݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆

Sypnosis ⦂ Suguru believed too much freedom became another kind of cage. You learned that some people leave without ever really saying goodbye.

content warnings: angst, emotional distance, abandonment themes, unresolved ending, philosophical themes, gojo is a cw himself

The Republic by Plato. The plain cover is a stark contrast to the colorful books lining your shelf.

But it’s there—tucked away, untouched.

Not because you don’t want to reach for it, but because, for some reason, you’ve convinced yourself that once you do, you’ll lose something. Something you can’t quite name.

Colorful sticky notes jut out from its pages. The ones you had bought just for him.

“Suguru, you’re annotating it wrong.” You huff, rolling your eyes as you watch him mark up the very first book you’ve ever given him. He mentioned it in passing, but you were always just so attentive, weren’t you?

Suguru just scoffs at your words, more disbelieving than anything. “There’s no right or wrong in this. I have freedom of will.”

And in that moment, you never would’ve known it was the beginning.

Because all you could think about was the…

Hot summers in Shibuya, those bright days where Shoko would insist you guys head out to try those limited Dorayaki stations. Satoru’s obnoxiously slinging his arm around your shoulder, rattling on about the heat as if it weren’t affecting you either.

“This better be worth it,” Satoru all but huffs, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as they cross the pedestrian lane. Satoru has always been different from Suguru. He touches freely, carelessly, never in a way that feels heavy. Never in a way that lingers.

Suguru doesn’t say much. He just angles the small fan in his hand toward you, he’s subtle about it, like he doesn’t want you to notice.

He knows how irritable the heat makes you. And he’d rather endure the sun than your frustration.

You swing your legs lazily as you settle on top of the kitchen counter. “I just don’t get it. It’s the third time this week.”

Suguru is crouched over the faucet, head obscured by the counter, hands skimming through the pipes. “You should just get a new sink,” he grunts. He doesn’t really fix your sink– not because he can’t

But because he's giving himself another reason to keep coming back.

You glance down at him, sleeves rolled up, hands motioning for the tools, and you’re always there to hand them over without thinking. It’s become a rhythm, small and ordinary, but one that feels entirely his.

Later, the shared coffee is just as comforting. You curl into the couch, mugs warming your hands, and he reads. The Republic.

He pauses, eyes flicking to the page. “Huh,” he says. “He thinks too much freedom turns into another kind of cage.” The words are heavy for a lazy afternoon, but you only half-listen, half distracted by the way his sleeves are rolled up, the faint warmth of the coffee, the quiet hum of the apartment.

You talk just enough for the both of you, filling the small spaces between his thoughts with your presence. And amidst it all, Suguru is quietly grateful for that–grateful for the ordinary that they call you.

It had become routine, something that felt like it had all the time in the world.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Suguru was still Suguru. He’d insist on walking you home. Old habits die hard. But the tension in the air was palpable. He paused before he laughed, and there was this distance, subtle but unmistakable, the one that had never been there before.

And his mini fan? Out of reach, like he’d accepted your frustrations and feared the heat of the sun.

You don’t understand what's happening. Why he suddenly is the way he is. But you don’t pry, you never impose, and maybe that’s what he had loved about you.

He would bail on group outings, skip classes despite Yaga nagging at him about his last year being the most important.

He had just stopped showing up, as if it mattered less and less.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Suguru says, but the words don’t land like they used to. 

“Alright, tomorrow.” You respond, looking forward to another day with him, despite the intangible distance.

Tomorrow never came, not for the two of you.

His things still linger by the comforts of your home. His jacket, the box of half-used sticky notes. Hell, a hair tie or two.

It’s a wake up call, really. Your mind starts to notice the little things. The way he stopped charging his mini fan for you, the way every laugh seemed a bit too practiced, the way he shut himself out.

His book is half-way done, you can tell from the lack of sticky notes from the other end. So you reach out, tentatively. As if the book was the only thing left of what he used to be.

He didn’t leave you, not really. He liked to believe he left the world where you existed. As if that’d soften the blow.

But it doesn’t matter, not really. Not anymore.

So the book finds its place on the top of your shelf, quiet, unassuming, but you would know better. Some things don’t disappear. They just learn how to stay contained.

And to you? Suguru would be one of them.