “Are you wearing a pad?”

“A… what?”

He gave a small, patient smile. “Nothing big. Just something you put on your underwear so it doesn’t bleed through. We have them in a box under the sink.”

Sukuna wrapped an arm around you, pressing a kiss to your head. “Come. I’ll show you.”

He led you to the bathroom and pulled out the box.

A flicker of recognition brightened your face. “Oh… I remember seeing these. I just… wasn’t sure what they were for.”

"Let me get a fresh pair of underwear. We can buy some cute new ones for you, too," he added with a small smirk, stepping out to grab the undergarment.

You'd already peeled off your lose sweats by the time he got back, a little blood dripping down your thigh.

"I should probably…clean myself up first," you mumble, turning from him.

"Want me to help you?"

You pause, looking at him. "Do we…normally do it like that? When I get my, uh, period?"

"We do…a lot of things when you're on your period."

The words come toppling out before he can stop them.

Shit.

Sukuna has a terrible realization that he's actually getting aroused — it's been some time and well… you're still his wife despite everything.

But he feels true guilt. Sukuna doesn't remember the last time he felt guilt like that.

Unfortunately, you're now looking at him curiously. "Like?"

His mouth goes dry as he clears his throat and mutters, "Uh… I'm sorry. It's not… appropriate."

You've turned fully to him, eyes gleaming. "I want it."

He stares. "I think you don't understand, I mean—"

"Sex," you finish. "Yes, I know. Whatever we usually do, I want it."

Then your eyes drag down and you casually point out, "You're hard."

And smirk, just a little.

Sukuna actually burned up — he doesn't remember the last time he actually blushed.

"I… How do you even remember that?!" he asks, turning away slightly.

You shrug. "Guess we fucked a lot… when did we last fuck?"

"I, uh, like… weeks ago? I think—"

Then you catch the conflict warring on his face, and immediately understood. Somehow.

You didn't remember your own period but you still knew him like he was etched into your bones.

"I'm not…completely gone yet. I know what I want, and I want to do it while we still can. Since we don't have much longer left."

"Are you s—"

"I'm horny, Sukuna," you finally snapped. "Do I really have to spell it out for you? Maybe I have a brain disease but I'm still a person and maybe I don't remember exactly what to do—"

You pause, face dropping slightly. "Wait, is that why you don't want to have sex? Because I probably… suck at it now?"

"What?! No, not at all, I just… don't want t—"

"There's no boundaries for me, when it comes to you. All of me is yours, always. I trust you."

You said it as you looked him dead in the eye, gaze fully lucid and steady with conviction.

Then it heated with something that only stoked the ache building behind his zipper. "So are you going to let me forget this or are you going to show me?"

Blinking, Sukuna nodded once.

Then exhaled and stepped over to you, pulling out a small washcloth to wet it. "Alright."

And your face actually split into a grin as he kneeled before you, lifting the damp rag.

"I guess I should put a reminder for that in my journal, too — have sex… Because I get the feeling we haven't done it in a while."

Sukuna found his own lips alread curling into a smile as he wiped the blood smeared at your inner thighs. "I didn't know, I'm sorry honey."

"You should be sorry. You were depriving me. Keeping your wife unsatisfied and empty as if a terminal disease wasn't bad enough—" you dramatically continued.

"Alright, settle down. You could've told me—"

"I have a memory problem! I forgot to tell you."

"Well, I'm sorry for not reading your mind then," he aplogized affectionately, wiping close to the hem of your stained pantyline.

He could pick up your scent from here. Musky, warm, sweet in a raw, organic way. Of course carrying the slight metallic tang of your blood.

It had had been a long time.

Too long.

Sukuna was just about reaching the point where his brain shut off and his throbbing dick took over instead.

The rag dropped from his hands, and before you could utter a word, one hand held onto your thigh, lips a hair's breadth away from your pussy.

"Want me to show you? What we do?" he murmured, peering up at you with heavy eyes.

A part of him, the better caretaking version of him still feared that somehow this was wrong — but you'd given clear consent and right now your eyes were wide and your nod certain.

"You can tell me to stop whenever," he whispered, already tugging your panties to the side, uncovering your pussy.

Sukuna feared he might possibly cum in his boxers right there and then at the sight.

Your folds waiting for him — and without thinking he was leaning in to swipe his tongue around your clit.

And you gasped softly, one of your hands coming to rest on his shoulder to steady yourself.

He almost felt like a pervert with how horny he was, so eager to take in all of you that he actually spread your folds with his thumbs to catch the pink inside, glistening with arousal and traces of blood.

By then he'd accepted that he was going to cum untouched before this was finished — and it would be worth it.

He felt you watching him with bated breath as he leaned to properly run his tongue along your seam, brushing over your clit.

You pulse under his tongue, the scent of your arousal thickening.

Holding you open, he starts licking and sucking around your clit, lifting his eyes every so often to watch your brows crumple as you slowly lost control.

Whimpering slightly.

That little sound sent a pulse to his cock that made it twitch.

His tongue explored deeper, inching closer to your entrance. And you showd no signs of wanting him to stop, so with a final circle around the edge, he wormed his tongue in.

And groaned as you whined, cunt clenching around his tongue as he tasted you from inside. Felt along your slick walls, tasted the metal and yeast-soft sweetness all bloom on his tongue and more than anything you tasted alive.

So, so alive.

His beautiful wife living and breathing and the proof of it was how your small noises and the fingers tightening around his shoulder and you dripping around his tongue.

Slipping back out of your hole, he licked up your slit, up till your sensitive clit. Tenderly licked at it just enough your thighs began trembling — then he sealed his mouth around and sucked, eyes up to see every single reaction pass through your face.

How you finally came undone with a small cry, lips parted and brows scrunched as your clit twitched violently under his tongue massaging the beaded nub all the way through your orgasm.

"Fuck—" you gasped as your orgasm finally faded, eyes hazy.

He withdrew slightly, strings of slick and spit snapping as he gently massaged your thighs. "Do you… remember any of this?"

Swallowing, you have him a smile, crooked with desire. "Well… not the details. And what to do. But… it feels very familiar, yes."

Your folds were puffy, flushed and swollen as your legs shook and you wet your lips. "Fuck me," you whispered. "I want you to fuck me."

His cock hurt with how hard he was, but he tried to keep himself steady. "Do you… remember what that is?"

"Yes. Penis in vagina — are you going to do it or not."

Suddenly he was picking you up and carrying you to the armchair in the corner of the bedroom, kissing you as he hastily helped slip the shirt up over your head, your legs hooking over the sides to spread yourself wide.

He leaned down, gently squeezing one of your soft breasts, savoring the way his name fell from your lips when he captured one of your hard nipples in his mouth, gently sucking and licking at it.

"I want you in me," you breathed, gently rubbing your fingers through your hair. "Please—mnh—"

You moaned again when he rubbed your other nipple — then shifted to suck that once till you took a shuddering breath.

Finally pulling off.

His head felt foggy as he started undressing, watching you laying on the bed, tits rising and falling with each heavy breath as you watched with hazy eyes, puffy nipples glistening.

As he slipped his boxers off your gaze dragged down where he was hard and throbbing before he was on you again kissing your neck.

"My pretty girl," he whispered, one hand making its way down to drag your stained panties off.

Your breath picked up, hips lifting to let him tug the garment off until you were fully naked.

Pulling back slightly, his heavy gaze dropped to where his stiff cock was brushing against your slick folds.

Wrapping his fist around it, he lined it up with your entrance — then looked back up at you. Your eyes were dark, gnawing on your lip like you did when you were particular eager.

"This… This might hurt a little," he said hesitantly, "Since it's been some time and—'

"You're big," you finished, ogling at his cock.

He blinked, cheeks warming slightly. "Uh… Yeah. Do you sti—"

"Yes."

Swallowing, he murmured, "Alright… You can tell me to stop any time."

"Are you going to keep giving me disclaimers or are we going to have sex."

Huffing out a small laugh, he finally looked back to your pussy — one hand on your hip and your arms winding around his neck as he slowly pushed into your wet heat.

The breath stuck in his throat, mind blanking as your slippery walls hugged him — the added lubrication from your period was a plus.

Once or twice you stiffened slightly, hinting to perhaps a slight, expected pain — but your eyes never once left the sight of him splitting you apart, and you seemed to be content to continue.

When he finally bottomed out, his lips found your jaw, kissing softly and giving you a second to adjust.

"All good?"

"Fuck me," you practically growled.

Grinning against your skin, he experimentally pulled out — then thrusted back in. A lovely whine spilled from your lips, your hold tightening around him.

"Oh, yes—" you sighed as he started fucking into you — not a harsh pace, but with steady, deep strokes where his tip kissed your cervix with every snap of his hips.

His lips were already on yours, swallowing up every moan and whimper of pleasure like they gave him life.

Though honestly he was trying his hardest not to cum about four minutes in — feeling you clench around him, your body shivering under his, your tits rising and falling with your breaths.

Then suddenly something shifted — at this point he'd practically grown a sixth sense for it. Already pulling back, still buried in you, his eyes found yours clouded with that vague sort of look he'd become familiar with.

"…Sweetheart?"

And the worst three words that could have possibly been said in that moment came out—

"Who are you?"

His blood went cold.

All the lust drained from his body, replaced by panic, by guilt, because he shouldn't have done this, he knew better.

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

And just as he was about to pull out… you tightened your hold on him.

"No."

And then you smiled softly.

"No?" he repeated, dumbfounded. "Honey I really don't think we should be doing this if you don't remember who I a—"

This time you shook your head, patiently — walls sucking his cock in deeper. Which was once again returning to full hardness, against his will.

"Don't stop," you murmured, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I'm not… remembering right now… but… I trust you. And this is making me feel really good."

He blinked, eyes searching yours — to find nothing but calm truth. Not even the slightest hint of fear or aversion.

"Please," you whispered, "Keep going."

So swallowing tightly, he did — slowly at first. And your lip parted, moaning in relief.

The pace picked up again, as tender and soft as before — but this time it was you kissing him almost hungrily, unhooking your legs to wrap them around his body and hold him deep inside.

All your muscles were tensing and your moans were getting higher, sharper — Sukuna only prayed you were close because he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on.

"Oh, f-fuck—" you gasped, back arching — telltale signs that you were about to cum. "Don'tstopdon'tstop—"

Holding his pace steady he watched in awe as you keened and clamped down around him, face the picture of ecstasy right as you moaned, "I love you, I love you s-so much—"

He wasn't sure if you remembered him again, or if you were saying it just out of pleasure — but whatever it was, that did it. With a jagged groan, he pushed deep inside and came inside your fluttering pussy, whispering back how much he loved you too, how pretty you were, how perfect every part of you was.

When you both finally finished you hummed out his name—and a weak smile of relief spread across his lips as he kissed your nose. "You scared me."

"Look, you made me cum so good it brought my memory back."

"I'm flattered."

Then watching your expression closely for any sign of discomfort, he pulled out — and your eyes dropped to his cock covered in blood.

And before you had a chance to worry—

"Don't worry about the blood. You're not hurt — you're on your period which has nothing to do with this. It's completely normal and means you're healthy."

Your face relaxed at his reassuring tone. And he once again looked carefully to see if you'd begin to get any post-nut regret or something—instead you looked at him, relaxed and sleepy, and demanded, "We're showering together."

That was the last time you ever had sex — and Sukuna could not ask for anything more with how much you giggled in the shower that night, and how soundly you dozed off curled into him.

Long after you fell asleep, his mind kept going back to it — how you'd actually forgotten him for the very first time… and still trusted him enough to feel safe and happy during sex.

How you'd forgotten his name but still remembered that you loved him.

He knew then that it would never happen again, not with your rapid deterioration, but as he fell asleep with Alzheimer between you, his own mind was content that he got to give you this experience one last time while enough of you remained to make it possible.

He didn't even remember what triggered it.

Maybe it was the way you asked him the same question five times in two minutes. Maybe it was how thin you looked these days.

Maybe it was because he hadn't slept in twenty-nine hours. Or maybe it was simply the sight of you smiling vaguely at nothing — that soft, lost smile that used to be full of intention.

Something in him snapped.

"Stop," he finally barked, louder than he meant to. "Just—stop asking me that."

You stiffened, the smile pulling away like a string pulled loose.

"I'm… sorry?" you whispered, voice small. "Did I—did I do something wrong?"

He should've stopped there. But breaking points don't care about should.

"No," he said harshly, pacing around, "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just— I'm just tired. I'm so tired, I—"

You flinched at the force of his voice, eyes widening. Tears immediately welled, your breath starting to hitch. "Sukuna… please don't be angry. I don't know what I did. I don't remember. I'm trying— I really am—"

And he couldn't listen; not because you were wrong, but because you were right. Because you were trying so hard — and still disappearing anyway.

"Sometimes," he said, voice breaking open, "I wish I never met you."

Your face crumpled instantly, like a child's.

"Why… why would you say that?"

You crossed your arms over your body as if trying to keep yourself together, voice shaking. "Why are you saying that to me? I didn't—I didn't mean to upset you—"

And still he continued, the grief inside him rotting into cruelty.

"Because then I wouldn't have to lose you."

Then you sobbed—a full-body, confused, terrified sob that wracked your whole frame.

He staggered back, horrified by himself, by what he’d done to you, by your trembling and the way you stared at him like he’d turned into a stranger.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, curling in on yourself. “I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me—”

He couldn’t stay; he was afraid of making it worse.

He was afraid of himself.

So he left the apartment — walked the entire block until the cold night air burned his lungs and his hands shook uncontrollably. And at the base of a tree in the cold dark he finally slid down, pressing his palms into his eyes.

The pain felt like he was being torn apart from inside—he'd rather have his organs physically ripped than feel this.

Your face, scared and confused flashing over and over in his mind, the way he'd finally snapped and lashed out at you because he was not as strong as a man as you thought he was.

Because you were slowly losing your mind, the most beautiful part about you.

And he felt helpless.

Helpless, helpless, helpless.

And he took it out on you.

The dam broke — and for the first time in his life Sukuna cried.

Not teared up a little, or sniffed, but full on sobbed into the empty world till his nose was running and his eyes were swollen and he'd run out of tears to shed.

Sukuna didn't sleep that night.

Instead he sat at the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards as the early light crept across them. You were curled up on your side, breathing softly, unaware — or so he thought — of the way he’d walked out on you the night before.

Of the way you cried, confused, scared, because he’d raised his voice at you… because he’d said the one thing he’d sworn he’d never say.

I wish I never met you.

He didn’t mean it. It clawed at him like something feral the moment it left his mouth.

So now he waited. For you to wake, for him to tell you, for the guilt to finish hollowing him out.

You stirred, rubbing your eyes.

“Mm… morning,” you whispered, voice still soft with sleep.

“Morning.” His throat tightened. “We… we need to talk.”

You blinked at him, a little wary — he saw the faint crease between your brows, the one you always got when you sensed he was bracing for something unpleasant.

He swallowed. “Last night… we had a fight. And you cried. And I walked out. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who—”

“I remember.”

His breath stopped in his chest.

You looked down at your hands, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I remember you yelling. And I remember not knowing why. And…” your voice trembled, “and I remember how my chest hurt because I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

He went still, stunned — because you weren’t supposed to remember. Not this, not something so sharp.

Slowly you lifted your eyes to him, wet and apologetic and heartbreakingly gentle.

“But I also remember the look on your face. Before you left. You looked… scared.”

Sukuna’s throat closed. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I didn’t understand it then, but… now I think I do. You’re scared to lose me.”

He covered his face with his hands for a moment, dragging in a shaking breath before he dropped them again.

“I love you so much it hurts,” he said hoarsely, forehead nearly pressed to yours. “It feels like my ribs are splintering. I just— I hate this. I hate watching you disappear piece by piece and I can’t stop any of it. And sometimes it gets ugly inside my head, and I say stupid things because I don’t know what to do with it—”

You cupped his cheeks with both hands — small, warm, forgiving. “You don’t have to hide from me,” you whispered. “Not even the ugly parts. You’re allowed to feel things too, you know.”

He huffed a miserable breath that wanted to be a laugh.

“You should be furious with me.”

He was furious with himself.

He loathed himself.

You shook your head. “I was hurt. And maybe I should be, but I’m not angry.” You traced the scar near his jaw with your thumb — a gesture you used to do absentmindedly, and now did with such focused tenderness it broke him. “You're also a human. You make mistakes… and I don’t want you to pretend. Not with me. Not before I forget more.”

His eyes stung, but he leaned into your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your palm. "I'm so, so sorry."

“I know,” you said. “And I’m still here.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly your feet lifted slightly off the floor, as if anchoring you with his own strength could keep time from taking you.

For the first time in days, your smile was soft and sure.

“We’ll be okay,” you murmured into his shoulder. “Even if I forget the fight again later… remember that right now, I forgive you.”

He closed his eyes.

Right now — this version of you — remembered, understood, and forgave him.

And he held onto that with the desperation of a drowning man finding shore.

Your real descent took place over the next few weeks, just as the earth began to wake again — sprigs of green piercing through melting patches of snow, cherry blossom trees blooming so densely they looked like pale mist drifting through the distance.

Progression is a strange thing.

You don’t notice a plant growing if you stare at it second by second, don't notice evening creeping by tracking the sun inch by inch across the sky.

And your disease was like that — nothing seemed to change dramatically day to day.

But when Sukuna looked back, everything was different.

Everything was worse.

You were still mobile, conversational, emotionally present. But in retrospect, that’s when the cracks began to widen.

You started losing the thread of conversations mid-sentence. Asking the same question three, four, five times in a span of minutes.

Time began collapsing inside your mind — things from yesterday feeling like “a long time ago,” or events from months ago feeling like they had happened “just now.”

Your irritability grew too — not out of malice, but because you were constantly lost inside your own thoughts. Sometimes you’d freeze and ask, bewildered,

“Are we supposed to be somewhere?”

“I feel like we’re late for something…”

“We’re not late for anything, sweetheart,” he’d reassure you softly. “We’re right where we need to be.”

You needed help picking clothes, remembering to eat, turning off the stove. You still enjoyed movies, but you forgot the plot instantly.

And Sukuna never snapped at you again.

He had sworn — to himself, to you (even if you didn’t remember anymore) — that he wouldn’t. Not when it got worse. Not ever.

He loved you in every way he knew.

He took you on walks while he still could — early spring mornings where blooming plum blossoms and singing nightingales drew you in like magnets.

Every small thing delighted you — squirrels scampering across branches, wayfaring crows cawing overhead, the tiny wildflowers pushing through field grasses, the warm spring sunshine setting the green foliage aglow from within.

He did everything he could to keep you safe, comfortable, happy. Even started bringing the cat to you more often — Alzheimer always made you giggle in that way that ended with him kissing your cheeks, your nose, your mouth, despite your half-hearted protests.

He was always by your side. Always touching you — a hand on your waist, your back, your cheek. Kissing you, holding you, stroking your hair.

He cherished every minute detail of your existence.

Every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every expression, no matter how fleeting.

Sometimes you complained about him staring too much, or always taking pictures, recording videos.

But he needed to; he couldn’t stand losing even a second of you.

He’d hold you in his arms — on the couch, in bed — and scroll through years of photos and videos. Even the old ones from childhood: his scraped knees, your gapped grin after losing a milk tooth (which you’d proudly gifted him).

Your parents started visiting more often.

Sukuna didn’t like sharing you — but he supposed they deserved time with you too.

Still, without fail, every night you would seek him out, curl into him, fall asleep with his name on your lips.

Sometimes he watched you for hours as you slept.

Tracing the contours of your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your eyelids. Sometimes even attempting to count your lashes fanned across your skin.

He could only sleep after pulling you tight against him, like a child clinging to a beloved stuffed animal. Breathing you in, wishing desperately he could bottle your scent forever.

Early April arrived — and Sukuna decided to take you to the annual Flower Festival.

He didn’t think about the fact that it would be your last.

The air was crisp, the sky a tender, pale blue.

He told you how you used to spend the festival together as kids — him chasing you through the stalls, both of you stuffing yourselves sick with sweets.

Soon you came across a stall selling amacha. Sukuna stopped, bought you a glass of the amber liquid, and watched as you raised it to your lips.

Immediately your eyes widened. “Woah… how much sugar did they put in this?”

Sukuna grinned. “None. It’s naturally that sweet. No added sweeteners.”

“No way!” You took another sip. “What kind of tea is this again?”

“Amacha. Made from dried and fermented hydrangea. You used to down that shit every year at the festival when we were kids.”

Seven times that day you asked him about the tea — what it was, why it was sweet, how it could be so sweet, what made it taste like that.

“Tastes like spring,” you said.

And he memorized the sound of that wonder in your voice. He memorized everything.

During the third and fourth week, major disorientation began to take hold — even inside the apartment.

You forgot which room was which, walked into the bathroom and asked if you had “just moved here.”

You began losing nouns, often struggling to describe objects you needed.

At sundown, anxiety and restlessness surged — pacing, wandering, glancing from shadow to shadow — until Sukuna learned to close all blinds and curtains before dusk and turn on soft, warm lights to keep the environment calm.

Your walking slowed. Coordination slipped. You dropped things, bumped into corners, misjudged steps.

Once, he left the room for barely two minutes before hearing glass shatter and you shriek. You were okay — thankfully — but his mind instantly painted much worse scenarios.

A kettle of boiling water. A knife. The stove.

Sometimes you even toppled over because you forgot to sit before trying to put on your socks.

But none of that was the worst part.

The worst part was when foundational memories began to slip away.

You could no longer clearly remember how you two met, childhood stories, family lore, trips you had taken, your own wedding.

He played the videos for you, showed you the photos, and at least each time your eyes lit up like you were seeing it for the first time. Lost memories still brought you joy.

And yes — it felt like pieces of him were being erased each time you briefly forgot who he was.

But in the most painfully tender way, even when you forgot who he was, you still wanted him near.

You always said he made you feel safe, even if you couldn’t place his name.

You trusted him anyway.

You insisted that he and Alzheimer were soulmates and he would kiss the top of your head and you would melt right into him.

There were times, though, when you had… episodes.

The first one happened on a dim morning, light filtering weakly through the curtains.

Sukuna had been sitting beside you, watching your chest rise and fall in the soft rhythm of sleep.

Then suddenly — your eyes snapped open, wide and terrified.

“Where… where am I?!” you whispered, voice trembling, hands clawing at the blankets as if to shield yourself.

Sukuna leaned forward gently. “Hey… it’s okay. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

“No!” you cried, shaking your head. “I… I can’t be here! I have to get home — to my parents! I’m… I’m late for school—”

A pang went through his chest as he realized the truth: your mind had slipped back decades.

You weren’t here in this bed or this apartment... you were a child in your own memory.

“Shh… listen, baby,” he murmured, putting a hand softly on your arm. “You don’t have to go anywhere. You’re safe. You’re home. It’s okay.”

You pulled the covers over your head, trembling. “I… I’m going to be punished! They’ll be mad at me… I forgot everything—”

Sukuna crouched beside the bed, gently coaxing the blanket down. “No one’s mad. No one’s angry. You’re okay. It’s me — Sukuna. I’m right here.”

Your frightened eyes scanned his face, and for a moment, recognition flickered.

Then you reached for him instinctively, trembling.

“You… you’re not… a teacher? Or the principal?” you whispered.

Sukuna let out a soft, gentle laugh. “No, sweetheart. I’m your husband. I’ve been right here. And don’t worry — you don’t have school anymore.”

You buried your face in his chest, sobbing quietly.

The remnants of teenage panic slowly faded as the present — his voice, his warmth, the apartment, the scent of spring — seeped back in.

Eventually your sobs subsided into hiccups, though you still curled against the sheets, clutching the fabric like a frightened child.

Sukuna stayed close, stroking your hair, whispering reassurances.

After a few minutes, you lifted your eyes to him and whispered shakily,

“Wait… I’m… I’m in my twenties. I’m… not a kid.”

He nodded gently. “That’s right, baby. You’re here with me. You’re safe. You don’t have to worry about school or getting in trouble.”

Your hands shot out, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as you pressed your forehead to his chest. “I… I forgot. I forgot everything. I was… I was a kid again.”

Then, fragile as glass, “Sukuna… I don’t want you to… to stop loving me. Even if… even if I forget… or act like a kid again.”

A bruise formed somewhere deep inside him — not from the fear, but from the fact that you thought he could ever stop.

He brushed hair from your damp forehead, voice thick but steady. “I could never stop loving you. Not now. Not ever. You’re still you — in every way that matters.”

“Even when… I don’t remember anything?”

“Especially then,” he whispered, certainty like a vow. “You’ll never be alone. You’ll always be mine and I’ll always be yours. You couldn’t get rid of me even if you tried.”

You let out a shaky laugh — half relief, half exhaustion. “I… I want that. I want you to love me anyway.”

“I already do,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Always.”

Finally, you relaxed fully, nuzzling into him.

“Then… I’m okay,” you whispered. “If I have you.”

Your eyelids fluttered shut, and soon you drifted back into a peaceful sleep, cradled securely in his arms — the safest place you knew, even when you didn’t know why.

You slipped into the early late stage around the fifth and sixth weeks.

By then, very little short term memory remained — you couldn't retain answers to questions for even a minute.

If you came across your reflection in a mirror, you'd mistake it for "another woman" — and he'd gently have to remind you that that was you, his beautiful, brilliant, and very loved wife.

It happened on a Wednesday.

Sukuna woke to the sound of something small hitting the floor — a dull, soft clatter.

When he opened his eyes you were standing beside the bed, frowning, holding your toothbrush.

No, not holding it — staring at it.

Like you had never seen it before in your life.

"Baby," he said gently, sitting up, "you dropped that earlier. Here—let me help you."

You didn't really react.

Instead your gaze slid from the toothbrush to him as if following a trail of light, not a person you loved.

"…What is this?" you asked.

He froze.

And you lifted the toothbrush to your ear. Then smelled it.

Then—innocently, heartbreakingly—tried to use it on your hair.

He took it from you before the bristles tangled.

When he turned to put it back, he heard the quiet sound of liquid dripping.

He looked down.

And your pajama pants were soaked.

You hadn't noticed.

Or maybe you had—and no longer understood what it meant.

But your lower lip trembled.

"Sorry," you whispered. "I… I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know—Sukuna…I don't know…"

Like a child bracing for punishment, you folded in on yourself.

And that — not the toothbrush, not the urine, not the confusion — that was what broke him.

The sheer terror on your face.

Because you weren't just confused anymore — you were scared.

And the one thing he had sworn — violently, obsessively — to protect was now slipping beyond anything he could fight.

Shaking, he pulled you against him.

And he felt the bones in your back — too sharp, too light.

The last of what remained of you was beginning to disappear.

From then on, you needed help with nearly every aspect of your life.

Even walking had become a shuffling little gait, your balance fragile, your hands trembling constantly.

Your depth perception began breaking down — you missed chairs, misjudged steps, reached for things that weren’t quite where you thought they were.

Sometimes your body jerked in brief, involuntary spasms.

And you were regressing.

Often you became very childlike — clinging to him, asking if you were doing a good job, asking whether he was mad at you because you could sense even the smallest shift in his tone or expression.

He always reassured you gently, tenderly.

“You’re doing amazing,” he’d whisper.

“You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I could never be mad at you. Not ever.”

Him — the man who would snap at the rest of the world for the slightest inconvenience — could never find it in himself to be angry with you.

And despite the other types of feelings that had by then eroded, the love that had always existed in the very center of it all, in its purest form, persisted.

He had expected your regression to feel strange.

It didn’t.

Because he had known you back when you were a child.

And this version of you — smaller, more fragile, clinging to him with a kind of innocent trust — felt familiar too.

Like meeting that little girl again.

Like love circling back on itself.

And, strangely, despite all the ways he cared for you, there were moments you made him feel like a kid again too.

As if time had folded in on itself.

As if you were both still children, and you still had forever.

It happened on an ordinary morning — which, in hindsight, was the cruelest thing of all.

He found you sitting at the dining table, still in your pajamas, hands curled loosely around a cup of tea you hadn't drank.

The steam had stopped rising, the liquid gone cold.

You were staring at it, unblinking, as though you'd been there for hours.

"Hey," Sukuna murmured, lightly brushing your shoulder. "You didn't drink."

You didn't look up.

Not unusual, he told himself. Some mornings were foggier than others.

But then he noticed your chest — the way you were breathing. Shallow, quick, almost fluttering.

"Sweetheart?" he said softly. "Look at me."

When you finally turned your head, it was slow — too slow, as if your body were a second behind your mind.

And your eyes…

Your eyes were vacant in a way he had never seen before.

Not confused, not forgetful—just…hollow. Like the light inside had gently guttered out.

"Do you wanna eat something?" he asked, trying to coax, trying to be normal.

You didn't answer.

Instead, your mouth trembled — barely. A tiny movement. But you didn't speak.

You always spoke.

Even when you forgot things, even when words were mismatched or misplaced, you spoke.

But now it was like the machinery behind language had shut off.

His stomach dropped.

"…Can you say my name?" he tried, voice hoarse.

Another tiny tremble of your mouth — but no sound. Only the faint clicking of your tongue struggling to coordinate inside your own mouth.

And then it hit him.

Not confusion, not a bad day, not another slip.

No, your brain couldn't find the motor steps. Not the muscles, not the sequence, not the path.

Aphasia.

Severe aphasia.

End-stage.

His vision tunneled for a moment — the way shock sometimes does — because this wasn't one of the episodes you bounced back from. This wasn't one of the days you'd forget later.

This was decline.

Steep, irreversible decline.

"Are you in pain?" he whispered, crouching down so he could see your face,

Slowly, you blinked.

Then your head tilted — not intentionally, but like your neck didn't want to hold itself up anymore.

Something in Sukuna went ice cold.

He touched your cheek…and you didn't lean into it.

You always leaned into it.

Always.

Sukuna stared at the refrigerator door for a long time before dialing — at the little scrap of paper the neurologist had given him weeks ago "call when things change."

His hand shook once before he tightened his grip and forced stillness into his voice.

The line clicked.

"Community Hospice, this is Takashima speaking. How may I help you?"

"…My wife," he said. His voice sounded deeper than usual, like it had sunk into some trench. "She—she's been declining. Fast."

"All right," the nurse gently said, "Can you tell me what changes you've noticed?"

He swallowed.

"She can't stay awake. Not really. She… doesn't know where she is anymore. Barely eats. Maybe a few sips of tea. And today she… she didn't know how to swallow her medication.

There was a pause. A soft, professional pause.

"I see. I'm very sorry. Has her physician discussed hospice eligibility with you?"

"Yes."

It came out angrily, almost — not at her, but at the fact that the sentence now existed in his life. "He said it would be… soon."

“Okay,” she said quietly, the tone of someone who has guided many families across this threshold. “We can send a nurse out today to evaluate her and set up a care plan. Are you home?”

Sukuna looked over his shoulder.

You were on the couch, curled sideways under a blanket, staring at the wall in that unfocused way that meant you weren’t really seeing anything.

“Yes,” he said. “We’re home.”

“We’ll be there within two hours.”

He thanked her mechanically, hung up, then braced both hands on the counter and let his forehead touch the cool cabinet surface.

He didn’t cry.

Just breathed — slow, ragged, like each exhale took a little more out of him.

When the knock came, he almost didn’t move.

But then he forced himself up and opened the door.

The nurse bowed politely. “Hello. I’m Nurse Miyahara. I spoke with you earlier.”

She stepped inside quietly, removing her shoes, carrying a soft-sided medical bag.

Sukuna guided her to the living room.

His wife lifted her head slightly at the sound of voices — your eyes glassy, pupils slow to adjust. Expression was blank, but peaceful.

“Hello, sweetheart,” the nurse said gently. “My name is Miyahara.”

You didn’t answer; simply watched her with the vague curiosity of someone listening to rain.

Sukuna felt heat rise to his throat — a pressure he swallowed down.

The nurse kneeled beside you, checked vitals, lifted your wrist gently, examined breathing, responsiveness.

“How much has she eaten today?” she asked quietly.

“…Half a cup of pudding. Maybe.”

“That’s okay,” she murmured. “At this stage, hunger naturally decreases.”

She asked more questions — all soft:

How has her sleep been?

Has she been aspirating liquids?

Does she ever seem frightened?

Is she comfortable?

Are there moments when she calls out?

Sukuna answered everything with crisp precision, because it was the one thing he could still control.

When the nurse finished, she stood and placed a hand lightly on his forearm.

“She is entering the final stages,” she said gently. “We will provide support for both of you. You’re not alone in this.”

A sort of anger flickered in him at that. A deep, hurt anger.

Because without you, he was alone.

But Sukuna nodded once, jaw tight, because he had no idea how to say anything without breaking.

She left a folder on the table — emergency numbers, expectations, signs of approaching death, comfort medication instructions.

Before leaving, she looked around the apartment.

“You’ve taken very good care of her. People don’t always do as much as you have.”

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Over the next few days your apartment subtly changed.

Medical supplies were brought in, the lighting became softer, clutter was cleared to make room for new equipment. Pill bottles lined the counter.

Your room became the "quiet room" — shades always half-drawn, your favorite music playing softly.

A notebook of care instructions appeared on the coffee table. A water cup with a straw was permanently next to you. Your clothes were swapped for soft cotton shirts, loose sweatpants, fuzzy socks.

Even the cat moved slower, quieter, often spending hours curled up to snooze next to you.

The apartment becomes silent — not because he was silent, but because now you slept most of the time.

And every object in the home now felt temporary — part of a stage he knew would collapse soon.

Those days were quiet.

Even Alzheimer seemed to tolerate him now — allowing Sukuna to scratch the top of her scruffy head without hissing or swatting.

But his own world had dulled, everything washed in desaturated shades, as if color itself were fading.

It was strange, he thought, how a single person could give someone’s life that much meaning.

He’d lie beside you, speaking softly, showing you pictures — of when you were both children, then young adults, then married.

You watched with a vacant gaze, though occasionally your eyes would sharpen for a moment, your lips forming a few short, fragmented sentences before drifting away again.

There were more episodes now — because your very sense of the world was collapsing.

Memory isn't just facts — it's how your brain organizes reality.

The systems that told you where you were, what objects meant, who people were, what time was, were breaking down.

You couldn't comprehend what your own body was doing at times, even — how to use your limbs, why you were breathing strangely, why you were in pain, what movement meant.

Your world was falling apart into a series of disconnected, disorienting moments — one that kept restarting but never made more sense.

At times it almost even felt like a second infancy, but with grief instead of wonder.

So it was understandable that there were more frequent moments of you not knowing or recognizing him at all — he'd expected this.

Sukuna wasn’t someone who believed in anything beyond biology and neurons and the physical world.

His father had died years ago and no miracles followed. No signs, no whispers from the afterlife.

Death was impersonal and absolute.

And there were no miracles now either, as you slipped further and further away.

It was quiet, clinical, devastatingly real.

But sometimes… sometimes he wondered.

Because even when you forgot his name, his face, your life together — you still relaxed when he touched your hand.

You still calmed when he sat beside you. You still leaned into him like a plant bending toward the sun.

There were times you were frightened of the nurse, shrinking away from unfamiliar voices and unfamiliar hands — but you never shrank from him.

You tolerated him, trusted him, reached for him without knowing why.

Like your heart remembered what your mind had left behind.

He noticed it in the stillness.

For days you'd been sleeping more — twelve hours, then fourteen, then drifting in and out even when awake, your head lolling softly against the couch cushion as though gravity itself had grown heavier.

Hospice had warned him this could happen, but hearing something and living beside it were two different worlds.

That evening, the late spring light was already dying when he realized you hadn’t woken for nearly three hours.

He set down the bowl of soup he’d been reheating and crossed the room.

“Baby?” he murmured, brushing your hair back gently.

Your eyelids fluttered, but the inhale that followed wasn’t normal.

It came in a deep, sudden gasp — too big for your small frame — followed by a long pause where your chest didn’t move at all.

Sukuna froze.

Then another breath came, shallow and fast, almost like you were catching up.

Cheyne–Stokes breathing.

He’d only heard it once before in his life, at his father’s bedside.

And once you heard it, you didn’t forget.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, but his voice caught. He sat beside you carefully, slipping his fingers into your slackened hand.

The warmth was still there, but too fragile, too light.

And your eyes cracked open just barely — cloudy, unfocused — and for a moment he thought you didn’t see him.

Then something happened that made his blood turn cold.

You looked over him.

Not at him.

Over his shoulder, toward the far corner of the room — empty, silent, dim.

Your lips parted as if you recognized someone he couldn’t see and your face softened in a way he had not seen in months, like greeting an old friend.

Near-death awareness.

He felt his pulse hammering in his throat.

“Sukuna…?” you breathed, barely a sound. Not a question — a reflex, a reaching.

He forced his breathing to stay even. “I’m right here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another long, unnatural pause in your breathing left the room completely silent.

Then the next inhale arrived — harsh, wet, jagged.

His chest constricted.

This was it.

This was the shift hospice told him about.

This was the moment the body begins to let go.

No amount of strength, no amount of rage at the world could stop it.

He bent forward and pressed his forehead to your temple, holding your hand with both of his like he could anchor your soul.

“Please,” he whispered, eyes burning, “stay with me a little longer.”

You didn’t answer.

But your fingers — barely, barely — curled faintly against his palm, a ghost of your old self.

And that tiny movement broke him.

Sukuna shut his eyes, breathing through the devastation as your breaths continued their fragile, uneven rhythm — the terrible, unmistakable cadence of a body preparing to leave the world.

Sukuna dozed off at some point with his head against the headboard, your hand in his.

He didn’t know what woke him, only that the apartment was silent — too silent — and your fingers were twitching weakly in his palm.

Your eyes were half-open, unfocused, staring at something above his shoulder.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was raw. “Are you in pain?”

You didn’t answer the question.

Instead, your lips parted and you whispered,

“…She’s here.”

Sukuna’s entire body went cold.

“Who?” he asked immediately, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

Your gaze drifted to the ceiling, soft and dreamy.

“The lady… with the pretty hair… she’s smiling. She says I shouldn’t be scared.”

He felt something inside him collapse.

You weren’t hallucinating — hospice had warned him about this.

Near-death awareness.

Patients seeing loved ones, figures, visitors no one else could perceive.

A sign that the mind is transitioning before the body does.

Sukuna didn't believe in these things…but now he was questioning it.

Now, as he was seeing his second half die in real time it felt like he was brushing death himself.

Sukuna swallowed hard, forcing his throat to loosen enough to speak.

“There’s no one here but me, baby.”

You didn’t seem alarmed — you even smiled faintly.

“I know… but she says you’ll be okay.”

He buried his face in your hand, letting out a sound that was almost a sob.

You stroked his knuckles with weak fingers — a gesture so familiar it nearly killed him — and whispered,

“Don’t cry, Sukuna… I’m right here…”

But your eyes were looking at something else entirely.

A few minutes later, your lashes fluttered again.

Your pupils refocused — but not on him.

Your expression shifted into something warmer — familiar. Like you were seeing someone you adored.

“…Mr. Itadori?” you breathed.

Sukuna froze.

You smiled — not at Sukuna — but right through him, as if someone stood just behind his shoulder.

“Oh… you look good. You really do…” you whispered, your voice feather-light. “You always looked so serious in the photos, but I can see it now — you were sweet, too…”

His heart stuttered. This was the most coherent you'd been in days.

“Who are you talking to?” he rasped, though he already knew the answer.

You laughed softly — a nostalgic giggle like you were twenty again. “Your dad. We were just… talking.”

You reached out a trembling hand toward that empty space.

“He says you tried so hard… even when you had no one to teach you how.”

Sukuna’s breath caught like a fist to the ribs.

You looked toward him for the first time — but there was a glassy distance in your eyes.

“He’s proud of you, Sukuna.” Your lip trembled, but your smile remained gentle. “He says you loved me right. You loved me more than enough.”

Sukuna’s throat closed; his vision blurred.

“Sweetheart…” His voice warped. “There’s no one there.”

You shook your head once, slow.

“He’s right there,” you insisted, eyes shining with a conviction realer than the room itself. “He came to walk me home.”

Sukuna stared at the empty air behind you, wishing — for the first time in his life — that he believed in ghosts.

In anything that could take you someplace safe.

Your fingers curled weakly toward him again, pulling his attention back.

“And he says…” your voice cracked tenderly, “…he says you don’t have to come with me. Not yet.”

That was what broke him.

Not death, not the leaving.

But that you — even already half gone — were still trying to save him from the loneliness he was drowning in.

He leaned his forehead to yours, his voice shaking apart.

“I’m staying,” he whispered. “Right here. As long as you’re still breathing.”

You sighed softly, soothed by his answer… or by someone else entirely.

And then your eyes drifted upward again — to the visitor only you could see — and you smiled with a serenity Sukuna had never been granted.

Consciousness slipped away once more.

Minutes passed — long enough that he feared you wouldn’t return again, heart thudding as dawn tinged the horizon.

The first light.

Alzheimer hadn't left your side in hours — but now the cat was moving, meowing as it got up and curled up as close as it could on your pillow by your head.

He thought this would be it.

But then your breath steadied.

You blinked up at him…clear-eyed. Pupils focused on him.

More lucid than you had been in weeks.

“Sukuna…” You swallowed. “Can you play our song?”

You even said the title.

For a moment he was paralyzed in disbelief.

Then he reached for his phone, hands shaking — terrified the spell would break if he moved too fast.

The first notes filled the dim room — the nostalgic melody of your favorite wedding song.

Your eyes found his again, a small smile blooming on your lips.

“I’m not scared,” you breathed. “The body… it knows how to die. It’s okay.”

He tried to speak — failed.

And his tears dripped onto the blanket between you.

“I love you.” Your fingers traced his cheek, barely a ghost of a touch. “Every version of me has loved you.”

He leaned closer — forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he whispered, voice breaking apart.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured. “I’ll be back.”

Sukuna had no idea what that meant.

But he kissed you — soft, like holding something sacred and already half-invisible.

And your lips split against his.

A small giggle.

A noise that felt like the sun's golden rays, like soft bells chiming.

Then somehow the world shifted.

And for a split-second you were children again.

The apartment, the tubes, the faint hum of the hospice monitor — all of it fell away. In its place was the corner shop from long ago, sunlight slanting through dusty glass panes, the air faintly sweet with candy and winter blossoms.

You were nine, teasing and unguarded, impossibly alive.

Running through a field and scraped knees and stolen riceballs and fingers sticky from shared sweets and the buzz of summer cicadas and racing down the street barefoot and fighting over the last piece of mochi and you always — always — winning and the small library nook you shared in school and playfighting in the dirt till his father's voice came yelling out from the house and you both bolted, giggling through the gaps in your toothy smiles.

One bright, shimmering moment suspended in time like dust motes caught in a ray of sun where you were children, laughing in a sunlit alley, utterly yourselves, and Sukuna held you as though he could keep you there forever.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, the apartment’s walls and quiet monitors crept back, and the softness of childhood gave way to the fragile, raw adult reality.

Your last words were a hush against his lips,

“I’ll see you soon…”

Your breath left you slowly.

Warmth draining from your hand.

The music still playing.

Sukuna didn’t notice the exact moment your chest went still — only that the room suddenly felt too quiet, too empty…

…Except for the place beside him where your hand remained in his — fingers no longer trembling.

And outside the window, the first rays of dawn lit the sky.

You died at dawn, at the beginning of summer — when life everywhere else was beginning to flourish.

Yet the world had never felt so dark.

So dim.

So cold.

Sukuna felt hollow, as if someone had scraped him out from the inside, leaving only an empty husk with a gaping, unfillable void where his life used to be.

Grief was strange — and he found himself clinging to it.

He didn’t want to feel better.

Because the grief felt like the last piece of you he still had.

So he held on.

He refused to throw out your remaining food — even froze it. Spent hours in the closet buried in your clothes, chasing the faintest trace of your scent. He played your song, and the melody that once lit him with joy rotted into something so devastating he’d end up bent over the toilet, vomiting bile.

Days passed and blurred.

He moved through them mechanically — brushing his teeth, eating, sleeping — though none of it felt real.

The apartment, once alive with your presence, now felt like a mausoleum. Every object, every corner whispered the same truth— you were gone.

He stopped going out.

Ignored calls and messages.

The noise of the city felt like a cruel parody of life.

He drank in silence, letting rage and sorrow ferment into something bitter and violent.

He picked up bad habits — the kind that left him spending nights in a cell or coming home at three in the morning with a bleeding nose, bruised knuckles, cuts across his face.

He managed only the bare minimum to feed the cat — who, strangely, had taken to him now, curling by his feet at night as if guarding him.

Sukuna didn’t know what he believed about death or the afterlife — but he was certain you had seen something the night you died.

And that was the dangerous spark of hope.

Because at night, when the world was silent, the thought crept in — the one he tried to push away:

What if he joined you?

What if he ended this hollow existence and found you again, even for a second?

The temptation was intoxicating. Terrifying.

He recoiled from it even as he contemplated it.

And then, one late afternoon, curled on your side of the bed, he heard it:

A soft, persistent mew.

At first he ignored it — assuming it was a stray outside. A sound that had no right to intrude on his grief.

But it came again, louder, more insistent.

He opened his eyes.

A tiny calico kitten, barely a few weeks old, perched on the windowsill. Tail twitching. Eyes wide and unabashedly curious.

It tapped its tiny paws against the sill, then tumbled clumsily into the room.

For a long moment, Sukuna just stared.

The kitten mewed again, walked to him, and rubbed against his leg as though it had always known him.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice hoarse and foreign to his own ears. “Go away.”

The kitten ignored him entirely, hopped onto the bed, sniffed around, then walked straight up to Alzheimer and meowed in her face.

Sukuna half expected — half hoped — Alzheimer would finally be on his side and chase the runt off.

Instead, the older cat blinked awake, sniffed the kitten… and began purring. Loudly. Like she’d just met an old friend.

Sukuna stared, dumbfounded. He had half a mind to evict both of them.

After a few moments of mutual feline fawning, the kitten trotted right up to him, blinked with its too-big eyes, and settled by his cheek — purring immediately, as if the sound had been waiting for him.

And impossibly, something in him softened.

For the first time in months, the hollow ache inside him shifted. Just slightly — but undeniably.

He reached out a cautious hand.

The kitten climbed into his lap without hesitation, kneading gently at his stomach.

Warm. Light. Alive.

Its little body vibrated with contentment against him, and something about its curiosity, its unreserved affection, felt… familiar.

Which, of course, would be ridiculous.

Over the next days, the kitten became a constant presence — playful, affectionate, insistent in all the ways that reminded him the world still existed beyond the cavern of his grief.

It learned his routines.

Curled against his chest when he slept. Followed him from room to room.

And always — without fail — napped in your spot on the bed during the day, as if it belonged nowhere else.

With the creature clearly deciding it lived here now, he halfheartedly figured he should name it.

He tried ridiculous names — mundane ones, normal pet names.

None of them fit.

Then one day — exhausted, distracted, thinking of you — he called out to it by your name.

The kitten froze mid-grooming (it hated when he messed with its fur while it was cleaning — which only made him do it more).

It slowly looked up at him… then stood, tiny paws padding across the mattress, and came straight to him, scrawny tail lifted high.

Sukuna stared, breath trapped in his throat.

“I’m losing my mind…” he muttered to himself. But his voice cracked. “...You.”

The kitten meowed.

Simple. Soft. As though answering.

And Sukuna — a man who had never believed in anything beyond bone and blood and biology — still didn’t believe.

Not in the way people meant, at least.

But he knew.

He knew in the way you sometimes just know the shape of someone’s hand in the dark.

In the way your absence hollowed him, and this small, warm thing had settled itself into that space without hesitation.

In the way it curled against him the very same way you did when you were tired.

In the way it sought him out as naturally as breathing.

He didn’t need miracles, he didn’t need proof, he didn’t need the universe to explain itself.

Some things are too quiet to be spoken aloud, too gentle to be questioned, too familiar to deny.

And as the kitten pawed at his chest, purring like a tiny heartbeat, Sukuna finally exhaled — a slow, trembling breath he’d been holding since the dawn you left him.

He pressed a hand over its warm, fragile body, and for the first time in months, the ache inside him loosened.

“You found your way back to me,” he whispered.

The kitten blinked up at him, soft and certain.

And Sukuna, even without believing in ghosts or gods or second chances, finally understood.

Some loves don’t end; they change form.

And some promises — I’ll be back — keep themselves.

Always.

canon pic of reader and sukuna:

“Careful. It's slipping, people will stare.” He whispers the last word, nodding at you solemnly. 

“Thank you, Gojo.”

“Satoru. Call me Satoru.” He whispers, his lips brushing against your ear as he leans in. 

You flush a little, dragging him over to a couch in the back of the room. “Okay. Thank you, Satoru.”

You’d received a drunken phone call from him only a half hour ago. He’d begged you to come to the party, despite the fact you were supposed to be at a bar with your friends. House parties were never really your favourite thing in the world, especially on a Saturday night, so you hadn’t minded missing this one. But, he insisted that he needed specifically you to come over, his voice whiny and desperate as you pressed the phone against your ear to hear him over the chatter in the bar. According to him, he specifically needed you, since you never drank at these things, so you’d be the perfect person to drive him home. And he a wanted you company too.

You half considered just hanging up. You’re sure there’s a litany of people that could keep him company and drop him home. An Uber could do the job, too. He’d have no issue with it, seeing as he has enough money to live off of them for the rest of his life, even though he’s only a college student. But against your better judgment, you say yes. Because try as you might, you can’t ever say no to that face.

Of course you find him attractive. Who wouldn’t? Gojo was funny, attentive. He walked you to your classes, picked up your favourite snacks for you during your breaks. You always felt a little in awe that he liked you so much. Gojo was popular around campus, that bright smile and dashing looks uneasy for anyone to avoid. Gojo didn’t let a lot of people into his life, so you always felt a little special when he chose to spend time with you. But the two of you are just friends. He’s a friend.

A particularly pervy friend that’s looking quite obviously at your chest. Quite shamelessly, too. You push his face away and he laughs.

“Pervert.” You scold.

Gojo slips further down the couch. His long legs stretch out in front of him. He lifts his hips, hands adjusting his trousers before he falls back down with a heavy sigh. He rests his head on your shoulder and takes another swig of his drink, the liquid spilling over his fingers. 

“Music is so loud.” He mumbles.

“It is a party, Gojo.”

“Satoru. And I know, but my head is killing me.” He whines. 

You hum, grabbing the cup out of his hand. “I think this is the reason for that.” 

Gojo protests but not enough to try and take it back. You lean forward to place it on the floor and Gojo drags you back down the second it’s out your hand, resuming his position on your shoulder. You should be at the bar right now. Not babysitting.

“Why are you drinking, anyway? I’ve never seen you this drunk before.”  You ask.

He shrugs. The party lives on in front of you two. You wonder which frat house it is tonight getting destroyed. You hadn’t looked at the sign outside, or even asked for an address, just followed Gojo’s Life360 location. You watch as someone spills almost an entire can of beer on the carpet and wince.

“Cause of you.”

Gojo’s words pull you out of your thoughts. You frown. “Me?”

“Mhm.” 

His nose nuzzles into the soft skin of your arm and you push Gojo off your shoulder to prop him up against the couch. He’s like putty in your hands, letting you manoeuvre him with no complaint. If only he was this obedient sober.

You turn a bit so that you can look at him properly. “What do you mean, me?”

Gojo is still laying back on the couch. The shirt he’s got on is pulled taunt by how he’s been squirming around the couch, the hard lines of his stomach visible through the thin material. He’s looking at you through hooded eyes, long lashes fluttering as he blinks slowly. They’re wasted on a man, you think. 

“You look pretty.”

You laugh slightly. “You’ve said. Why is that making you drink?”

“You always look pretty. But you look very pretty today, so pretty. That dress.” His hand reaches forward and touches the fabric at your waist.

“Makes your legs look good. And you tits.”

You blush and push his hands off you. “Satoru, ew.”

“Who are you trying to look so good for?” He murmurs. “I know it’s not me.”

“I-“ You falter. He’s looking at you with such rapt attention you feel a bit nervous. 

“I-“

“Y/N!” 

Thank god. The two of you are interrupted by Yuji, his eyes twinkling and a bright smile on his face. He bounds over to hug you excitedly and you reach up to hug him back in earnest. It’s only then you realise how close you and Gojo are sitting, and the man in question scowls at the sight of the boy.

“Piss off, Yuji, we’re talking.” He scowls.

“Kissing, more like.” Megumi chimes in. Gojo reaches forward to hit him clumsily and Megumi easily slides out of the way.

They’re brothers, Gojo tells you. Despite the fact Megumi has black hair and brown eyes and they have absolutely zero similarities, Gojo will (and has) fight anyone who says otherwise. You don’t necessarily believe they’re blood brothers but you’ve seen them together enough to know they’re brothers in the ways that matter.

“Piss off, Megumi.” Gojo swears, sitting up and fixing his shirt.

Megumi wrinkles his nose at his clumsy movements. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes, he is.” You groan. “Megumi, get him off me.” Gojo has taken to sprawling out against you, effectively moving Yuji out the way. His arms circle around your waist and you frown.

“What is with him?” You speak over the head of white hair that’s threateningly close to your chest. 

Megumi shrugs. He leans against the arm of the couch as Yuji plops down next to you. “I don’t know. He’s a freak. Nobody knows why he does what he does.”

“I’m not a freak, you are a freak.” Gojo mumbles, his lips brushing against your skin.

“Whatever. Where’s Shoko?” You ask.

“Getting a drink. Probably in the kitchen.”  Megumi says.

You nod. You try to unwrap Gojo from your body. “Gojo, come on. Off.”

“No.”

“Fucking- Satoru.” 

He whines, finally relenting and pushing away. “So boring.” 

You straighten your dress, trying to ignore the heavy gaze watching you as you do so. You turn to Gojo and point at him.

“We’re leaving in ten minutes. I’m gonna go say hi to Shoko, and then we’re out. Do you understand?”

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, brushing stray locks out of his eyes. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and you’re glad he’s as drunk as he is so that he doesn’t notice you staring.

“Yes. You’re so hot when you’re telling me what to do.”

“Shut up.”

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