Kristy🍧

and then you’d laughed and shoved him and said “glad it’s me what?” and he’d grinned and said “glad it’s you i’m eating cake with on a roof, obviously, what else would i mean,” and the moment passed, and you let it pass, because what else were you supposed to do?

however, another the thing about falling in love with satoru gojo was that it was also, inevitably, watching him fall in and out of love with other people.

he bloomed in relationships the way he bloomed in everything— effortlessly, brilliantly, with a kind of careless abundance that made you wonder if he even realized how much light he was giving off.

his first serious girlfriend came at the end of freshman year, a girl from the art department with dark hair and a laugh like wind chimes, and you watched him transform from your chaotic, messy best friend into someone who remembered to do the dishes and set alarms and text back within a reasonable timeframe.

you watched him hold her hand in the quad, watched him buy her coffee and carry her books and look at her like she’d hung the moon, and you told yourself that the ache in your chest was just jealousy of the relationship itself, not of her specifically. you told yourself that anyone would be jealous, watching someone they cared about pour all their attention into someone else. you told yourself it was normal to feel this way.

you believed it, mostly.

the breakup came three months later, sudden and inexplicable, at least from the outside. satoru showed up at your apartment at midnight with red-rimmed eyes and a bottle of something cheap and strong, and you let him in and sat on the bathroom floor with him while he cried and you held his hand and didn’t ask what happened.

“i don’t know why i do it,” he said, eventually, voice hoarse. “i don’t know why i can’t just— stay.”

you didn’t have an answer for him. you weren’t sure he wanted one. so you just sat there, the cold tile seeping through your jeans, and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and thought about how unfair it was that he could break someone’s heart and still be the one you wanted to hold.

the pattern repeated. sophomore year, there was a boy from the literature department, sharp-witted and sarcastic, who made satoru laugh in a way you’d never heard before. junior year, a girl from the business school, ambitious and polished, who matched him stride for stride. there were others, shorter ones, ones that barely lasted a month before satoru got restless, got distracted, got that faraway look in his eyes that you’d learned to recognize as the beginning of the end.

through all of it, you were there, you were always there. you were the constant, the steady ground beneath the pendulum of his affections, and you’d trained yourself to be grateful for that. you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to, the one he called at 2 a.m., the one who knew about the nightmares and the bad days and the moments when the armor felt too heavy to wear. it was enough. you made it enough.

by the time senior year rolled around, you’d gotten very good at being enough. you’d gotten very good at swallowing down the parts of yourself that wanted more, at folding your feelings into neat, manageable shapes and tucking them away where they couldn’t cause trouble. you’d gotten very good at watching satoru fall into something that looked like love and climb back out of it, dusting himself off, leaving behind a trail of bewildered, heartbroken people who had all made the same mistake: thinking they could be the one who finally made him stay.

you envied them as much as you pitied them. you envied them because they’d had something you couldn’t even let yourself want, something real and tangible and reciprocated, even if only for a little while. you pitied them because you knew what it felt like to love satoru and not be loved back in the way you needed, and you wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

you were twenty-one now, in the last year of university, and you’d been in love with your best friend for three years, two months, and fourteen days. you knew the exact number because you’d stopped counting somewhere around the two-year mark and then, in a moment of weakness, counted backwards from there. you were a little pathetic about it. you’d made peace with that.

so when you walked into your advanced sociology seminar on a gray tuesday afternoon and saw a boy you’d never seen before sitting in the seat you usually took, you didn’t think much of it. you just said “oh, sorry, that’s my usual spot,” and he looked up, and you stopped.

he was pretty. that was your first thought, immediate and involuntary. not pretty in the way satoru was pretty— all sharp angles and blinding light and the kind of beauty that demanded attention. this was a different kind of pretty, more gentle. dark hair pulled back from his face, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a calm, steady presence that felt, somehow, like being in the shade after a long time in the sun.

“my apologies,” he said. his voice was low and warm. “i didn’t realize the seats were claimed.”

“you’re not in trouble,” you said, because you realized you’d been staring and that was probably weird. “i can sit somewhere else.”

“don’t,” he said, and then he moved, sliding his bag off the chair next to him. “sit here. keep me company. i don’t know anyone in this class.”

you hesitated for half a second— just long enough for the memory of another boy in another hallway to flicker through your mind— and then you sat.

“i’m suguru,” he said, extending a hand. “geto suguru.”

you gave him your name, and his smile widened just slightly, like he was pleased with it. “nice to meet you,” he said. “tell me something interesting about yourself.”

you laughed, because it was almost word-for-word what satoru had said to you four years ago, and because it was such a ridiculous coincidence that it felt like the universe was playing a joke on you.

“what’s funny?” suguru asked, and there was no offense in his voice, just curiosity.

“nothing,” you said. “just— someone else asked me that once. the first time we met.”

“ah,” he said, with something in his expression that you couldn’t quite read. “and what did you tell them?”

“that i wasn’t interesting,” you said, and then, because you’d been doing a lot of work on being less self-deprecating in your final year, you added, “which isn’t true. i just didn’t know it yet.”

suguru looked at you for a moment, those dark eyes steady and thoughtful, and said, “i suspect you’re more interesting than you give yourself credit for.”

you didn’t know what to do with that. it was such a simple thing to say, such a small kindness, but it landed somewhere soft and unprotected in your chest, and you felt something shift.

you weren’t sure what it was, you weren’t sure you wanted to know, so you just smiled, and pulled out your notebook, and tried very hard to ignore the glances he kept throwing you, thinking he was discreet.

that night, you came home to find satoru sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his phone, one foot hanging off the edge. he looked up when you walked in, and his face did that thing it always did when he saw you— brightened, softened.

“you’re late,” he said. “i was getting lonely. i almost had to entertain myself.”

“the horror,” you said, dropping your bag by the door. “how did you survive?”

he grinned that easy grin of his, and sat up to make room for you. “barely. tell me about your day. anything interesting happen?”

you thought about suguru. the warmth of his voice, the way he’d said your name, the small, unexpected sweetness of him telling you that you were interesting. about his gorgeous hair and his gorgeous eyes and his open smile. about whispered answers to his curious questions about the class ans quiet snickers.

“no,” you said, because it was easier than explaining something you didn’t fully understand yourself. “same old.”

satoru hummed, accepting this without question, and you sat down next to him and let him pull you into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you tried to ignore the way your heart was beating against your ribs, the way it always did when he was this close.

you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to.

it was enough. it had to be enough.

but something had shifted today, something small and maybe insignificant, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were standing at the edge of something. something that might change everything.

you didn’t know it yet, but satoru was about to feel the shift too. he just didn’t know it yet, either.

.

.

.

the thing about advanced sociology was that you’d signed up for it because you needed the credit, not because you had any particular passion for sociological theory. you’d expected to spend your tuesdays and thursdays sitting in the back of the lecture hall, taking notes you’d never look at again, counting down the minutes until you could leave. just like always. that was the plan.

and then suguru sat down next to you, and the plan went quietly out the window.

a murmured observation about the professor’s lecture style, a shared eyeroll when someone in the front row asked a question that had already been answered twice. little things, the kind of things you’d do with any classmate you happened to sit next to. but then he started saving you a seat, and you started arriving a few minutes early so you could talk before the lecture started, and somewhere along the way, without you quite noticing it, advanced sociology became the class you looked forward to all week.

suguru was easy to talk to. that was the first thing you noticed, the thing that kept surprising you every time it happened. conversation with him wasn’t work. you didn’t have to perform, didn’t have to be clever or super interesting or anything other than yourself. he asked questions and actually listened to the answers. he remembered things you’d told him— small things, things you’d even forgotten you’d said— and brought them up later, casually, like it was normal to pay that much attention to another person.

“how did your presentation go?” he asked one thursday, sliding into the seat next to you. “the one you were stressed about.”

you blinked at him. you’d mentioned that presentation exactly once, in passing, a week and a half ago. “it went fine. how did you remember that?”

he shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you seemed nervous about it. i was curious.” and that was it, just a quiet, consistent attention that made you feel, for the first time in a long time, like someone was actually seeing you.

you found yourself telling him things; not the things you’d tucked away in the deepest parts of yourself, but the small, everyday things that made up the shape of your life. your favorite coffee order. the way you organized your notes by color. the fact that you’d once cried over a commercial about a dog and hadn’t lived it down since. he listened to all of it with the same patient, attentive expression, like each detail was something precious you’d chosen to share with him.

“you’re very easy to talk to,” you told him one afternoon, the words slipping out before you could stop them. you’d been walking out of class together, the late autumn sunlight slanting through the windows, and something about the way it caught in his hair had made you lose your filter.

he looked at you, and his expression did something soft and complicated. “so are you,” he said. “easier than most people.”

you were not, historically, easy to talk to. you were the person who stood at the edge of parties, who let satoru do all the social heavy lifting, who had spent most of her teenage years convinced that conversation was a skill she’d simply never been taught. but with suguru, it was different. with suguru, the words came easily, naturally, like they’d been there all along, waiting for someone to draw them out.

he was a mystery to you, that was the other thing. for all his openness, for all the way he seemed to lay himself bare in conversation, there was something about suguru that you couldn’t quite pin down. he talked about his childhood in vague terms, his family a blur of affectionate distance. he mentioned friends from high school but never named them. he was present, fully and completely, in every conversation you had, but there was a stillness to him, a sense that there were depths you hadn’t yet touched.

you wanted to touch them. that was the realization that crept up on you slowly, over weeks of shared lectures and coffee afterwards and once, memorably, a two-hour conversation in the library that had started with a question about marxist theory and somehow ended with both of you laughing so hard a librarian had shushed you.

you wanted to know him, all of him. the parts he kept tucked away, the parts he didn’t show to people he’d only known for a few weeks. you wanted to be someone he showed those parts to.

and the way he looked at you— god, the way he looked at you, like you were something fascinating and like he was cataloguing you, memorizing you, storing away every detail for later. it was the kind of attention that should have been overwhelming, that would have been overwhelming from anyone else, but from suguru it just felt… warm and steady, like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold day.

you found yourself preening under it. you couldn’t help it; you’d catch yourself sitting up a little straighter when he walked into the room, speaking a little more carefully, trying to be the version of yourself that seemed to make him smile. and then you’d notice what you were doing and feel a flush of embarrassment, because you were not the kind of person who needed validation, who bloomed under attention, who—

who was currently trying very hard not to admit that she was developing a crush on a boy she’d known for less than a month.

it felt pathetic, honestly. you were twenty-one years old. you’d spent the last three years quietly, steadfastly in love with your best friend, and now here you were, getting butterflies over a guy who’d said you were easy to talk to. it wasn’t even anything big, it was the bare minimum. it was nothing. it was… well.

it wasn’t nothing. you knew it wasn’t nothing. because suguru wasn’t just a guy. he was thoughtful in a way that felt intentional, present in a way that felt rare. he didn’t look at you like you were something to be conquered or figured out or fit neatly into a box. he looked at you like he was genuinely, simply, glad to be in your presence.

so when you caught yourself thinking, on the walk home from class one evening, that you might actually like suguru— like like him, the way you’d liked satoru in the beginning, before it had calcified into something deeper and more painful— you didn’t immediately shut it down. you let it sit there, in the quiet space of your mind, and you examined it.

you liked suguru. you liked the way he laughed, low and warm, like he was letting you in on a secret. you liked the way he tilted his head when he was thinking, the way his hair fell across his face. you liked the way he remembered things you’d told him, the way he asked questions that made you feel like your answers mattered. you liked the way he looked at you, like you were interesting, like you were worth paying attention to.

you liked him. it was a small, tentative thing, still fragile, still new. nothing like the consuming, years-long ache you carried for satoru. but it was there, and it was real, and for the first time in a very long time, you let yourself have it.

you told satoru about him on a friday night, the two of you sprawled across your apartment’s worn couch with takeout containers balanced on your knees. it was your usual routine— friday nights were yours, had been since freshman year, a sacred block of time that neither of you scheduled over with other plans. you watched bad movies and ate food that was bad for you and talked about nothing until the early hours of the morning.

it was the perfect time to mention suguru. casual, offhand, nothing that would make it into a bigger deal than it was.

“there’s this guy in my sociology class,” you said, poking at your noodles with your chopsticks. “geto suguru. he’s… nice.”

satoru’s attention sharpened. you saw it happen in real time— the way his posture shifted, the way his gaze flicked to your face and stayed there.

“nice,” he repeated, like he was testing the word. “what kind of nice?”

“just nice,” you said, shrugging. “he’s easy to talk to. we’ve been sitting together in class.”

“sitting together,” satoru said. he’d put his food down. his phone was face-down on the couch cushion next to him. his entire focus was on you in that particular way he had, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. “like, as friends? or…”

“as friends,” you said, and then, because you weren’t sure if that was entirely true anymore, you added, “i don’t know. i’m not sure yet.”

there was a beat of silence. it was a strange silence, not the comfortable kind you were used to, but something taut and humming underneath.

“huh,” satoru said. his voice was light, but there was something in his expression you couldn’t quite read. “suguru. that’s a weird name.”

“it’s not weird,” you said, a little defensive. “it’s just not common.”

“sure,” he said, and then he grinned, and the strange tension in the room seemed to break. “so you’re telling me you’ve got a secret boyfriend you’ve been hiding from me? i’m wounded. truly. i thought we told each other everything.”

“he’s not my boyfriend,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “i just met him. we’ve only talked in class.”

“uh huh,” satoru said. he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, like you were about to tell him the most interesting story he’d ever heard. “tell me everything. what does he look like? is he tall? is he funny? is he smarter than me? he’s not smarter than me, right? that’s not allowed.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “he’s… tall. about your height, i guess? dark hair, purplish eyes. he’s very— calm.”

“calm,” satoru repeated. “so he’s boring.”

“he’s not boring,” you said. and you must have said it with more force than you intended, because satoru’s eyebrows rose. “he’s just… different.”

“different how?”

“i don’t know,” you said, frustrated now. “he listens. he remembers things. he makes me feel like—” you stopped, because you’d been about to say like i matter, and that felt too honest, too raw, too much to say out loud to the person you’d been quietly in love with for years.

satoru was looking at you. his expression was strange— something flickering behind his eyes that you’d never seen before. if you didn’t know better, you’d almost call it jealousy.

“makes you feel like what?” he asked, his voice quieter, less teasing.

“like i’m interesting,” you finished. it was the truth, just not the whole truth. “like what i say matters.”

satoru was quiet for a long moment. he leaned back against the couch, a movement that seemed deliberate, careful, like he was putting distance between you without actually moving.

“well,” he said, his voice was back to its usual brightness, but there was something forced about it now. “good for you. about time someone else recognized how great you are.”

you laughed. that was what you did when things felt strange— you laughed, you deflected, you let the moment pass. “someone else? you barely recognize how great i am.”

“i recognize it constantly!” he said. he was grinning again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “i’m your biggest fan. i’ve got the t-shirt and everything.”

“you do not have a t-shirt.”

“i’ll make one,” he said. “‘world’s best best friend’s biggest fan.’ it’ll be a hit.”

you threw a napkin at him and he caught it out of the air with that stupid reflexes he had, and the moment broke. you talked about other things after that— a movie satoru wanted to see, a professor who’d been giving him a hard time, the usual rhythm of your lives— but there was something underneath it all that lingered in the spaces between your words.

you told yourself you were imagining it. you told yourself that satoru was just surprised, that he’d get used to the idea, that it didn’t mean anything. but you couldn’t quite shake the way he’d looked at you. the way his voice had gone quiet. the way, for just a moment, he’d seemed almost… unsettled.

the double date suggestion came a week later, and it caught you so completely off guard that you nearly dropped your coffee.

you’d been telling satoru about your day when he’d interrupted you with the casual air of someone suggesting they order pizza.

“oh, by the way,” he said, scrolling through his phone, “you should bring your sociology guy to that new ramen place with me and yuki this weekend.”

you stared at him. “what?”

“a double date,” he said, like it was obvious. “you and suguru, me and yuki. it’ll be fun.”

yuki. right. you’d almost forgotten about yuki. she was the latest in a line of girls satoru had been seeing— you’d met her briefly, once, at a party. tall, confident, the kind of girl who looked like she’d never been unsure of herself in her entire life. she’d been with satoru for about three weeks now, which meant they were probably in the sweet spot where everything was still easy and fun, before the restlessness started to creep in.

“i don’t—” you started, but you didn’t know what you wanted to say. you didn’t know why satoru was suggesting this, why he was being so cheerful about it, why he’d gone from asking pointed questions about suguru to enthusiastically planning group outings.

“come on,” satoru said, he was grinning now, that big, blinding grin that usually meant he was about to get his way. “you’ve been talking about this guy for weeks. i want to meet him. see if he’s good enough for my best friend.”

“i haven’t been talking about him for weeks,” you said, because you hadn’t. you’d mentioned him exactly once. satoru had been the one to bring him up since then, dropping his name into conversations with a kind of forced casualness that you’d been trying not to analyze.

“details,” satoru said, waving a hand. “so? saturday? i’ll text you the time.”

you opened your mouth to say no. you had a hundred reasons to say no— you weren’t even sure if he was interested in you like that, the whole thing felt like it was moving too fast. but then you thought about suguru’s smile, the way he looked at you and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.

“okay,” you said. “i’ll ask him.”

satoru’s grin didn’t waver, but in his eyes was a flicker of something that made your stomach tighten. and then it was gone, and he was talking about the ramen place, about the best thing on the menu, about how yuki had been wanting to try it for weeks, and you let the conversation wash over you, your mind already turning to how you were going to ask suguru without making it weird.

you sent him a text that night, after you’d spent an embarrassingly long time typing and deleting and retyping the message.

you: hey, this is random, but my friend and his girlfriend are going to this ramen place on saturday and he suggested we make it a double date? no pressure if you’re not interested, just thought i’d ask

his reply came less than a minute later.

i’d love to. what time?

you stared at your phone for a long moment, a smile spreading across your face before you could stop it.

you told yourself it was just a casual outing, two friends bringing their respective people, no different from any other social engagement.

but your heart was beating a little faster, and your hands were a little warmer, and when you texted satoru back to confirm, you couldn’t quite ignore the small, hopeful part of you that wondered what it might feel like to have someone look at you the way satoru looked at the girls he dated.

and if you’d been paying closer attention, you might have noticed that satoru took a little too long to reply. you might have noticed that his “great! see you saturday :)” came after a delay that wasn’t like him, that he usually texted back instantly, that he was almost always on his phone.

but you didn’t notice. you were too busy thinking about suguru, about saturday, about the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being looked at and liking it.

so you missed it. you missed the way satoru sat in the dark of your shared apartment for a long time after you’d gone to bed, phone in his hand, face unreadable.

.

.

.

the days leading up to saturday passed in a strange, suspended kind of anticipation. you found yourself thinking about the double date more than you wanted to admit, turning it over in your mind like a smooth stone, examining it from different angles. and somewhere in the process of that examination, you made a quiet, almost subconscious realization: suguru had become a distraction. a welcome one, a needed one, but a distraction nonetheless.

it wasn’t that you’d stopped loving satoru. you didn’t think that was something you could turn off, not after three years of letting it settle into your bones like marrow. but for the first time in a very long time, you weren’t thinking about him constantly. the ache was still there, a low, familiar thrum beneath your ribs, but it had been joined by something else— something lighter, something that didn’t hurt when you held it.

when you were with suguru, you weren’t waiting. that was the thing. with satoru, you were always waiting— waiting for him to notice, waiting for him to want you the way you wanted him, waiting for the moment when the restlessness that drove him from relationship to relationship would finally land on you and stay. you’d been waiting for three years, and you’d gotten very good at it, but you hadn’t realized how exhausting it was until you stopped.

with suguru, there was no waiting. he was just… there. he was present and attentive and when you talked, he listened. when you laughed, he smiled like he’d been waiting to hear it. there was no performance, no guessing games, no wondering if the thing you felt was being reciprocated or if you were just reading too much into casual kindness.

it was so simple and you hadn’t realized how much you needed simple.

so by the time saturday rolled around, you found yourself almost wishing it was just a date with suguru. just the two of you, no audience, no performance. you wanted to see what that would be like— to sit across from him in a quiet restaurant, to talk without the pressure of other people watching, to let yourself lean into the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he looked at you.

but then you rounded the corner and saw satoru waiting outside the ramen place, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds.

he looked good. he always looked good, but tonight there was something deliberate about it—the way his hair fell, the cut of his jacket, the casual confidence in the way he leaned against the wall. yuki was tucked under his arm, her hand in his, and they made a striking picture, the two of them. tall and beautiful and effortless, the kind of couple that made strangers glance twice as they walked by.

you felt it before you could stop it— the familiar twist of jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, settling in your stomach. it wasn’t the deep, aching kind you’d gotten used to over the years. it was smaller, meaner, a flash of something that felt almost like resentment. because there he was, with another girl, looking at her like she was something special, and you were standing here with your own maybe-something, trying not to let him see that it still stung.

you hated that it still stung. you hated that you’d spent all week thinking about suguru, that you’d almost convinced yourself you were moving on, and one look at satoru with his hand wrapped around someone else’s was enough to undo it.

and then suguru’s hand was at the small of your back, warm and steady, and the jealousy flickered and died.

“you okay?” he asked quietly, close enough that only you could hear.

you nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah. just a bit nervous.”

his hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet reassurance. when he let it drop, the warmth of it stayed.

“hey!” satoru called out, spotting you. his face split into that familiar grin, bright and disarming, and he disentangled himself from yuki to walk toward you. “there you are. we were starting to think you’d stood us up.”

“we’re five minutes early,” you said, grateful that your voice came out steady.

“still,” satoru said, and then his gaze slid to suguru, and something shifted in his expression. it was subtle— a tightening around his eyes, a slight curve to his smile that wasn’t quite as warm as it had been a moment before. “so this is the famous geto suguru.”

“gojo satoru,” suguru said, his voice calm, pleasant, with a slight edge. a note of assessment that just appeared. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”

“all good things, i hope,” satoru said, not hiding the challenge in the way he said it, a testing of waters.

“all interesting things,” suguru replied. his smile didn’t waver.

the air between them crackled. you felt it, a sudden tension that hadn’t been there before, and you realized with a small jolt that you were watching two people size each other up. it was subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know what to look for, but you knew satoru. you knew the way he stood when he was establishing dominance, the way his shoulders squared, the way his gaze went just a fraction sharper. and suguru— suguru was meeting him beat for beat, not backing down, not rising to the bait, just standing there with that quiet, unshakeable calm that made you feel like you were in the presence of something immovable.

yuki cleared her throat. “should we go in? i’m starving.”

the tension broke. satoru laughed, easy and bright, and threw an arm around yuki’s shoulders. “right, right. food first. let’s go.”

he led the way inside, yuki at his side, and you fell into step beside suguru. his hand found your back again, just briefly, a quick touch that said i’m here, and you felt something unclench in your chest.

the ramen place was small and warm, the kind of hole-in-the-wall that served the best food and didn’t care about aesthetics. you were seated at a table by the window, a booth that forced you and suguru to sit on one side and satoru and yuki on the other. the proximity was good, you told yourself. it meant you could focus on suguru, on the menu, on anything other than the way satoru’s knee was pressed against yuki’s under the table.

the first few minutes were easy. everyone ordered, made small talk about the menu, debated the merits of tonkotsu versus shoyu. yuki asked suguru about his major— he was studying literature, which, when you found out, surprised you and also didn’t. he had the vibes of someone who spent a lot of time with books, the kind of person who read slowly and remembered everything.

“literature,” satoru said, and there was something in his voice that made you look up. “so you’re one of those people who thinks they can see into the human condition by reading about it.”

suguru’s eyebrows rose slightly. “i think literature is one way of understanding people, yes. do you disagree?”

“i think understanding people is about being with them,” satoru said. “not reading about them. you can’t learn how to be in a relationship from a book.”

“that’s not really what literature is for,” suguru said, his voice still calm, but you could hear the undercurrent now. “it’s not a manual. it’s a mirror.”

“a mirror,” satoru repeated. he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “that’s very poetic.”

“is that a bad thing?”

you glanced at yuki. she was watching the exchange with an expression that looked a lot like the one you were trying to hide— a kind of bemused discomfort, the look of someone who’d stumbled into a conversation they hadn’t signed up for.

“so,” you said, too brightly, “yuki, how did you and satoru meet?”

it was a clumsy deflection, but it worked. you actually knew the story yuki launched into— a party, a mutual friend, the usual— but at least the tension at the table eased. satoru played along, adding details, making her laugh, being the charming, easy version of himself that everyone loved. but you caught him glancing at suguru when he thought no one was looking, and you caught suguru doing the same, and the tension was just there, simmering.

the ramen came, and for a while, conversation was suspended in favor of food. yours was good— rich, savory, exactly what you needed— but you found yourself eating without tasting it, too aware of the dynamics at the table. satoru was being more attentive to yuki than you’d ever seen him be with anyone, draping his arm over the back of her seat, leaning in to murmur things in her ear, touching her wrist, her hand, her shoulder. it was performative, you realized. not the affection itself, maybe, but the display of it. like he was putting on a show.

and suguru, for his part, was doing something similar. not as overtly, not with the same flashy charm, but you could feel it in the way he angled his body toward you, the way he made sure your water glass was full, the way he asked you questions and listened to your answers with a focus that felt pointed, like he was demonstrating something, as if he was saying, without words, this is how you treat someone.

you didn’t know how to feel about it. flattered, maybe. or confused. or like you were caught in the middle of something you didn’t fully understand.

“so, suguru,” satoru said, setting down his chopsticks. “what do you do for fun? besides reading, i mean.”

suguru considered the question. “i cook. i hike. i spend time with people i care about.”

“cooking,” satoru said. “impressive. i can barely make toast without setting off the fire alarm.”

“you set off the fire alarm making toast?” yuki asked, chuckling.

“it was a very aggressive toaster,” satoru said, and everyone laughed, including you, because you’d been there for that incident and it was funny. but satoru’s gaze flicked to you when you laughed, his expression turning more pleased. then it moved to suguru, watching to see how he reacted.

suguru was smiling, however it was a little dismissive. “aggressive toasters are the worst,” he said mildly.

the conversation continued like that, a strange dance of words and silences. every time satoru made a joke, suguru responded with quiet, understated humor. every time suguru said something thoughtful or humorous, satoru found a way to make it sound pretentious. they were circling each other, testing weaknesses, looking for openings. and you and yuki were caught in the middle, exchanging glances across the table that said, more clearly than words, what is happening right now?

you almost laughed. you didn’t, because that would have been weird, but you almost did.

by the time the meal was over, you were exhausted. the food had been good, but the undercurrent of competition had drained you in a way you hadn’t expected. you found yourself craving quiet, craving the simple ease of being alone with suguru, without the strange, charged presence of satoru watching every interaction.

outside the restaurant, the evening air was cool and sharp. satoru had his arm around yuki again, pulling her close against the chill. “that was fun,” he said. he sounded like he meant it. “we should do it again.”

“maybe,” you said, noncommittal. you weren’t doing it again.

satoru’s gaze moved between you and suguru, and something flickered in his expression— a quick, unreadable thing that was gone before you could identify it. “you two heading home?”

“we might walk around a bit,” suguru said, and his hand found yours. you felt your face heat up, eyes immediately jumping up to see satoru’s reaction. “it’s a nice night.”

satoru looked at your joined hands just for a second, long enough for you to see something tighten in his jaw before he smiled. “sure. have fun. don’t stay out too late.”

“we won’t,” you said sheepishly. then, because you didn’t know what else to do, you said goodbye to yuki, who gave you a small, knowing smile that made you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure you liked.

soon they were gone, walking down the street together, satoru’s arm still around her, his head bent toward hers like they were sharing secrets. you watched them for a moment. the jealousy was there again, but it was distant now. muted, like hearing music from another room.

suguru’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “you okay?”

you turned to look at him. in the soft glow of the streetlights, he looked softer somehow, the sharp edges of the dinner conversation smoothed away. he was looking at you with that expression you’d come to recognize— patient, attentive.

“yeah,” you meant it. “let’s walk.”

you found a quiet street a few blocks away, lined with old trees and closed shops, the kind of place that felt removed from the rest of the city. you walked in silence for a while, your hand still in suguru’s, and it was nice. easy. the tension of the evening slowly draining away with each step.

“so,” suguru said eventually. the careful quality to his voice made you tense a little, like he was choosing his words with precision. “satoru.”

you braced yourself. “what about him?”

“he’s…” suguru paused. you could see him searching for the right word. “intense.”

you laughed. that was one way to put it. “yeah. he can be.”

“you’ve been friends for a while?”

“since the entrance exams,” you said. “we’ve lived together for most of it.”

suguru nodded slowly. “he’s very… protective of you.”

you frowned. “what do you mean?”

“the way he looked at me tonight,” suguru said. “like he was evaluating me. deciding if i was good enough.” he glanced at you, a small smile playing at his lips. “it was a little intimidating, honestly.”

“you didn’t seem intimidated.”

“i’m good at hiding it.”

you didn’t believe that for a second, but you appreciated the attempt at humility. “satoru’s just like that. he’s always been protective. it doesn’t mean anything.”

suguru was quiet for a moment, before he nudged you, voicing gently, “doesn’t it?”

you stopped walking. “uh. what’s that supposed to mean?”

he stopped too, turning to face you. in the dim light, his expression was hard to read, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “i’m not trying to pry. i just… i notice things. the way you looked at him tonight. the way he looked at you.”

your heart was beating faster now, a nervous flutter in your chest. “i don’t know what you mean.”

suguru’s gaze was steady, kind, but the perceptiveness of it made you feel like you couldn’t hide.

“you don’t have to tell me anything,” he said. “i just want you to know that i see you. all of you. and i’m not going anywhere.”

you stood there, in the middle of a quiet street, with his hand warm in yours, and you felt something crack open in your chest. something you’d been holding closed for a very long time.

“it’s complicated,” you said finally. your voice came out smaller than you intended.

“it usually is,” suguru said, not pushing. he just waited, patient as always, giving you the space to decide what you wanted to share.

you took a breath. “i’ve known him for four years. he’s my best friend. and for three of those years, i’ve been…” you stopped, the words sticking in your throat. you’d never said it out loud. not to anyone. not even to yourself, really, not in a way that felt real.

suguru’s hand tightened around yours. “you’ve been in love with him.”

“yeah,” you said. “yeah, i have.”

suguru was looking at you with something that might have been understanding, or maybe sadness, or maybe something else entirely.

“and now?” he asked.

you thought about it. about the years of waiting, of watching, of wanting. about the way satoru’s hand had looked wrapped around yuki’s. about the strange, competitive energy that had filled the restaurant tonight. about the way suguru had been there, steady and warm, through all of it.

“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “i’m trying to figure it out.”

suguru nodded slowly. then he lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles and let them fall back to your side.

“that’s okay,” he said. “take your time. i’m not going anywhere.”

you looked at him, at the quiet sincerity in his face, and you saw a door that had been cracked open, letting in a little light.

“thank you,” you meant it more than you’d meant anything in a long time.

he smiled.

“come on,” he said, tugging you gently back into motion. “let’s finish our walk. there’s a good spot for watching the city lights a few blocks up. i’ll show you.”

you let him pull you forward, your hand in his, the night air cool on your face. briefly, you let yourself imagine a future that didn’t revolve around waiting for satoru gojo to love you back.

.

.

.

the thing about dating suguru was that it was good. it was so, so good, and that was what made it hard.

you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. for the moment when the easy warmth of his attention would cool, when the quiet steadiness of his presence would reveal itself as something else— boredom, maybe, or impatience, or the same restless hunger for novelty that you’d grown used to from the other people in your life.

but the shoe never dropped. suguru was exactly who he seemed to be: attentive, thoughtful, present. when he said he wanted to spend time with you, he meant it. when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, he kept looking, even when you weren’t saying anything interesting, even when you were just sitting together in comfortable silence, even when you were so deep in your own head that you’d forgotten he was there.

it was good. it was so, so good. and yet.

the thought lingered in the back of your mind, a low hum you couldn’t quite tune out. suguru knows. suguru knows you’re in love with your best friend. you’d told him that night, standing on a quiet street with his hand wrapped around yours, and he’d taken it with that same unshakeable calm he brought to everything. no judgment, no jealousy— at least, none that he showed. just a quiet understanding that had made you feel seen in a way that was both a relief and a terror.

because if suguru had noticed, if he’d looked at you for a few weeks and seen the shape of the thing you’d been carrying for three years, then who else had noticed? had it been that obvious all along? had you been walking around with your heart written on your sleeve, broadcasting your feelings to anyone who cared to look?

and the worst thought, the one that crept in at night when you were trying to fall asleep, the one that made your stomach clench and your breath catch: does satoru know?

you didn’t think so. you couldn’t think so. because if satoru knew, surely he would have said something. surely he would have looked at you differently, treated you differently, put distance between you or, worse, pulled you closer in that careless, thoughtless way he had, the way that made everything harder. he would have done something. the fact that he hadn’t— that he still threw his arm around your shoulders, still sprawled across the couch with his feet in your lap, still looked at you with that easy, uncomplicated affection that had been the same since you were seventeen— meant he didn’t know. he couldn’t know.

you held onto that. you had to.

however, another thing about dating suguru was that it changed the shape of your life in ways you hadn’t anticipated. the change that happened in the margins, in the spaces between things, so gradual that you almost didn’t notice it happening until one day you looked up and realized the landscape had shifted.

you spent less time at the apartment, that was the biggest thing. not because you were avoiding satoru— you told yourself you weren’t avoiding him, that you were just busy, that it was natural to spend more time with the person you were dating— but the math was simple.

there were only so many hours in a day and more and more of them were filling up with suguru. coffee in the mornings, walks between classes, long evenings that started with dinner and somehow stretched into midnight without either of you noticing.

he’d introduced you to his favorite used bookstore and you’d lost an entire saturday there, sitting on the floor between the stacks, reading passages aloud to each other until your voices went hoarse. you’d cooked together— or rather, he’d cooked and you’d sat on the counter and watched, stealing vegetables from the cutting board while he pretended to be annoyed. you’d hiked the trails behind the university, the ones you’d always meant to explore but never had, and he’d pointed out birds and plants and told you their names like he was introducing you to old friends.

it was good. it was so, so good.

and when you came home, satoru was usually there. on the couch, in the kitchen, sprawled across his bed with his laptop open, always with some excuse for why he hadn’t gone out. nothing good on, he’d say, or yuki was busy, or too tired, or just felt like staying in. and you’d drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes and fall into the familiar rhythm of your shared space— the easy banter, the way he’d complain about his day and you’d pretend not to listen and he’d know you were really listening so he’d keep talking anyway because that was just what you did.

but the rhythm was different now. the way satoru would glance at the clock when you came in, like he was calculating how long you’d been gone. the way he’d ask about suguru with a smile that was maybe a little too bright, a little too quick. the way the silences between you had shifted, grown heavier, filled with things neither of you was saying.

the movie nights were the first to go. you didn’t plan it that way— it just happened. friday would roll around and suguru would text you about a new place he wanted to try, or a book he’d found that he thought you’d like, or just what are you doing? and you’d say nothing and then you were with him, and the night was over before you remembered that fridays were supposed to be yours.

it happened once, and then twice, and then enough times that you stopped thinking of fridays as sacred. and satoru never said anything. he never called you out, never made you feel guilty, never even mentioned it. when you’d come home on saturday morning, he’d be there, making coffee or scrolling through his phone, and he’d look up and say “hey” like it was any other day and nothing had changed.

but things have changed. you felt it in the way you’d catch yourself checking your phone during class, wondering if satoru had texted. in the way you’d pause outside the apartment door sometimes, taking a breath before going in, trying to remember who you were supposed to be on the other side. in the way you’d lie in bed at night, in the room that was yours alone now because satoru had stopped knocking on your door when the nightmares came, and you didn’t know if that was because the nightmares had stopped or because he’d learned not to bother you.

you missed him. that was the truth of it, the thing you didn’t want to admit to yourself because it felt like a betrayal. you missed suguru when you weren’t with him, too— that was the confusing part, the part that made everything feel tangled and messy. you liked suguru. you liked him so much it scared you sometimes, the way your heart would lift when his name lit up your phone, the way you’d catch yourself smiling for no reason, the way his hand in yours felt like coming home to somewhere you’d never been before.

but you missed satoru. you missed the way he’d sprawl across the couch with his head in your lap, complaining about nothing, while you pretended to watch the movie. you missed the late-night conversations that started about nothing and somehow ended with you both laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. you missed the way he’d look at you sometimes, like you were the only person in the world who really saw him, and you’d feel, for a moment, like maybe that was true.

you missed what you had and you didn’t know if what you had was gone, or just... smaller. the shape of it had changed, and you couldn’t tell if that was natural— the way friendships shifted when new people came into your life— or if it was something else. something you’d done, some choice you’d made without realizing it, some line you’d crossed that you couldn’t uncross.

because it was only appropriate, wasn’t it? to give more of your time and attention to the person you were dating. to prioritize him, to let him in, to build something new. that was what you were supposed to do. that was how it worked.

you couldn’t keep spending every friday night on the couch with satoru, couldn’t keep treating him like the center of your universe when you were trying to build a life that included someone else. it wasn’t fair to suguru. it wasn’t fair to you, either, not really— not when every moment with satoru was a reminder of what you couldn’t have, a thread pulling you back toward something you were trying to let go of.

this was good. this was what you needed. distance, space, the chance to let the feelings you’d been carrying for three years finally, finally fade.

right?

.

.

.

you were lying in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, when you heard it. satoru’s door opening, soft footsteps in the hallway. the sound of the refrigerator opening, closing. the creak of the couch as he sat down.

you waited for the knock on your door. the familiar pattern— three soft raps, a pause, two more. the sheepish expression when you opened it, the way he’d rub the back of his neck and say something like sorry, couldn’t sleep or bad dream or just can i…? and you’d move over and he’d crawl into your bed and curl up at the end like an overgrown cat, and the weight of him there, the sound of his breathing, would be enough to quiet the world.

but the knock didn’t come.

you lay there, listening to the silence from the living room, and you didn’t know if you were relieved or devastated.

maybe both. maybe that was the problem— that you were always both, always caught between two things, always wanting what you couldn’t have and not knowing what to do with what you did.

you thought about suguru. the way he’d kissed you goodnight earlier, a slow, sweet thing that had left you warm and wanting. the way he’d said text me when you get home because it mattered to him that you were safe. the way he looked at you, always, like you were something precious, something worth protecting.

you liked him. you really, really liked him.

but you also, in the quiet dark of your room, with satoru sitting alone in the living room and not knocking on your door, you let yourself admit that you missed him very much. that you missed the way things were before. that some part of you, some stubborn, stupid part that you couldn’t seem to kill no matter how hard you tried, was still waiting.

you closed your eyes and told yourself it would fade. that eventually, you’ll wake up one morning and not feel the ache of him in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing on.

this was good. this was what you needed.

it was good.

in the living room, satoru sat on the couch in the dark, his phone dark in his hand, your closed door at the end of the hallway. he’d been sitting there for an hour, maybe longer. long enough that the takeout he’d ordered— your usual, the one from the place you both liked, the one he’d bought without thinking— had gone cold on the coffee table.

he’d meant to knock. he’d walked to your door twice, hand raised, ready. but each time, he’d stopped himself. because what was he supposed to say? i miss you? why aren’t you here anymore? who is this guy and why does he get to have you when i—

he didn’t finish the thought. he never finished the thought. it was easier, safer, to let it trail off into nothing, to push it down into the place where all the things he didn’t want to look at lived.

he picked up his phone again. scrolled through his messages. yuki had texted him earlier— something about a party next weekend, something about we should go, it’ll be fun— and he’d read it and put the phone down and not responded. he didn’t know why. yuki was nice. yuki was easy. yuki didn’t make him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name.

he looked at your door again, thought about the way you’d smiled lately, when he’d asked how your day was. the way you’d said good in that voice that meant you were somewhere else, thinking about someone else.

he thought about suguru. the quiet confidence, the steady gaze, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only person in the room. the way you’d looked back.

satoru set his phone down. picked up the cold takeout container. stared at it for a long moment, then put it back down. he sat on the couch, in the dark, and waited for morning.

satoru gojo is not a person who spends a lot of time thinking about his own feelings. this is not an accident. it is a deliberate, carefully cultivated skill, honed over years of practice, and he is very good at it. feelings are messy. feelings are complicated. feelings are the kind of thing that make you do stupid things, like stay up too late and say things you can’t take back and wake up in the middle of the night with your chest caved in and no idea why.

so he doesn’t think about them. he doesn’t think about the way his stomach tightens when you laugh or the way his day feels incomplete if he hasn’t heard your voice or the way he’s been measuring every person he’s ever dated against a standard he didn’t realize he was setting until it was too late to lower it.

he doesn’t think about it. he’s very good at not thinking about it.

but lately, not thinking about it has become harder and he knows exactly when it started, even if he won’t say it out loud. it started with a name. suguru. it started with the way you said it and the way something in his chest went tight and cold at the sound of it. it started with the way you started coming home later, and the way you’d smile at your phone when you thought he wasn’t looking, and the way you’d say suguru and i like it was the most natural thing in the world, like your world had always included someone else’s name next to yours.

he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.

he met you at the entrance exams. he remembers it clearly— remembers the way you were standing against the wall, trying to take up as little space as possible, like you were apologizing for existing. he remembers thinking, why is that person trying to disappear? and then, immediately after, i should talk to them. he was seventeen and he was already the kind of person who talked to everyone, who collected friends the way other people collected coins, easily and without much thought.

he just knew that you looked like you needed someone to tell you that you were allowed to take up space, and he was very good at telling people things. so he walked over, and he said something— he doesn’t remember what, something stupid probably, something designed to make you laugh— and you looked at him with those eyes, and he felt something shift in his chest. something he didn’t have a name for.

he still doesn’t have a name for it. he’s been calling it friendship for four years, and that’s worked well enough.

you were his first best friend. that’s something he doesn’t talk about, not to anyone. he’d had friends before— lots of them, always, because he was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made everything brighter just by being there, but he’d never had a best friend. he’d never had someone he wanted to come home to, someone he wanted to tell everything, someone whose presence made the noise in his head quiet down.

you were the first person who made him want to be better. not for any reason or because you asked or expected or even seemed to notice, but because when he was around you, he wanted to be the kind of person who deserved to be around you. he wanted to remember things. he wanted to show up on time. he wanted to be someone you could count on, someone you could trust, someone who wouldn’t leave you standing against a wall trying to disappear.

you raised the standard. that’s a thing he doesn’t let himself think about, not really. you raised the standard so quietly, so gently, that he didn’t even notice it happening until one day he looked at the girl he was dating— some girl, any girl, they all blurred together after a while— and realized she didn’t make him want to be better. she didn’t make him want anything, really. she was just… there and he was just… going through the motions.

he’s been going through the motions for a long time, he knows that. he knows there’s something wrong with him, something that makes him get bored, get restless, get that itch under his skin that tells him to move on, move forward, don’t look back. he’s broken up with more people than he can count, and every time, he tells himself it’s because they weren’t right, because there’s someone out there who will make it stick, who will make him want to stay.

but he knows, somewhere deep down, that he’s been looking for you in every person he’s ever dated. and no one has ever come close.

he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.

but then you said suguru, and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

he hates suguru. he tells himself it’s not jealousy— he’s not jealous, why would he be jealous, you’re his best friend, he wants you to be happy, of course he wants you to be happy— but he hates suguru with a clarity that scares him. he hates the way suguru looks at you, like he’s reading you, like he’s seeing something that’s supposed to be private. he hates the way suguru is calm, always calm, like nothing can touch him, like he’s above all the messy, complicated feelings that keep satoru up at night.

he hates that suguru is perceptive. he hates that suguru seems to see through him, past the jokes and the grins and the easy charm, to something he’s been hiding for so long he’s almost forgotten it’s there. he hates the way suguru’s hand found yours that night, casual and confident, like he had a right to it. like he’d earned it.

and the worst part is that he can’t even hate suguru for how he treats you, because suguru treats you right. satoru has been watching, has been cataloguing every interaction, every small gesture, every glance, looking for something he can use, something he can point to and say see? he’s not good enough. but there’s nothing.

and that’s the thing that keeps satoru up at night, because suguru treats you right and suguru looks at you the way satoru has been looking at you for four years without letting himself name it and suguru is doing what satoru has been too scared to do, and he’s doing it right.

satoru doesn’t know what to do with that. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that someone else has figured out what took him years to even admit to himself. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that you’re happy— you are happy, he can see it, he can see the way you smile now, the way you carry yourself, the way you’ve stopped trying to disappear— and that happiness is coming from someone who isn’t him anymore

he should be happy for you. he is happy for you. he wants you to be happy, he’s always wanted that, and if suguru is the one who can give you that, then…

then what? then he just… steps aside? then he watches you fall in love with someone else, watches someone else get to hold your hand and make you laugh and be the person you come home to, and he just… accepts it?

he thinks about telling you. sometimes, in the dark, when he’s lying in bed and the walls feel too close and the silence is too loud, he thinks about walking to your door and knocking and saying i’ve been in love with you since we were seventeen and letting whatever happens happen. but then he thinks about your face— the way you’d look at him, the confusion, the pity, the careful way you’d let him down because you’re too kind to hurt him even when he’s hurting you— and he can’t. he can’t do it. because if he tells you and you don’t feel the same way, he loses you. and losing you is the only thing he’s ever been truly afraid of.

so he doesn’t tell you. he doesn’t think about it. he buries it down deep, where it’s always been, and he keeps being your best friend. he keeps being the person you come home to, the person who saves you the last piece of whatever he’s eating, the person who makes you laugh when you’re stressed. he keeps being enough.

except now there’s suguru. and suddenly enough doesn’t feel like enough anymore.

yuki is nice. yuki is pretty. yuki is everything he should want— smart, confident, the kind of girl who doesn’t need him to be anything other than what he is. when he’s with her, he doesn’t have to try. he doesn’t have to think. he can just be satoru, the easy one, the charming one, the one who makes everything fun.

but he’s getting bored. he’s always getting bored, that’s the problem, that’s the thing he hates about himself. three weeks in and already the conversations feel rote, the touches feel automatic, the whole thing feels like a script he’s read before. he catches himself thinking about you when he’s with her. your laugh, your voice, the way you’d react to something he said. he catches himself comparing— not out loud, never out loud, but in his head, where he can’t help it. yuki wouldn’t get that joke. yuki wouldn’t have stayed up with me when i couldn’t sleep. yuki doesn’t look at me the way you look at me.

he should break up with her. he knows he should break up with her. it’s not fair to keep her around when he’s already checked out, when his mind is always somewhere else, with someone else. but every time he thinks about ending it, he thinks about suguru. about the double date, about the way suguru’s hand was on your back, about the way you looked at him. and he thinks about what it would mean to show up alone, to be the one without a date, to have to watch you and suguru together while he has nothing.

it’s stupid, it’s so stupid. he’s never had trouble finding someone to date, has never been without options, has never been the kind of person who needs to cling to a relationship that’s already over. but this isn’t about yuki. it never was about yuki.

it’s about proving something, he’s not even sure what. maybe that he can be stable or can be in a relationship or he can be the kind of person who doesn’t get bored and move on. maybe that he doesn’t need you, that he’s fine, that his life is full and happy and doesn’t revolve around waiting for you to see him. maybe that he’s not jealous, that he doesn’t care about suguru, that he can have his own thing and be perfectly content while you build something with someone else.

maybe it’s just that letting go of yuki would mean admitting that none of it matters. that she was never going to make him feel the way you do, no one is, and he’s been chasing something for four years and he’s never going to catch it.

so he stays with yuki. he texts her back, makes plans, shows up. he lets her wrap her arms around him and talk about her day and laugh at his jokes. and he thinks about you the whole time.

why does he even care? the question circles in his head at 3 a.m., when he’s staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why his chest feels like it’s caving in. why does it matter if you’re dating someone? why does it matter if that someone is perceptive and calm and looks at you like you’re the only person in the world? why does it matter that you’re happy, that you’re smiling more, for other reasons than him?

you deserve everything suguru seems to be giving you, and more.

so why does it feel like he’s losing something? why does it feel like every day you spend with suguru is a day you’re slipping further away from him, and he’s just standing here, watching it happen, too scared to reach out and grab you?

because he’s in love with you. he’s been in love with you since you told him you weren’t interesting and he knew, instantly, that you were the most interesting person he’d ever met. he’s been in love with you through every relationship, every breakup, every late night and early morning and moment in between. he’s been in love with you so long that he doesn’t remember what it felt like before.

and he’s never said a word because saying it would change everything, and he’s not brave enough to find out what that change would look like.

he is a coward.

so he sits on the couch in the dark. he lets the takeout go cold. he doesn’t knock on your door. and he tells himself that this is what it means to love someone— to let them go, to let them be happy, to stand in the background and watch them bloom under someone else’s attention.

he tells himself that and he almost believes it.

when he closes his eyes, he sees your face. he sees the way you looked at him that first day, he sees the way you laugh, the way you say his name, the way you exist in his life like you were always meant to be there. and he thinks about suguru’s hand on you, and he thinks about your smile when you say his name, and he thinks about how he’s never going to be the one to make you look like that.

he’s satoru gojo. he’s the one who has everything. he’s the one people envy, the one who moves through life like it was designed for him, the one who never has to try.

but right now, sitting in the dark, listening to the silence of your apartment, he’s never felt more like he’s lost something he never had the courage to reach for. he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

so he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t think about you, or suguru, or the way his chest feels like it’s splitting open. he doesn’t think about the words he’ll never say, the confession he’ll never make, the life he could have had if he’d been just a little bit braver.

he doesn’t think about any of it.

he sits on the couch. he waits for morning. and he tells himself that this is enough.

.

.

.

it started, as most of satoru’s better ideas did, with him staring at his phone in the middle of a lecture he wasn’t listening to.

he’d been doing that a lot lately. staring at his phone. scrolling through your messages— the ones from before, the ones when you still texted him throughout the day, stupid things and funny things and things that didn’t matter except that they were from you. the messages had become less frequent lately. not gone, but different; shorter, more gaps between them. he’d catch himself typing something, then deleting it, because he didn’t want to bother you or interrupt whatever you were doing with suguru, didn’t want to be the needy best friend who couldn’t let go.

but today, sitting in the back of a lecture hall while some professor droned on about something he was supposed to care about, he had a thought, one that felt, suddenly, like the most obvious thing in the world.

you were still his best friend, weren’t you?

that couldn’t change. four years of inside jokes and late-night conversations and knowing each other in ways no one else did— that wasn’t something that disappeared just because someone new had entered the picture. he was allowed to want to spend time with you. he was allowed to miss you. he was allowed to want to do things with you, just the two of you, without it meaning anything more than what it was: two best friends hanging out, the way they always had.

there was nothing weird about that. nothing that anyone could point to and say look, he’s in love with her, look how pathetic he is.

it was just… friendship. the same friendship you’d had since you were seventeen. the same friendship that had been the most important thing in his life for four years.

so why shouldn’t he act on it?

he was out of his seat before he’d fully formed the thought, shoving his laptop into his bag, ignoring the confused look from the person next to him. he slipped out the side door of the lecture hall, his heart beating faster than it had any right to, and pulled out his phone.

his fingers moved before he could talk himself out of it.

hey. cancel your plans for saturday. i’m taking you somewhere.

he stared at the message for a moment, the cursor blinking, and then he added:

don’t argue. just be ready at 12.

he hit send before he could second-guess himself. he stood in the hallway, phone clutched in his hand, waiting.

the reply came a minute later, maybe less, yet it felt like forever.

silly goose🪿: what?? where are we going

he grinned. he couldn’t help it.

it’s a surprise. wear comfortable shoes. and no, i’m not telling you anything else.

he could picture you reading the message, could picture the way you’d tilt your head, the way you’d chew on your bottom lip while you decided whether to push for more information.

silly goose🪿: you’re being very mysterious

that’s the point

silly goose🪿: fine but if it’s one of your surprise where we end up in the police station again and your father has to bail us out i’m not going

he laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.

it’s not that. i promise. just trust me.

silly goose🪿: okay. i trust you.

he stared at those three words for longer than was probably normal.

he pocketed his phone and walked out of the building into the afternoon sun, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe.

.

.

.

saturday noon arrived the way satoru had been willing it to arrive— slow enough to build anticipation, fast enough that he didn’t lose his nerve. he’d been up since six, which was ridiculous. he just couldn’t sleep. he kept running through the plan in his head, checking and rechecking details that didn’t need checking, making sure everything was perfect.

it wasn’t a date. he told himself that again, firmly, as he stood in front of his closet for the third time, trying to decide what to wear. it wasn’t a date. it was two friends spending the day together. that was all. so why did it matter what he wore? why did he care if his hair was doing the thing it did sometimes, the thing that made it fall just right? why had he gone to the convenience store yesterday and bought your favorite snacks without even thinking about it, like it was instinct, like his body knew what you wanted before his brain caught up?

it wasn’t a date. it was just… him being your friend, being the person who knew you, who remembered the things you liked, who wanted to make you smile.

that was allowed. that was normal. that was fine.

he settled on something simple— jeans, a soft sweater, his favorite sunglasses— and tried not to look at himself in the mirror too long. when he heard your door open at 11:58, he was already in the living room, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, trying to look like he hadn’t been waiting for this moment all week.

you came out of your room and he looked up and there it was, that thing that happened every time he saw you, the thing he’d never been able to explain or control or make go away. the way his heart did a small, stupid flip in his chest. the way the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges, like someone had turned down the focus on everything that wasn’t you.

you were wearing something simple— jeans, a top, a jacket— and your hair looked like you hadn’t put too much effort in, and you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. you always were, that’s how he distinguished you in a room full of people.

“okay,” you said, pulling your keys out of your pocket. “i’m ready. are you going to tell me where we’re going yet, or are you committed to the mystery?”

he grinned, pushing off from the couch, sliding his sunglasses into place. “committed to the mystery. get in the car.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “if this is another one of your schemes—”

“it’s not a scheme! it’s a surprise. there’s a difference.”

“is there?”

“a huge difference. schemes are nefarious. surprises are delightful. like me.”

the drive took about forty minutes. you spent most of it trying to guess where he was taking you— guessing every amusement park, every tourist attraction, every vaguely interesting thing within a two-hour radius— and he spent most of it deflecting, making up ridiculous answers, watching you laugh out of the corner of his eye. the radio was playing something forgettable, the windows were down just enough to let the autumn air in, and for a while, it was easy. it was the way things used to be, before everything got complicated, before suguru, before he started measuring every moment in terms of what he was losing.

“okay, final guess,” you said, as he turned onto the access road. “if it’s not the boardwalk and it’s not the botanical gardens and it’s not that weird museum with the taxidermy—”

“that was one time.”

“—then it has to be—” you stopped as the entrance came into view, and your mouth dropped open. “wait. is this—”

“the new amusement park,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t been waiting for the perfect moment to bring you here. “i heard they opened last month. thought we should check it out.”

you turned to look at him, your face— he wanted to bottle that expression and keep it somewhere safe. the surprise, the delight, the way your eyes went wide and bright. “satoru—”

“you said you wanted to come when it opened. remember? you saw the article about it, back when they first broke ground, and you said—”

“i said we should come when it’s finished,” you finished, your voice turning softer. “you remembered that?”

he shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road, pretending he didn’t notice the way you were looking at him. “i remember things. i’m a good friend.”

you didn’t say anything for a moment. when he glanced over, you were still looking at him with an unreadable expression that made his heart beat a little faster.

“yeah,” you said finally, quietly. “you are.”

he parked the car and you both got out. the sun was warm on his face. you were standing next to him, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and he let himself have this. he let himself pretend that nothing had changed, that you were still his in the way you’d always been his, that the world hadn’t shifted underneath his feet.

the park was crowded, but not unbearably so. everything felt alive without being overwhelming. satoru had done his research, had looked at all the ride maps and food stalls and show times, had planned out a route that would hit everything you might want to see without spending the whole day in lines. he didn’t tell you that, of course. he played it cool, like he was just making it up as he went along and he hadn’t spent hours thinking about this exact day.

“okay,” you said, looking around at the chaos of colors and sounds. “where do we start?”

he considered the options. “food first. i’m starving.”

“already?”

“and? you don’t get hungry at 13?”

“i had breakfast.”

“that was hours ago.”

“it was literally an hour ago.”

“an hour is a long time. metabolically speaking.”

you laughed, and he grabbed your hand before he could think about it— to pull you toward the food stalls, he told himself, because it was crowded and he didn’t want to lose you— and your fingers were warm in his. you didn’t pull away.

the first food stall they hit was one selling taiyaki, the fish-shaped pastries filled with red bean paste, and he bought four without asking if you wanted any, just handed you two and watched you take the first bite.

“good?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

you nodded, mouth full. he felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction.

from there, it became a kind of mission. the park had all the classic amusement food, but elevated somehow— fancier, more elaborate, the kind of stuff that was made to be photographed and posted.

“okay, try this,” he said, shoving a piece of honeycomb-topped ice cream toward you. “it’s supposed to be their signature thing.”

you leaned in and took a bite. he watched your expression shift from curiosity to surprise to delight. “oh my god. that’s actually incredible.”

“right? i knew you’d like it.”

“how did you know?”

he shrugged, taking a bite himself, the honey sweet and sticky on his tongue. “you like honey. you put it in your tea, even when i tell you it’s too much. and you like cold things, even in winter. remember that time you made me get ice cream with you when it was snowing?”

you stared at him. “that was three years ago.”

“so?”

“so you remember that? what i ordered?”

“mint chocolate chip,” he said, without missing a beat. “you said it was basic but you didn’t care. and then you dropped half of it on the sidewalk and looked so sad i went back and bought you another one.”

you went quiet. he realized, belatedly, that maybe he was saying too much and showing his hand. but then you smiled, small and soft, and said, “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m dedicated,” he corrected. “you know that”

“do i?”

“a huge difference. dedication is admirable. ridiculousness is—”

“also admirable?”

he laughed. “i was going to say ‘charming,’ but sure. we’ll go with admirable.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. when you reached out to steal another piece of his ice cream, he let you.

he took you on rides after that. the park had a good mix— some classic, some new, some that made you scream and some that made you laugh. satoru had always been a fan of the big ones, the ones that went high and fast and made your stomach drop out from under you.

today, he found himself gravitating toward the smaller things. the spinning teacups, where you both got dizzy and stumbled out laughing, holding onto each other to stay upright. the bumper cars, where you spent an embarrassingly long time chasing each other around the rink, both of you laughing so hard you could barely steer. the old-fashioned carousel, where you picked a horse with chipped paint and a golden mane and he stood next to you, one hand on the pole, watching the way the afternoon light caught in your hair.

“you’re not going to ride?” you asked, as the carousel started its slow, stately rotation.

“i’m riding. i’m right here.”

“standing doesn’t count.”

“sure it does. i’m experiencing the carousel. i’m very engaged.”

you gave him a look. “you’re standing next to a stationary horse while i do all the work.”

“it’s a very nice stationary horse.” he nodded assuredly and then squinted at you, “also, what work are you talking about, you are sitting on a horse that moves by itself.”

you laughed, and the sound of it was better than any music, better than any ride, better than anything else in the park. he wanted to bottle it. he wanted to carry it with him everywhere. he wanted to hear it every day for the rest of his life.

“you’re so weird,” you said.

“that’s why we work. you like me.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

the carousel turned, the world spun slowly around you, and he caught himself thinking, if i could freeze this moment, if i could stay here forever, i would. i would in a heartbeat.

.

.

.

it was always natural for him and you to talk about everything and nothing. that was the thing about the two of you— conversation had always been easy, had always flowed like water, finding its way into every corner and crevice. you talked about classes, about professors who were terrible and professors who were surprisingly good. you talked about movies you’d seen, books you’d read, music you’d been listening to. you talked about the park itself—the way the light hit the rides, the best place to watch the crowd, the ridiculous prices of everything.

“five dollars for a bottle of water,” you said, holding up your latest purchase. “that’s criminal.”

“capitalism,” he said sagely. “the real villain of our time.”

“you say that while wearing designer sunglasses.”

“these are vintage.”

“they’re from last season.”

“vintage is a state of mind.”

you laughed quietly, shoving him in the shoulder. he watched you take a sip of your overpriced water and he thought about how easy this was. why did it feel like an ending?

you talked about memories, too. old ones, the kind that came up when you spent enough time together, the shared history that no one else could touch. the time you’d both gotten locked out of the apartment and had to climb through the window. the time he’d tried to cook dinner and set off the fire alarm and you’d both eaten burnt pasta on the floor of the kitchen, laughing hysterically. the time you’d stayed up all night studying for an exam you both ended up failing because the professor was an asshole, and the way you’d looked at each other the next morning, bleary-eyed and defeated, and somehow started laughing.

“we were such disasters,” you said, leaning against a railing, looking out at the park.

“we are disasters,” he corrected. “we just have better lighting now.”

you smiled. he smiles back.

“do you ever think about that?” you asked, your voice was softer now, more thoughtful. “how we met?”

“all the time,” he said.

you glanced at him, surprised. “really?”

“really.” he leaned against the railing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. “you were standing against the wall, trying to disappear. and i thought—” he stopped, remembering. “i need to save her from dying of anxiety.”

you were quiet for a moment. “is that why you talked to me?”

“maybe. or maybe i just thought you were interesting.” he bumped your shoulder with his. “still do, by the way. just so you know.”

you looked at him, your eyes full of emotion that made his chest tight. “satoru—”

“don’t get emotional, sweetheart,” he said quickly, because he couldn’t handle whatever was coming next, “i have a reputation to maintain.”

you laughed wetly. the moment passed. he told himself that was for the best.

the afternoon bled into evening, the light shifting from gold to amber to the soft, hazy blue of late afternoon. satoru and you been at the park for hours, had ridden most of the rides, eaten more than was reasonable, accumulated a small collection of prizes from games you’d played— a stuffed bear that was slightly lopsided, a keychain that glowed in the dark, a cheap plastic ring that you’d put on your finger and hadn’t taken off.

satoru had been watching the sky for the last hour, tracking the sun’s descent, waiting for the moment. he’d planned this part carefully, had checked the sunset time, had figured out the best place in the park to watch it. the ferris wheel. it was obvious, maybe, but that was the point. it was the kind of thing that felt like a movie, that would be romantic if it were anyone else, but it had to be just two friends watching the sunset. nothing more than that.

“come on,” he said, tugging on your hand. “one more ride.”

you were looking at the ferris wheel, your expression shifting as you registered what he was suggesting. “the ferris wheel?”

“the ferris wheel.” he was already pulling you toward the line, not giving you time to argue. “it’s the best view in the park. you can see the whole city from the top.”

“it’s going to be a long line—”

“it’s fine. we have time.”

you looked at him exasperatedly, he could see you trying to figure out what he was doing, why he was so insistent, but you didn’t argue. you let him pull you into line, and you stood close together as the queue slowly moved forward, and he tried not to think about the way your arm pressed against his.

the line moved faster than he expected. before he was ready, they were at the front, and the attendant was gesturing them into a car, and he was climbing in after you, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

the car swayed slightly as it began to move, and you let out a small gasp, grabbing onto the rail. he laughed. “scared of heights? you never told me you were scared of heights.”

“i’m not scared,” you said, but your grip on the rail said otherwise. “i just don’t like the swaying.”

“it’s supposed to sway. it’s part of the experience.”

“a terrible part of the experience.”

he grinned, settling back against the seat, watching you. the inside of the cabin was small, it forced closeness. your knees were almost touching. if he reached out, he could touch your face, your hair, your hand. he kept his hands firmly in his lap and he looked out at the park shrinking beneath them. satoru told himself to breathe.

the car rose slowly, steadily, each rotation bringing them higher. the park spread out below them like a map, the lights beginning to flicker on, the crowd reduced to tiny figures moving between the attractions. and beyond the park, the city, sprawling toward the horizon, buildings catching the last of the sun’s light.

“oh,” you said softly, causing him to he look at you. you were watching the view, your face soft, your lips slightly parted. “it’s so pretty.”

he looked out at the sunset. it was, objectively, beautiful. the sky was a gradient of colors— pink and orange and purple, bleeding into each other, the sun a perfect disc of gold balanced on the edge of the world. the sunset that made people stop and stare, the kind that felt like it was put there just for you.

but now he wasn’t looking at the sunset. he was looking at you.

the light caught your face, painted you in gold and rose, turned you into something that made his breath catch. your eyes were bright, reflecting the colors of the sky, and there was a small smile on your lips, and you were so beautiful that it hurt. it physically hurt, a tightness in his chest, a pressure behind his ribs, something that felt like joy and terror and longing all tangled together.

you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

not just now, in this light, on this ferris wheel. always. every day, in every moment, in every version of you that existed.

you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and he couldn’t tell you. he couldn’t say it, couldn’t let the words out, couldn’t let you see what was written all over his face. so he didn’t. he sat there, in the swaying car, and he watched the sunset paint you gold, and he held the words in his chest like a secret.

“it’s beautiful,” you said again as you turned to look at him. he was caught, and he knew you could see it, could see everything he’d been trying to hide.

“yeah,” he said. his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “beautiful.”

you were looking at him too. for a moment he let himself believe that the expression on your face was something more than friendship, something more than the easy affection you’d always had.

but then the car reached the top, paused, and started its slow descent, and you looked away, back at the sunset, and the moment was gone.

he let it go again. he had to.

the ride down was quiet. not uncomfortable, but charged, the air between them heavy with something neither of them was saying. he watched you out of the corner of his eye, watched the way you traced patterns on the railing, the way your fingers touched the cheap plastic ring you’d won, the way your breath fogged the glass when you leaned close.

when the car reached the bottom, the attendant opened the door, you climbed out first, and he followed. the spell was broken.

you stood for a moment at the base of the ferris wheel, the lights of the park bright around you, the last traces of sunset fading to deep blue. you were looking up at the wheel, your expression unreadable.

“thank you,” you said, your voice soft. “for today. i… i needed this.”

he wanted to say something. he wanted to say me too. he wanted to say i need you, i’ve always needed you, i don’t know how to be without you. he wanted to say please don’t go back to him, please stay here with me, please see me the way i see you.

but he didn’t. he smiled, which was easier than it should have been, this mask he’d been wearing for years. “anytime. you know that.”

you looked at him for a long moment and then you smiled. it was the same smile you’d always had, that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

“come on,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his. “let’s get out of here. i’m freezing.”

you laughed, the sound of it wrapping around him, warm and familiar. “you’re always freezing.”

“i run cold. it’s a medical condition.”

“it’s not a medical condition, you just don’t wear enough layers.”

“tomato, tomato.”

you shook your head, but you were still smiling, when he fell into step beside you, you didn’t move away. you walked close enough that your shoulders brushed, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through his jacket.

he didn’t look back at the ferris wheel. the image was already burned into his memory— you, painted in gold, the sunset behind you, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

he’d carry that with him, he’d carry it for as long as he could, and when the ache in his chest got too heavy, when the weight of everything he couldn’t say pressed down on him, he’d pull it out and look at it and remind himself that for one moment, at the top of a ferris wheel, you were his. even if you didn’t know it. even if you never would.

it was enough. it had to be.

things were, against all odds, going well. that was the thought that kept circling in your head as you walked home from class one afternoon, the autumn air crisp and clean, your scarf wrapped tight around your neck. things were going well. you were spending time with suguru, hopefully building something solid between him and you. and you were spending time with satoru again, too, in a way that felt almost like before, like the strange distance that had crept in between you had been bridged.

you weren’t sure exactly when that had happened. maybe it was the amusement park, the way he’d planned the whole day, the way he’d taken care of you. maybe it was the way he’d started texting you again, the stupid memes and the late-night check-ins and the you up? messages that made you smile even when you were trying to sleep. maybe it was just time, the slow reclamation of something that had always been yours, the way you found yourself gravitating back toward each other like planets in orbit.

whatever it was, it was good. it was so, so good.

there was, however, the matter of yuki.

the breakup had been… abrupt. that was the word you’d settled on, after turning it over in your mind for the better part of a week. abrupt. you’d come home from a study session at the library to find the apartment door slightly ajar, which was unusual because satoru was a little paranoid about locking doors. you’d pushed the door open slowly, already reaching for your phone in case something was wrong, and then you’d heard voices.

satoru’s voice, low and tight; you recognised it as the tone he used when he was trying to keep his temper in check. and yuki’s voice, higher, sharper, the words spilling out too fast to catch at first.

you’d frozen in the doorway, caught between the instinct to leave and the realization that they’d probably already heard you. and then yuki had come storming out of the living room, her face blotched red, her eyes wet, and she’d stopped when she saw you.

for a moment, neither of you said anything. you’d only met her a handful of times— the double date, a party, a brief encounter on campus— and you didn’t know her, not really. but in that moment, looking at her face, you saw something that made your stomach clench. it looked like she’d figured something out that you’d been trying to hide for years.

“you,” she’d said, her voice thick with tears but the hatred underneath it made you take a step back. “you’re the reason.”

you’d opened your mouth to say something—what, you didn’t know, maybe i don’t know what you’re talking about or i’m sorry or what happened?— but she was already moving, pushing past you, gone. the door slammed behind her, and you were left standing in the hallway, your heart beating too fast, your hands cold.

you’d found satoru in the living room, sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. he’d looked up when you walked in, and for a moment, his face was completely open, completely raw, and you’d seen grief, maybe, or exhaustion, or relief there that made your chest ache.

“hey,” he’d said, his voice rough. “you’re home early.”

“are you okay?” you’d asked.

he’d smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “yeah. i’m fine. we just—it wasn’t working. you know how it is.”

you didn’t, actually. you didn’t know how it was to break up with someone because you couldn’t make yourself feel something that wasn’t there. you didn’t know how it was to go through person after person, searching for something you couldn’t name. but you nodded anyway, because that was what he needed.

you sat down next to him on the couch and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and you didn’t ask any of the questions that were crowding your throat.

you didn’t ask why yuki had looked at you like that. you didn’t ask what she meant by you’re the reason. you didn’t ask if there was something he wasn’t telling you.

you just sat there, in the quiet of your apartment, and let him be.

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