“I’m not recommending anything,” your attorney replies gently. 

“But for some people, it helps with the healing process. It breaks the emotional cycles and gives them room to breathe again.”

You had been Satoru’s wife for eight years. Eight years of building a life that, by the end, didn’t truly belong to either of you. Being married to the head of the Gojo clan meant living under a microscope. You were watched, judged, and burdened with the role of the “perfect partner” to a man whose name carried the weight of the world. That weight extended to you, whether you asked for it or not.

Back then, it didn’t matter what his name meant to the world. With you, he got to be just Satoru. Loud, ridiculous Satoru, who used to poke fun at his own legacy and say things like: “Ew, clan head? Let’s run away instead.”

It was late night runs to that sweet shop three bus stops away because you were craving strawberry mochi. It was him sneaking out of endless meetings just to kiss you on the cheek and disappear like a thief, leaving you laughing in the hallway.

But beauty, you’ve come to learn, doesn’t last forever.  

You learned to perform. You folded yourself into pleats and smoothed every emotion until you were palatable, perfect, presentable. But the act cost you more than you ever anticipated.

You woke up one morning, opened your mouth to greet him, to tell him you love him and that he was going to be late again. 

But nothing came. 

Your throat strained around the silence and panic flooded your body as you pressed trembling fingers to your neck, willing any sound to come out. 

Beside you, Satoru slept unaware that everything had changed. 

The doctor indicated that your throat hadn’t closed from illness, but from sheer exhaustion. He explained it gently, describing how the body sometimes retreats when the mind is pushed beyond what it can bear. He told you that a voice can simply stop, not because it is damaged, but because it is done.

Over time, you became a shell of the person who once stood beside your husband. You moved quietly through the estate like a ghost shrinking into corners of your own life. The sharpest sting wasn’t the loneliness, but the way others looked at you with pity and sometimes even contempt.

“How could the head of Gojo Enterprises keep someone like that around?”

“Just look at her! She’s a mess!”

“I heard she barely speaks anymore. Maybe they’re not cut out for that life.”

You pretended not to hear them, but the words followed you. They settled into your skin, into your bones, confirming every doubt you already had. Still, you knew Satoru hadn’t stopped loving you. That was never the issue. He simply stopped seeing you. He was always looking forward, always reaching for something else, something bigger, something brighter, somewhere beyond the silent world where you now lived.

One evening, he came home later than usual. You were in your shared room, sitting on the couch leafing through another novel you’d picked up. He stood in the doorway for a long moment. Long enough to imagine a different version of this evening. 

In another life, he might have teased you for burying your nose in another book, pretending to sulk about your fictional lovers when, as he always joked, you had a perfectly good husband sitting right there. You would’ve rolled your eyes and kicked him off the couch. 

He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but his heart was already breaking. You looked up when you sensed him. You always sensed him before he spoke. Even now, when speaking was no longer something you could do.

He walked toward you and set the folder on the table between you. His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary. He stared at the floor, not because he was ashamed of what he was doing, but because he was ashamed of what had led you both here.

You saw the folder in his hands before he set it down. Then you looked up at him. You didn’t need to open it. 

You already knew what it was.

“I love you,” his voice cracked, “I will always love you.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to speak, to tell him you loved him too, but the words caught somewhere between your ribs and your lips. You just watched, helpless, as the man who had been your world wavered before you.

“But…” His voice broke again. He swallowed, willing the tears back. 

“I can’t…I can’t keep watching you drown because of the life you’re forced to live. Because of us. Because of everything… I love you too much to do that to you anymore.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your mouth opened, then closed, the familiar pressure of dread blooming in your chest. That old monster, the one that had once stolen your voice, clawed its way back up your throat.

He sat across from you instead of beside you, like he already knew that any closeness would undo you both.

Tears welled in your eyes. You wanted to tell him you knew. That you’d known for months this was where you were heading. That maybe, deep down, you’d been waiting for one of you to finally say it out loud.

The sadness did not come all at once. It arrived in waves, slow and crushing, as if grief were something with tides. You mourned him the way you would mourn a death, because in many ways, it was. Not just the end of your marriage, but the death of the person you had been beside him, the version of yourself that believed love alone could be enough.

Eight years is a long time. And that’s what makes the idea of forgetting him so tempting.

And so terrifying.

Would you forget the version of yourself who loved him, who still does, in ways that no longer make sense? Would you still be you without the memories of him? Without the love that shaped you over the past eight years?

“I appreciate it,” you say at last, offering Hiromi a small smile. You slip the card into your coat pocket and head toward the elevator. 

You press the button and keep your eyes forward, clutching your coat to your chest. Behind you, through the glass walls of the conference room, a pair of blue eyes follow your exit.

Satoru stands frozen, fingers curling at his sides, caught in the wake of words he was never meant to hear. He wants to say goodbye, or offer some final, clumsy apology that he knows you don’t want or need. But then Higuruma hands you that card, and it’s like the wind is knocked out of him.

He thinks he’s doing you a favor, letting you go before resentment can take root. But standing there, he realizes the truth is far crueler: sometimes, letting go hurts more than holding on ever could.

Standing on the other side of a clean break, he wonders if you’ll sleep better without him. If you’ll laugh louder. If you’ll love harder. 

But the idea that you might choose to forget him entirely? That he could become nothing more than a blank space in your mind? He wants to believe he meant something. That somewhere in your memories, he’s still there. Still yours, in some small, unerasable way.

Like the time you found his stash of Digimon cards tucked into the back of your shared closet. You’d pulled out the deck with a raised brow and mock horror.

“You’re telling me the head of Gojo Enterprises has a soft spot for Greymon?”

“Correction. It’s WarGreymon. He’s the backbone of any decent deck. Don’t slander greatness.”

He remembers how you’d laughed. The kind that has you doubling over with tears in your eyes as you gasped for breath. 

Satoru closes his eyes. The irony doesn't escape him. He'd pushed you away to protect you from his world, only to drive you toward something far more final than distance.

⏾

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. You toss and turn in bed, but the hum of the city outside does nothing to fill the emptiness that follows you like a shadow.

You had moved out of the Gojo estate the moment the divorce proceedings began. Satoru had offered to cover everything, rent, utilities, groceries, but you had thanked him and declined. Not out of pride, but out of necessity.

You had to learn how to live without him.

You reach for your phone. 3:14 AM. Your thumb hovers over the screen, then you sigh and set it back down. The restlessness in your chest won’t let you stay still. Your hand drifts toward the nightstand drawer. Your fingers pause, hesitating over the card lying face down.

Twilight.

You turn it over, staring at the name. Part of you wants to erase him, or maybe just the pieces of that day that had been burned into your bones. You'd tried to call out, to scream, but no sound came. Just your lips moving uselessly in the mirror. You’d clawed at your throat like you could tear it open and free whatever was trapped inside.

Even after your voice returned, everything changed. 

The panic attacks haven’t gone away. Some nights, they creep in without warning. Your breath shortens, your pulse races, and for a terrifying moment, you’re back in that morning again.

Frozen. Voiceless. Alone.

You glance at the card again. Maybe Twilight could help.

You pull out your phone, because of course you do and start digging online. Why is their branding so dramatic? You scroll and click through their website, which is filled with too many transitions, buttons that do nothing, and aesthetic nonsense that somehow demands you take it seriously.

And then—

Your fat thumb betrays you. 

It lands squarely on the little telephone icon at the bottom of the screen. You stare at the screen in horror, as if your own disbelief might magically stop the call from going through.

“Hello! You’ve reached Twilight. This is Yuta speaking. How can I assist you today?”

Oh no. No, no, no. The call connected. 

You squeak. “Uh… hi? I-I didn’t mean to… I was looking at the website? And then I accidentally called?”

“That’s okay! Accidents happen all the time,” Yuta says cheerfully, and somehow his voice makes the whole situation feel less catastrophic.

“I’m not really sure what to say. I just—”

“Take your time! I’m here to answer any questions you might be curious about.”

You take a deep breath, fidgeting with your blanket. “Okay…um, I guess I want to…understand what the process is like.”

“Of course!” Yuta chirps. “You’d start with a consultation or a memory scan where our doctors figure out what kind of support would be most helpful for you. It’s completely confidential, and we can tailor it to whatever you need.”

“Oh. Well what happens during a memory scan? Does it hurt?”

Yuta laughs softly. “Not physically. Maybe emotionally at first, depending on how attached you are. But the goal is to make life easier. You’re still you, just…with a little less weight on your shoulders.”

You blink at the phone, a little awed. “So I won’t lose myself? Or become a completely different person?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve asked something impossible.

“Not at all,” Yuta finally says and you can hear the smile on the other end of the line. 

“Think of it like untangling a knot. The rope is still yours but we only help lift the weight of specific memories, like the ones that hurt the most or keep you from moving forward.”

“Even if it’s…something I’ve held onto for years?”

“Even then,” he reassures you. 

A tiny laugh escapes you, half in disbelief, half in relief. “That… actually makes sense.”

“Good! That’s exactly how it should feel. You’re still yourself. You’re just…a version of yourself with a little more space to breathe.”

You stare at the phone, letting Yuta’s words sink in. For the first time tonight, you imagine a life where the memories don’t sting as sharply, but you are still entirely yourself. Somehow, that thought feels like the tiniest glimmer of hope.

“I want to let you know that you’re not committing to anything tonight,” Yuta adds gently. “This is just to figure out what you want and how we can help.”

You glance at the clock. 3:44 AM. Somehow, even at this ungodly hour, Yuta makes it feel like the right time to take that first step.

“We can schedule your consultation whenever it’s convenient,” he continues. 

“If you need time to think about it, that’s completely fine. You don’t have to make any decisions tonight. Just talking about it is already a step forward and that’s something to be proud of.”

“Okay,” you whisper, letting yourself believe it might actually be possible to take this step.

“Perfect! Whenever you’re ready, we’ll be here. And I’ll walk you through everything. You’re not alone in this.”

“Thank you,” you reply quietly. Somehow, hearing that you don’t have to carry this by yourself makes the ache in your chest ease.

You fiddle with the card, staring at the ceiling as the hum of the city seeps in. Somehow, the night doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. Morning will come soon, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll be ready to decide.

The Gojo Family is pleased to formally announce the engagement of Satoru Gojo to Meisa Tachibana, daughter of the Tachibana clan and a respected figure in both diplomatic and cultural spheres.

The engagement marks a significant union between two of Japan’s most distinguished families, symbolizing a continued commitment to tradition and shared legacy.

When asked for comment, Satoru Gojo offered a brief statement: “We look forward to building a future founded on mutual respect, shared purpose, and unity.”

Satoru paces the length of his office for what feels like the hundredth time that morning. The blinds are still drawn, his tie lies forgotten on the couch, and his jacket’s slung over the arm of a chair. He hasn’t slept—again.

The conversation you had with your lawyer loops in his mind like a curse. He’d felt powerless, listening to your lawyer suggest erasing him completely, after years of marriage, and even longer years of friendship. He should be disbarred!

It was selfish, Satoru knows that now, to believe that he might still have a place in your heart after everything he put you through. After the pressure, the loneliness, the slow decay of who you used to be.

He sinks into the edge of his desk, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He was a coward.

He couldn’t stand up to the elders when they questioned your background. He couldn’t shut down the whispers or shield you from the press. He let the clan, the media, the world reduce you to a footnote. 

And even now, after everything, what haunts him most isn’t the arguments or the silences.

It’s your voice.

Not the sound of it. But the absence.

The morning it vanished was like something sacred had been stolen. The panic in your eyes. The way your hands trembled as you tried to speak, to scream but nothing came out.

His phone buzzes on the desk, shaking him from his thoughts. He almost ignores it—until he sees the name.

Shoko.

Shoko and Suguru lean against the railing outside the café, waiting for their order. They’re halfway through a conversation about a new restaurant when Shoko’s gaze drifts over Suguru’s shoulder.

She spots a familiar figure walking down the street, a business card clutched tightly in their hand. Their fingers fidget with the strap of their bag, small, nervous movements but Shoko notices every one of them. She’s known those quirks for years, and has grown accustomed to the way you tilt your head, the way your hands twist when you’re anxious.

The world around her fades into the background and all she can focus on is you. 

Her heart drops to her stomach upon realizing what you’re about to do. You’re here to erase yourself. To erase him. To erase the memories that have defined you for years.

Suguru notices the sudden stillness in her posture. “Hey…you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, waving a hand in front of her face. 

Shoko shakes her head quickly, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing,” she murmurs, though her eyes never leave you as you step closer to the clinic doors.

She feels something twist in her chest, recalling the conversation she had with Satoru right after the divorce was finalized. 

"You better be dying," she deadpanned. 

"She's thinking of erasing me." The words tumble out before he can compose himself. 

"I-I just overheard her talking to her lawyer about Twilight."

A heavy pause fills the line. When Shoko speaks again, her voice has lost its edge. "Satoru..."

“I know I have no right,” he rushed on, pacing loud enough that she could hear the echo in the hallway. 

“I know I’m the one who—” He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair. “How can she just…choose to forget me? Us?”

She exhaled, a tired, weary sound. “Satoru… I’ve been your friend for as long as I can remember. And Y/N, right after you introduced us.” Her voice softened, but only for a moment. 

“So believe me when I say this comes from someone who cares about you both: how can she not want to forget the man who watched it happen? Who chose expectation over standing up for his wife?”

“I was trying to protect her!”

“No,” Shoko replied gently, “you were trying to protect yourself from making the hard choice. And now she’s making it for you.”

Shoko exhales through her nose and looks at you again as you hover near the clinic entrance. She feels for both of you. Drumming her fingers on the table, she excuses herself to the bathroom only to stand alone in a cramped stall with her phone to her ear. 

She doesn’t know if she’s doing the right thing by calling Satoru, or if he’ll be furious when he finds out she did. She doesn’t know if she’s betraying you by telling your ex-husband your business. 

But if anything, she believes in happy endings, especially the toxic and slightly fucked up kind that don’t look like fairy tales. 

Satoru snatches the phone up. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you alone?”

His chest tightens. “Yeah. What is it?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Long enough that he can hear her inhale, like she’s preparing to drop something irreversible.

“Shoko.”

“I just saw Y/N,” she says finally. “Outside the Twilight clinic.”

For a moment, he can’t hear anything at all. The world goes silent except for the sound in his head, a sharp vicious ringing undoing all the hurt he thought he’d buried. 

“Satoru? Did you hear me?”

He swallows, throat dry. “Y-Yeah,” he whispers.

Shoko sighs. “I don’t know what they’re planning to do. But you know if they go through with the procedure, there’s no undoing it, right?”

He’s on his feet before she even finishes. His fingers curl around the phone so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and the rush of blood to his head makes the room spin. 

You were really considering it. Erasing him. Erasing everything.

He grabs his keys, not even aware of the way his hands are shaking. He can’t let this happen. Not without talking to you. Not without—

“Satoru.”

He freezes. 

Meisa stands in the doorway of his office. The woman his clan chose to replace you. Her gaze flicks to the keys in his hand. To the grief he can’t hide. To the way everything in him is pointed toward the door.

“I don’t have time for this,” he huffs, clenching his fists until the muscles ache and his nails press into his palms.

She tilts her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Just wanted to remind you of the gala this weekend. Your presence is expected. People will be looking for you.”

Satoru’s jaw ticks and swallows the knot in his throat. “I know,” he says, voice clipped. He doesn’t explain that the gala doesn’t matter, not when all he can think about is you.

Meisa studies him for a moment, her smirk sharpening with something close to knowing amusement.

“You seem…distracted,” she observes lightly. “Something I should know about? Or maybe someone?”

“Don’t,” he growls.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice, the intensity in his tone carries the weight of all of his compromises. His family had made their expectations clear: go along with the engagement to Meisa, fulfill their plan, and they would leave you alone.

Her smirk wavers, but she doesn’t back down. She tilts her head, letting her gaze linger on him like a challenge. 

“Just making an observation,” she shrugs, though it’s evident she’s struck a nerve she shouldn’t have.

“I don’t care if you have someone on the side,” she adds casually, “but don’t make a scene about it.”

“I can’t make a scene when this arrangement is all for show,” Satoru warns, brushing past her. “You just said you don’t care if I have someone on the side. So what if I do? I won’t stop you either.”

“Noted,” she replies, wrinkling her nose as he makes his way out of the building. 

Satoru doesn’t wait another second. The moment he reaches the garage, he jumps into his car, slamming the door shut. The engine roars to life, and he speeds away without hesitation in his last ditch effort to get to you. 

To him, nothing else matters. Not the engagement, not the mergers, not anyone else…just you. Every fiber of his being screams that he shouldn’t care, that you’re divorced, that he should let you live your life, that he has no right to interfere. He knows it’s selfish, that he should leave you alone, that what you want matters more than his own pain.

You’re his other half, the person who has always fit into the spaces he didn’t know were empty. Losing you once was agony enough but to become strangers would be unbearable.

He pushes the car faster, racing against the inevitable, desperate to reach you before it’s too late.

⏾

“Twilight… Twilight…” you mutter under your breath like a mantra as you make your way down the busy sidewalk toward the clinic. The sun is warm and inviting but it does nothing to calm your nerves as you near the sliding glass doors.

Before your hand can even reach them, the doors slide open on their own. The sudden whoosh of movement makes you jump back and for a moment, you stumble slightly looking for something to hold on to. 

The clinic’s interior looms before you. It’s too bright, too immaculate, and unnervingly quiet.  This is it. The first step. The threshold between what was and what could be.

Two cameras rotate toward you, their lenses adjusting to follow your movement. A guard stationed near the far corner lifts his gaze, assessing you as his fingers hover near the comm clipped to his shoulder, ready to call something in if you so much as look at him the wrong way.

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your hands to stop trembling. Taking a shaky breath, you approach the front desk.

“Hi,” you manage, giving a small, uncertain wave. “I’m here for my consultation.” 

The receptionist looks up with a welcoming smile. “Of course! Can I have your first and last name?”

“Oh—uh, Y/N Gojo… I mean, L/N,” you stammer. You clear your throat, hoping she won’t notice how rattled you are, and how you no longer have your ex-husband’s last name. 

The receptionist nods smoothly, typing something into her computer. “Perfect, Y/N. Just take a seat, and Dr. Hirano’s staff will be with you shortly.”

You nod and drift toward a quiet corner, sinking into a chair as you try to calm your racing thoughts. The waiting room is bright and cozy, designed to soothe nerves, but all you can think about is the appointment ahead and the memories you’re about to willingly surrender.

It had been weeks since you first saw the paparazzi photos: Satoru out in public with Meisa. At the time, you told yourself it didn’t matter, that life moved on. But the image lingered, haunting you like the empty halls of the Gojo estate you used to wander. Each time it resurfaced, a little ache returned, until the weight of it finally became unbearable.

Finally, on an impulse, you picked up the phone and called. Almost immediately, you wanted to redial Twilight’s number and cancel the appointment just as quickly as you had scheduled it. And yet, slowly, it dawned on you that it wasn’t merely a rash decision. It was about confronting the hollow left by the divorce and safeguarding whatever fragments remained of the pieces of your soul that Satoru had once touched.

Now, sitting here, you scroll through your phone absentmindedly, liking random photos Shoko or Suguru have posted, or adorable videos of baby animals. That’s when your thoughts drift to Yuta, your unofficial emotional support disguised as a customer service assistant. He has been nothing short of a lifeline, guiding you patiently through the confusing, sometimes terrifying steps of the memory erasure process.

Even though he’s technically just doing his job, Yuta has a way of making the impossible feel manageable. With him, the entire intake process didn’t feel so overwhelming. You’re reminded how much easier it is to navigate the chaos of this world when someone genuinely cares, even if it’s in an unassuming way.

“Y/N?”

You look up to see a nurse smiling at you, clipboard in hand. Flustered, you fumble with your phone and shove it haphazardly into your bag as you rise.

“I’m Yuki, Dr. Hirano’s assistant,” she says warmly. “She’s ready to see you now.”

Yuki leads you into a room that looks less like a medical facility and more like a lounge. Neutral tones, comfy couches and soft lighting. Everything in this room is designed to make you forget what you're here for.

Dr. Hirano stands as you enter, extending her hand. She’s younger than you expected, maybe mid-forties, with dark hair swept into a neat low bun and reading glasses that sit halfway down her nose. Her presence feels more like a therapist’s than a doctor’s.

“Y/N,” she says, extending a hand. “Please, have a seat.”

You do. The reclined memory chair is soft and inviting, molding gently to your body. It hums briefly as it adjusts, then goes still. Across from you, Dr. Hirano sinks into her armchair, her eyes scanning something on a sleek tablet.

“You mentioned in your screening that you’re recently divorced?”

“Yes,” you nod. “As of a few weeks ago.”

“And what made you decide to come to Twilight?”

“Um…I get panic attacks. Sometimes. There was an episode a few years ago that was pretty bad. I even lost my voice for a while. It was…stress induced from what the doctors told me.”

Dr. Hirano doesn’t write it down, but she hears it, nodding thoughtfully. She sets the tablet aside and folds her hands.

“Do you have any questions I can help answer?”

You shift in the chair. You do, but none of them have to do with policy, procedure, or payment.

What if I do and it ruins me all over again? What happens if the procedure doesn’t work? What if I do remember things?

Instead, you offer the smallest, safest question you can manage. “How long will it take?”

“The initial scan will take about half an hour. The erasure, if you choose to proceed, can vary. But we’ll go at your pace. You’re in control.”

You’re in control. The phrase lands oddly in your chest. Lately, in your life, it feels like you haven’t been in control of anything.

“Today is just a guided recall,” Dr. Hirano adds, placing a soft rubber ball into your hand. 

A technician enters behind her, wheeling in sleek equipment that looks far less imposing than what it’s built to do.

“Not to retraumatize,” she continues, “but to help you feel the weight of what you’re choosing to release. If at any point it becomes too much, just squeeze this. We’ll stop immediately.”

“Okay,” you agree as the machine powers on and the tech slips a visor over your eyes. 

“I’ll be monitoring your vitals and steering the session. We’ll begin with early relational memories, as we discussed. Are you ready?”

You inhale deeply, then let it go.

“Yes.”

The machine hums to life. The ambient lights in the room dim to a gentle twilight. You close your eyes, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the past begins to surface.

Memory 1

The convenience store hums with flickering fluorescent lights and the low whirr of an overworked fridge. You’re exhausted, irritated, and just wanting one small thing to go right in your 16-year-old life. That’s when you spot the last pack of strawberry mochi at the same time as someone else.

“Hey, that was mine!” you bark, whipping around.

“Finder’s keepers.”

You freeze. You know that voice. That obnoxiously smug tone, like the universe put sarcasm in human form.

Gojo Satoru. 

Shades on indoors, white hair like he’s trying to be seen from space, and the same pout he uses every time he loses at anything. 

You raise your brow, giving him a once over. “You’re stealing mochi from the poor now? What, did daddy cut your snack budget?”

His grin widens. “I go where the sugar calls me. And right now, it’s calling me, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” you gagged, offended that he’d refer to you as such. 

From the corner of your eye, you catch him doing the most Gojo thing possible; admiring his own reflection in the freezer door, tilting his head this way and that as if he’s debating which angle best captures his essence.

He’s so focused on himself he doesn’t notice you move.

You take advantage of the distraction and snatch the mochi clean out of his hand.

“HEY!”

“Too slow,” you hum, tearing the plastic open as you walk away. Behind you, you hear the sulk of an overgrown man-child following you out of the store. Satoru hovers in front of you with the biggest, saddest pout you’ve ever seen. 

“I’ll pay you for one bite.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Two bites.”

“No.”

“Half the pack.”

You stop walking. Slowly turn. “How much?”

He blinks. “What?”

“How much are you paying me?”

“I don’t know, five bucks?”

You laugh in his face. “Five? For strawberry mochi?”

“That’s a fair market rate!”

“For peasants,” you counter. “I want a hundred.”

“A hundred!?”

You shrug. “You’re the one begging. Inflation’s crazy and life’s hard for us peasants. Pay up or stay mochi-less.”

“…Fine,” he mutters, pulling out his wallet reluctantly. “One hundred. One bite.”

You smirk as you pocket the crisp bills. “Pleasure doing business.”

You still end up splitting the mochi on the curb, because once the cash is yours, you’re feeling generous enough to share.

Memory 2

You’re sorting laundry on a Sunday morning when you hear a suspicious shuffle behind you. You turn around and nearly drop the detergent.

Gojo Satoru is kneeling on the floor of your shared apartment, one knee down, one knee dramatically stretched like he rehearsed this in the mirror. He’s holding out a ring box with both hands, presenting it like an offering. 

“Y/N,” he declares, “light of my life, mochi stealer, bane of my entire existence, will you do me the honor of doing my laundry for the rest of your life?”

You blink. Once. Twice. Is he…?

No. No way.

“Absolutely not,” you reply flatly, walking over and pushing him backward with one foot. He yelps and lands flat on his back with a thud. You don’t stop there, you grab the laundry basket and plant it firmly over his head.

He pouts. “You really are the worst.”

“Thanks, laundry gremlin.”

He flails an arm out from under the basket, blindly reaching for you. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

There’s a pause. A rustle. Then his voice comes out softer. “…Marry me?”

He lifts the basket slightly, peeking at you with the most hopeful, stupidly earnest expression you’ve ever seen on him. You draw out your response, because he deserves the suspense.

Then you grin.

“I guess someone has to stop you from turning all our clothes pink.”

Memory 3

“You nervous?” he asks as he pulls you close, hand warm at the small of your back.

“You’re the one with two left feet,” you shoot back.

He snorts, already swaying you into motion. “Bold of you to say when I’m the one leading.”

“You’re not leading,” you murmur, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. “You’re clinging to me for balance.”

That earns you his real laugh, the unguarded one, the one that makes his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle in the corners like he can’t help it. Your fingertips trace the back of his neck; his thumb rubs a slow circle at your waist. It feels like breathing, like orbiting a star that’s been yours all along.

Until you turn and see the crowd. Or more accurately, what’s missing.

Your side of the room bursts with life: family, friends, coworkers all cheering, snapping photos and crying openly into their champagne.

His side?

Two rows of suits. Silent, standoffish faces. Seven Gojo relatives and a sea of empty chairs. Entire branches of his family simply didn’t show. No calls. No messages. Just absence.

Your smile falters.

You lean your head into his shoulder, trying to will yourself back into the moment. His arm tightens around you instinctively like he sensed the shift the second it hit you. 

Your fingers tighten around the rubber ball in your palm. There’s a soft beep as the machine registers the signal. The ambient hum in the room rises again, and the lights slowly brighten, easing you back into the present.

Dr. Hirano checks a monitor just out of your line of sight. “Noted.”

“Emotional strain spiked during the midpoint of this recall,” she observes. “We’ll slow the tempo for the next sequence.”

A technician steps closer, adjusting a sensor near your temple. “You’re doing fine. Do you want to take a break before we continue?”

“No,” you murmur, steady despite the tightness in your chest. “Keep going.”

Memory 4

You move into the Gojo mansion three days after the wedding. By the end of the week, you have a schedule.

Not for your job, but for lessons.

You sit in straight-backed chairs, your spine reminded at every angle that elegance is an obligation. Instructors correct your tone, your walk, your posture. They show you which water glass to pick up first, how to tilt your chin so it communicates authority without arrogance. You learn how to speak without speaking, to laugh without teeth showing.

You learn how to smile when all you want to do is curl into a corner and scream.

Morning after morning, you wake with a tightness in your chest. Flutters at first, then spirals that dig into your ribs. But by then, you’re already walking the halls like a ghost in designer shoes, slowly losing yourself to fit the mold in a world that was never meant for you. 

Memory 5

Two pink lines.

Your first thought is disbelief.

Your second is Satoru.

You don’t even wait. You fly into the bedroom and jump onto the bed, shaking his shoulders.

“Satoru! Hey! Wake up!”

He groans, one eye squinting open. “Is the mansion on fire or are you just being a menace again?”

You don’t say anything. You just hold out the test. He blinks. Then blinks again. Then sits up so fast he nearly knocks heads with you.

“Are you serious?” he breathes.

“I-I double checked. Triple checked.”

He grabs you, pulling you into his arms and spinning you around.

“We’re gonna be parents,” he whispers into your neck, voice shaking. “Holy shit we’re having a baby!”

His hands are everywhere, on your belly, your cheeks, your back, like he’s trying to memorize this moment with his skin. And for a little while, everything is perfect.

The memory shifts.

Weeks pass in a blur of appointments, laughter, name debates. Satoru won’t stop talking to your stomach, even when there’s barely a bump.

“Hey, pinecone,” he murmurs one night, curled around you in bed. “Don’t tell your mom, but I’m going to stock the fridge with so much mochi that it’ll be the first thing you eat.”

You laugh, swatting at him.

It happened so suddenly.

A sharp, searing pain folds you in half in the middle of the night. There’s no warning or time to brace yourself. The world tilts violently, spinning, and you don’t even have time to scream before blood soaks through the sheets.

Satoru jostles awake and notices the blood. You don’t even register that he has his arms around you, carrying you through the mansion screaming for help. 

The next thing you remember is the ceiling of a hospital room. The world shrinks to the sound of your own breathing and the faint beep of a monitor.

The baby is gone.

In the observation room at Twilight, Dr. Hirano’s calm voice cuts through the steady hum of the machine.

“Cognitive stress response is escalating. The memory imprint is deep and trauma-coded.”

You feel heat pooling behind your eyes, the sting of tears that were never allowed to fall. Your chest tightens, lungs resisting each breath as if the memory itself is crushing you. 

The room tilts, and the memory shifts again.

You’re back in the mansion, sitting on the couch, arms folded tightly over your midsection like that could stop the ache. Satoru’s mother sits across from you. Her expression is unreadable except for the thinly veiled disgust curling at the corners of her mouth.

“Well,” she begins, her tone as clipped as her manicured nails, “perhaps if you’d taken better care of yourself. Or hadn’t been so...emotionally unstable, you might have avoided such an unfortunate situation.”

You say nothing. You can’t. Your throat feels like it’s collapsed in on itself. There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, but even your tears feel unwelcome in this house.

Satoru sits beside you, but it’s as if he’s miles away. His hand is in yours, but it’s nothing more than an empty gesture. He says nothing but his silence speaks volumes.

From the monitoring station, the technician exhales sharply. “Spiking again,” she mutters.

“You have to understand,” she says with mock gentleness, “people like Satoru don’t have the luxury of partnering with...fragility. He’s burdened enough by who he is. He needs someone who can carry him, not add more weight–” 

“Stop blaming her.”

You furrowed your brows under the visor as the face of your ex-mother-in-law glitches and fractures as if the world around her were made of cheap hologram panels.

“Do not speak to her like that,” Satoru snarls.

You whip your head toward him, but the version of him beside you is frozen as his face flashes in and out of static like a corrupted render.

This isn’t how the memory happened. This never happened.

Satoru never stood up for you, so why are you seeing this?

The walls of the mansion ripple violently, buckling and sagging as though something massive is weighing down on the memory from the outside.

“Stop him!” a distant voice shouts.

You blink and the living room flickers out, replaced for a split second by the softness of the lounge. From the corner of your eye, you notice the blur of bodies struggling around your chair.

“Get your hands off her! I’m disconnecting her myself—”

“No!” Dr. Hirano panics, “he’ll destabilize the neural feed!” 

She wedges herself between Satoru and your interface port with her arms thrown out. 

“You can’t rip her out mid-spike! Her brain is still writing the memory!”

Satoru thrashes against two guards restraining him. He’s turned into a man reduced to the bare truth of who he is when he thinks he’s losing someone he can’t bear to lose.

“I said let go of me!” he roars. “You're letting it hurt her all over again!”

“If you yank the interface while her cortex is unshielded, she could die! She could lose stability or even seize!”

Die.

The mansion convulses around you. The walls rip open, the ceiling fractures, and a blinding surge tears through the space, splitting everything in two.

“Stabilize the feed, she’s slipping!”

Your hand trembles as you close your fingers around the ball in your grip. You squeeze hard. A shrill tone blasts through the collapsing memory and red warning lights blare along the dissolving walls. The floor caves beneath you, and suddenly the collapsing mansion peels away like film burning in a projector.

Dr. Hirano lunges toward you. “She wants out! End the recall sequence, now!”

The visor rips away from your consciousness, and you gasp as if pulled from the depths of the ocean. Your vision swims while your brain readjusts to reality, gradually steadying on the tufts of white hair in front of you.

Satoru…?

⏾

The Twilight building looms before him. It’s designed to look welcoming and peaceful, but Satoru knows better. He could buy this building and demolish all the evil associated with it, if he wanted. He knows what happens behind those walls, how it destroys lives and memories deemed too painful to keep. He strolls into the building as if he already owns it, rather than a man whose heart threatens to break from his ribs. The guard looks up, eyebrows lifting at the familiar flash of snowy hair.

“Mr. Gojo!” the guard exclaims, somewhat starstruck. “I wasn’t aware you’d be—”

Satoru’s lips curve into that effortless, disarming smile. “I’m in the neighborhood and decided to visit,” he says lightly, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. He sees the temptation in the guard’s eyes to let him pass, just on charm alone.

“I figured I’d stop by to see if it’s worth buying this building.”

Behind the desk, however, the receptionists are having none of it. One of them straightens, arms crossed, refusing to be intimidated by his smile.

“Sir, do you have an appointment?”

“No,” he replies, “but you have something of mine.”

The receptionist blinks, caught off guard. “Sir, you’re not authorized to be here unless you have an appointment,” she says firmly.

He straightens, feigning innocence, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across his face. “Really? Huh. That’s…unfortunate.”

Before she can protest further, he points dramatically at the ceiling. “Oh! Look at that!”

The receptionist instinctively glances up and that’s all the opening he needs. With a running leap, he vaults over the desk, landing lightly on the other side, already plotting his next move to find you. Hallways blur past as he darts between rooms, eyes sharp, snow-white hair catching the overhead lights. 

“Stop him!” someone shouts.

Satoru grins, spinning around a corner just in time to narrowly avoid a collision with a nurse. 

“Almost had me!” he calls back playfully, sprinting down the next corridor.

Security is gaining on him, but he’s relentless, silently thanking his parents for his long legs and athleticism. He barrels down a corridor, spotting a series of rooms marked “In Use.” Without hesitation, he flings the first door open.

“YN?!” he calls, stepping inside, only to find a patient sitting on an examination table.

“Uh… sorry! Wrong room!” he mutters, slipping back into the corridor and sprinting to the next.

Room after room, he bursts in: a small office where a technician fumbles at a computer, an empty consultation room with papers fluttering to the floor as he barges past. Each door slams behind him, leaving chaos in his wake, but he doesn’t stop.

Finally, at the end of the hall, he skids to a halt in front of a slightly ajar door. His breath comes hard, rapid, heart hammering in his chest. The room is muted with soft lighting. A woman sits in one of the reclined chairs, hooked up to wires, unaware of the whirlwind barreling toward her.

Satoru freezes.

It’s as if no time has passed at all. He knows you. Your posture, the way you tilt your head, the way your fingers curl against the arms rests–every small gesture screams you. He could recognize you anywhere, in any lifetime. Across oceans, across centuries, across dreams he didn’t even know he was having, he would find you. 

Always.

His gaze locks on the monitors, and his chest tightens as your memories play out in vivid fragments. He sees himself sitting stiffly on the sofa at the estate as you face his mother alone. The memory of your loss hits him, reminding him of the baby you never got to bring home and a future that was stolen. He sees the trembling in your hands, the fierce edge in your voice as you fought for yourself, and he can sense the heartbreak the very moment he failed you.

Every instinct in him screams to stop it, to make you see that he’s still here, that he would fight for you. But even as he panics, inching closer towards the machines that have been hooked up to you, the truth is inevitable: you’ve made your choice. And if he doesn’t act, the part of your life that was his will be gone forever.

“Y/N!” 

Dr. Hirano’s hand freezes mid-adjustment of the scanner, eyes widening as Satoru bursts into the room, snow-white hair practically glowing under the soft lights. Yuki jumps back from the control panel, her hands flying instinctively toward the emergency stop, while the tech knocks over a tray of sensors in shock.

“Gojo Satoru!?”

He doesn’t answer, lunging toward the machine. His hand hovers over the controls, but Yuki instinctively blocks him, gripping the console. Security finally bursts into the room behind him, shouting and moving to restrain him.  

“Stop him!” 

Satoru’s eyes darted toward the monitors. The confrontation with his mother begins to glitch. He notices the way your hand twitches, your fingers trembling as if reacting to the intrusion.

“Get your hands off her! I’m disconnecting her myself—”

“No!” Dr. Hirano panics, “he’ll destabilize the neural feed!” 

Alarms start to blare with the rapid beeping of the monitors. Yuki’s hands grip the console tighter, security scrambles around, and the tech fumbles with emergency overrides, trying to regain control. Dr. Hirano’s fingers fly across the console, the system responding to her commands, and the hum of the machines gradually winds down. 

The alarms fade and the feed disconnects safely. Your body slumps slightly in the chair, but you’re okay. A tech slides the visor off your head, exposing you to the soft lights and wires dangling from your temples. 

“Y/N!” His arms reach out instinctively, like he’s trying to pull you into safety.

“Stop.” You squeeze your eyes shut against the harsh lights. “Let him go. I just… Give me a moment with him. Please.”

The guards hesitate, then release Satoru, and Dr. Hirano nods in approval. Their hands drop reluctantly, as if letting go of their biggest catch. One by one, the staff steps back and leaves the room, closing the door behind them.

Satoru stumbles forward slightly, longing to reach you, but you raise a hand, stopping him.

“Y/N–”

“What do you want, Satoru?” you sigh, turning to face him. 

He swallows and flexes his hands at his sides. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His eyes dart away from yours, to the floor, to the monitors , searching for an anchor as he braces himself against the storm that is you.

“Are you… Are you sure this is what you want?” he finally asks, his voice low and pleading. 

You fold your arms, leaning slightly on the edge of the chair, and stare him down. “How did you know I was here?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does. We’ve been divorced for only a few weeks and haven’t communicated since we signed the papers. How did you find me?” you grit out, each word shaking with anger you’ve held in for far too long.

You see his Adam's apple bob, like he’s forcing his confession down his throat. “I…I needed to see you,” he says finally. It sounds pitiful and desperate. 

“I didn’t know how else to—”

“That’s not an answer.”

His shoulders tense. He drags a hand over his face, fingers trembling before he forces them still. 

“Shoko saw you entering the clinic,” he admits quietly. “She called me to tell me she saw you and I…I don’t know, I just ran.”

“I didn’t think,” he goes on, voice cracking. “I didn’t plan anything. I just heard your name, heard where you were, and my body moved before my brain did. I couldn’t stay away.”

You inhale sharply, trying to process his confession. He notices the way you exhale tightly, like you’re fighting the urge to punch him in the face. He stares at you, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the set of your jaw, the fire in your eyes, and the hurt he put there. 

And somehow, he still thinks you’re beautiful.

“It’s selfish, I know,” he continues. “But you were the only thing in my life that wasn’t decided for me. Being with you was the only part of my life I chose for myself.”

“And what about me? What about what I wanted? I gave up everything for you! I bent myself into a life I never wanted. I suffered alone while you watched from the sidelines and did nothing.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to be brave for you. I know it’s not an excuse–”

“What happened to running away? To defying the elders?” Your voice shakes with rage. “You said you didn’t care about their rules. We could’ve been free, Satoru, and I believed you!” 

You stare into those blue eyes that once held your entire world, searching for a trace of the boy you knew and the man you thought you loved. But the face looking back at you is different. It’s been hardened by a life you never asked to share. Do you still love him? You weren’t sure. 

“You were the one who filed for divorce. You have a fiancé, a life waiting for you, and a future you’ve chosen without me. It’s time that I think about myself. I can’t undo the past, but I can decide what my future looks like.” 

“You know that’s not fair! You know I filed for divorce because I couldn’t stand to see you suffer anymore! I thought if I let you go I could spare you that pain of being under my family’s pressure!”

You inhale, steadying yourself against the storm of your own feelings. You wanted to scream, to shake him, to make him feel a fraction of the emptiness he left you with. But what you realize is that this isn’t the boy you sold mochi to or the man who promised to do laundry with you for the rest of your life. This is someone else. Someone who chose a life without you.

And in that moment, the love you once held feels like a memory too distant to touch. 

“I wanted you to leave with me, Satoru,” you choke out, tears streaking your face despite your best effort to hold them back. 

“I wanted us to fight it together, more than anything! I believed that if we were together we could take on the world, even if it killed us both.”

Satoru swallows, his throat tight, eyes glistening as the weight of your words crushes him. He had walked away thinking he was protecting you, but now he sees the truth: you had wanted to hold on, to fight, to hope. And he had given up.

“I have to go,” you whisper, your body trembling from the aftereffects of the scan. 

Each step feels heavy, weighed down by the residue of memories you’ve just relived, as you move toward the door. You glance at him once, but don’t stop. You push the door open and step through, leaving the room and Satoru behind.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Dr. Hirano and her team loitering near the exit, blustering around like a group of teenagers caught eavesdropping.

“Can I ask you something?” you call over your shoulder.

She tilts her head, a small, encouraging smile on her face. “Of course.”

“Why did the last memory feel different? Like it wasn’t exactly what happened. He never stood up for me and I was alone the entire time.”

Dr. Hirano’s expression softens, her hands folding together. “Memories aren’t static. They’re shaped not just by what happened, but by how you experienced it. Strong emotions and even interference from someone present can shift the way a memory plays out.”

“You mean… Satoru?” You frown, connecting the dots. 

“Yes. His intrusion altered the neural stream just enough for you to perceive the memory differently. He didn’t change the past, but his intense emotional energy affected your memory in real time.”

“Figures,” you scoff. “Of course he had to show up.”

Dr. Hirano gives a small, sympathetic nod. “It didn’t damage anything. You’re safe. But your memories are fragile, and external emotional states can influence what you experience during a scan.”

“I know. And that’s why I need to do this. I want to move forward with the operation,” you announce loud enough that you know, without a doubt, Satoru is close behind.

Satoru stands beside Meisa, immaculate in his tuxedo. The ballroom is a gaudy storm of gowns and suits, glittering chandeliers, clinking glasses, and the nauseating wafts of expensive perfume. 

He glances around, eyes flicking to the press congregated in every corner of the ballroom, lenses trained on every guest. For the first time, he truly understands how you must have felt. He’d been so used to it himself, navigating this world, but you weren’t built for that. You were a free spirit, a wild, untamed presence, and suddenly you were thrust into this gilded prison. 

“The circulation in here is terrible, don’t you think?” he yawns, glancing toward the side doors. 

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Meisa notes, leaning closer. Her eyes flick toward a photographer across the room, lens trained squarely on them. A slow smirk curls on her lips. 

“You know,” she murmurs, loud enough for anyone eavesdropping to catch, “I think everyone here is dying to see us together. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh? I’m more than happy to give them a show,” he teases. 

Meisa leans in, aiming to loop her arm through his for the camera, but her foot catches on the hem of her gown, and she nearly stumbles, reaching out instinctively to steady herself as he pivots away.

“Satoru—”

“It’s stuffy in here,” he announces matter-of-factly. “We need ventilation.”

With that, he strides toward the side doors, tossing them open with flourish. A flurry of chickens bursts into the ballroom, clucking, flapping, and scattering everywhere. 

It takes a moment for the hundreds of guests to process the fact that they are suddenly surrounded by modern dinosaurs.

Then the screaming starts.

Chickens dart across the floor, skidding and careening into legs and shoes. A startled rooster flaps onto a catering cart, sending a mountain of hors d’oeuvres flying as it launches itself into the champagne tower. Another guest wails, grabbing the closest object, a handbag, as if it might defend them from the onslaught of feathers.

A particularly cranky hen zeroes in on Meisa, flapping furiously, feathers puffing and scattering in all directions. It pecks at the hem of her gown, hisses with each deliberate step, and seems to track her every movement with unnerving determination.

“What’s going on!?” Satoru’s mother screeches, her face red with outrage. “Where is security? Someone stop this madness!”

Satoru strolls towards the press as if nothing unusual is happening. “Much better,” he says, surveying the chaos. 

“Fresh air, and some evening entertainment for our esteemed guests.”

Satoru finds Suguru in their usual spot, a quiet rooftop overlooking the city, tucked above an old record store where the world feels smaller and the air less sharp. Suguru has already lit a cigarette, the soft burn casting a dull orange glow across his features. He doesn’t say anything when Satoru arrives, just offers a nod, as if he’d been expecting him.

“So…how’d the grand romantic rescue go?” he asks, eyes glittering with mischief. “Did you sweep her off her feet? Make her cancel that whole operation just to run into your arms?”

“She’s moving forward with it.”

Suguru’s smirk falters slightly, sensing the weight behind his friend’s words. “Wait…what do you mean?”

“She’s planning to erase the last eight years of us together. I can’t stop it. I won’t.”

“Damn, that’s heavy,” he mutters. “You okay?”

He isn’t okay. Not since overhearing you tell Dr. Hirano, you were going to move forward with the operation, deciding to erase the last eight years of your life together. Maybe even more, depending on what else the recall process might dredge up.

“I couldn’t fight for her when I should have.”

The memory of you the night after the miscarriage haunts him. He’d finally seen himself sitting stiffly beside you as his mother tore into you. He was complicit in watching you shrink under the weight of scrutiny, unwilling to protect you. 

And your baby. The life he had been so excited to step into as a father. He had imagined being better than his own father, doing all the things dads were supposed to do: holding your hand during labor, teaching your child to ride a bike, celebrating birthdays with silly hats and fishing trips. 

Instead the life he had dreamed of had been snatched away and he let it happen. He told himself that letting you go was for your own good, that you’d be safe from his family, from the life he would have forced upon you. Letting go was supposed to be the ultimate act of love, wasn’t it?

Wrong! the little voice in his head snapped.

“I don’t want to marry Meisa,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Isn’t it kind of too late for that?” 

“I can’t see myself with anyone but Y/N. I know she probably wants me to crawl across glass and grovel for the rest of my life to win her back or swallow frogs whole–”

“This isn’t a horror movie, please stop,” Suguru interrupts. “Just give her your black card or start a revolution.” 

A revolution?

Satoru blinks at him, then turns his gaze back to the city’s skyline. It’s the same look Suguru has seen countless times over the past twenty years. It was the unmistakable expression of his best friend plotting something.

“Satoru?” Suguru tries again, a note of warning creeping into his voice.

“I have to go.”

“Wait, no, come back here! Satoru!”

“Gojo Satoru, what the hell is going on!?” his father roars. He charges forward, fending off a flurry of chickens darting between the guests’ legs.

Satoru stands in the center of the chaos, perfectly calm, tuxedo spotless, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

“It’s getting…stuffy in here,” he replies, as a particularly bold rooster struts across the marble floor.

“Satoru!” his father bellows again, somewhere between fury and disbelief. “This is a charity gala! Not a farmyard!”

“Is it really all that different?”

Guests squeal, some flailing, others attempting to corral the birds in a panic. Satoru strolls through the madness like a man proud of his handiwork, as if the entire gala has been waiting for this very moment.

He strides out into the cool night air, ignoring the distant shrieks coming from the ballroom behind him. He hails a cab with the intensity of a man who would gladly sprint the entire distance barefoot on broken glass if he had to.

“Gojo Satoru, you get back here!”

He doesn’t look back. He quickens his pace down the ballroom steps just as a familiar car screeches around the corner so violently it hops the curb. The passenger window rolls down as Suguru leans over. 

“Get in loser, you’ve incited a mob.”

Satoru doesn’t hesitate and dives into the passenger seat just as the ballroom doors burst open behind them. His father barrels out, shaking his fist as he attempts to follow the car. His mother collapses to her knees sobbing about humiliation, while Meisa pats her shoulder awkwardly, despite having fended off poultry herself. 

“Drive!” Satoru orders. 

“Oh, I am,” Suguru mutters, tires screeching as they peel away. “Hope you have a good reason for this.”

⏾

Knock.

Your eyes snap open. Who could it be at this hour? You groan, hair a mess, blanket half on the floor, and reach for the only thing that feels like protection in your life right now: a dictionary

Another knock.

“Who is it?!” you call, voice groggy and suspicious as you approach the front door. 

“Y/N…it’s me,” a familiar voice croaks from the other side.

“Me?” you demand, raising the book higher, narrowing your eyes at the shadow behind the door. “I don’t know any ‘Me’ who knocks at midnight!”

“It’s Satoru.” 

Of course it’s him. You hover in front of the door but don’t open it. 

“Why are you here?” you demand through the wood.

“I, uh…I wanted to talk.”

“At midnight?”

“It’s…” He hesitates, then mutters, “the only time I knew for sure you wouldn’t run away from me.”

You open the door an inch, just enough to glare at him with one squinted eye. He looks a mess, hair sticking up, bow tie undone and breath puffing in the cold night. He also looks…nervous. 

“Put the book down,” he says softly. “Please. I don’t want the last memory you have of me to be getting knocked out by a dictionary.”

“Who said you get a last memory at all?” you snap, though your grip loosens.

“I thought maybe…I don’t know. We could make one last memory that doesn’t hurt.”

You lean your head against the doorframe, exhaling slowly. “Satoru…”

“Please, let me have just a little more time.”

“You don’t get to show up in the middle of the night and demand more of me. Especially since we’re divorced.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

You look at him and notice how tense his shoulders are and how shaky his breath is. He’s not standing there like the man who had an answer for everything. This Satoru is different. He’s standing there as if he doesn’t know how to be himself without you.

“What do you have in mind?” you sigh. 

He swallows, shifting from foot to foot like a child. His hands fidget at the hem of his shirt before he finally meets your gaze. 

“I…I thought we could maybe go for a drive?”

You study him, trying to measure how much of the Satoru you once knew is still here, how much of the man standing before you is shaped by fear and loss.

“It’s not going to fix anything,” you deadpan. 

“I know.”

You groan, feeling your resolve weaken. Even though you and your ex-husband had ended things on fairly amicable terms, you still cared for him. He had been your first love and the one you had thought might also be your last. Finally, your shoulders sag, and you roll your neck, hoping the motion might ease the tension and bring a sliver of clarity.

“One drive.”

“One drive,” he confirms. 

Tossing the dictionary aside, you grab a hoodie and your keys before following him downstairs. The street is quiet and Satoru is leaning against the car looking lost in thought but the moment you approach, he replaces his contemplative expression with something more mischievous. 

“So,” you say, folding your arms, wary but not quite cold. “Where exactly are you taking me?”

“We’re going to run away together. We’ll get new identities and open a bakery together. It’s very romantic and very illegal.”

You snort. “You’ve burned water, what makes you think you can bake?”

“Wow. So you don’t want to be my fugitive wife? That stings.”

“Drive, Satoru.”

He starts driving and for a while, the city lights pass in colorful streaks in the night. He glances at you once, then twice, like he’s trying to memorize you before everything changes. 

He wonders, if you’re thinking the same. If you’re stealing pieces of him too, storing them away like he is, before the operation. 

You sneak a few glances of your own, noticing the crease at the corner of his eye and the way his hands flex against the wheel. He looks human in a way he never did before, as if he were teetering on the edge of something he’d never be able to return from. 

Finally, you clear your throat. “Satoru…where are we actually going?”

“The beach.”

“The beach,” you repeat slowly. “At one in the morning?”

He shrugs. “We could watch the sunrise? You hungry?”

“Hungry? At this hour?”

“Starving,” he grins. “Gala food sucks.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the small smile creeping at the corner of your mouth. “Fine. But I’m getting curly fries.”

He parks at the edge of the beach parking lot, close enough that you can hear the waves but far enough to feel like the world isn’t watching. He climbs onto the roof of the car first, patting the spot next to him. You follow, balancing your food carefully as the sand crunches underfoot.

For a while, you just eat in silence, the occasional crunch of fries filling the space between you. He steals a fry from your box, grinning like a child caught doing something they’re not supposed to. 

“Stop stealing my fries!”

“But they’re sooo good!” he moans, popping it into his mouth. 

“Gross!” You swat him softly before leaning back to watch the waves glow silver in the moonlight, savoring the absurdity of it all.

You take a slow breath, letting this moment anchor you. You know it will be one of the last memories you carry with you before moving through the day-to-day motions leading up to the erasure. You tuck it carefully into the back of your mind, savoring the sound of his laugh, the blue of his eyes, and the way the moonlight highlights his features. 

“You said gala food sucks,” you attempt, trying to make small talk. “How was it, by the way?”

“Same as always,” he shrugs. “Stuffy as usual. People pretending they care about everything except what really matters.”

You hum softly, bringing your knees to your chest and resting your chin on top of them. “Figures. Some things never change.”

Satoru studies you quietly, watching the way the sea breeze tangles through your hair and how you relax slightly as you take in the sound of the waves. You’ve changed. You’re stronger, sharpened by loss, tempered by the weeks since the divorce, yet carrying yourself with a strength he wishes he had.

As you stare out at the horizon, waiting for the impending sunrise, he feels his resolve begin to crack, a thin fissure running through the walls he’s built around his heart to brace himself for what’s coming.

Soon, the world will move forward without him in it, and he’ll be left memorizing what he cannot keep.

He forces the ache back down. You don’t need to see how much he’s silently mourning the moments he knows he’ll never get to share, or the future you’ll have without him.

“When’s the sun supposed to come up?” he asks casually. 

“What do you mean!? You brought me all the way out here and you don’t know?”

“It’s probably between ‘soon’ and ‘definitely too late.’”

You groan, throwing your head back. “Satoru! Seriously!? You know how I get about my sleep!” 

He does. He knows how important sleep is to you. He knows that coffee before 2 p.m. is non-negotiable, or you’ll be jittery for the rest of the day, and that you scrunch your nose when you’re in deep thought. All the small, stubborn details that make you you.

“That's why I figured I’d sneak in a little adventure while you’re still awake enough to survive it.”

“You’re the worst!”

He smirks, leaning back against the windshield. “Technically, it’s supposed to rise at 4:30, but if you’re too tired, you can sleep in. I’ll wake you up. Promise.”

“4:30?!” you exclaim. “You’re insane.”

“Take a nap,” he urges, “you have an hour and twenty minutes.”

But you don’t. You stay awake instead, leaning back against the hood of the car, listening to the soft hiss of the waves and the occasional cry of a gull. He sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours, but neither of you speaks. The silence is comfortable and it makes you wonder if this is what it’d feel like if it were you two against the world. 

“During the recall…I remembered how we met.”

He glances at you curiously but says nothing, letting you continue.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” you admit, staring at the paling sky. 

“I just…I remember how it made me feel. And I was happy.”

Satoru swallows, heart twisting in ways he refuses to show. He wants to tell you that he remembers too, that he felt the same way, that every memory you’ve ever made together is etched into him. But he doesn’t.

“What about it made you happy?” he asks softly.

“Honestly?” You huff a small laugh. “I think I was just happy because I made a new friend.”

He blinks at you, surprised by the simplicity of it. “A new friend, huh? I’m flattered. Really, I am.”

“And, because you actually paid me for half the mochi.”

“It was theft, and I paid you back like an honorable man!” he sputters. 

You grin. “Yeah. And that made me happy. I don’t know why. It was stupid but it felt nice.”

Satoru hums, recalling the conversation he had with his father just moments before he stepped into the convenience store. He had walked away feeling the familiar frustration of his future being decided for him once again, while everyone else seemed free to chart their own paths. It was a shitty day in every sense, and all he wanted was something that could make it a little better.

And there was nothing better than strawberry mochi. Until you snatched it from him. 

“Do you regret marrying me?” he blurts out. 

He doesn’t know why he asks. He doesn’t know if he even wants an answer. Maybe it’s because it’s his fault you’re going to erase your memories of him. Maybe it’s just the simplest, most human question he can think to ask because he doesn’t think he could ever forgive himself for the way things ended. 

You let out a contemplative breath as your mind drifts through the years you spent together. Gojo Satoru was an incredibly complex man—reckless, brilliant, and infuriating. But beneath it all, you could see him: his presence, the way he noticed the tiny, ridiculous moments that made ordinary life feel extraordinary.

You remember the fights too, the words you wished you could take back, the cold shoulders, the moments when love felt scarce and fragile.

And yet, despite it all, he made you happy.

“No. I regret a lot of things, Satoru. Particularly with how messy things got toward the end of our marriage. But…” Your voice softens, and you turn to face him, fondly. 

“You were the best part of it all.”

He stares, fighting the lump in his throat. His eyes sting and for a second, he almost lets it all break free, but he doesn’t. This time isn’t about him. He can’t be selfish, not when these are the last memories you’ll carry with you.

The horizon begins to glow and you both fall silent, watching the sunrise over the waves. The sky shifts from lavender to pale pink and for a second, you imagine a world where you could watch a hundred more sunrises with him. 

And it hurts a little, that this one will be the last.

“Well,” Satoru stretches, cracking his shoulders, “looks like the hour is upon us.”

You groan, reluctant to leave the comfort of the beach. “Already? The sun just came up.”

“I thought someone needed their beauty sleep?”

“You’re impossible,” you huff. 

He shrugs, but you sense something else beneath the surface. For a moment, he just watches the way the sunrise lights up your profile, feeling that ache again. 

“I’ll let you nap on the way back!”

“Were you planning on not letting me sleep?” you mutter, still staring at the horizon, soaking in the last bits of the sun before sliding back into the passenger seat. 

Satoru doesn’t say much on the drive back. The beach isn’t far from the city, but he keeps glancing at you as you nap. Around you, the city slowly wakes, slipping back into its ordinary rhythm as if the night had never happened.

But the moments you shared won’t be ordinary. Soon, they won’t even exist in your mind. He can’t hold onto them for you, and you won’t be able to remember them yourself. All he can do is drive you home and let this morning be something he hopes you’ll both cherish. 

When he finally pulls up outside your place, Satoru kills the engine and leans back, hands folded over the steering wheel. He hesitates, watching you stir awake, because once you step out of the car, there will be no going back.

“Here we are! Safe, sound, and with the sunrise duly witnessed. My promise…fulfilled.”

You furrow your brow, still disoriented at how quickly the drive had gone by. He wants to say more, to beg for just five more minutes, to tell you he still loves you and that you could really run away together if you knew about the stunt he pulled at the gala, but the words die in his throat. Instead, he watches you, bleary eyed and disheveled as you slowly gather yourself. 

You stretch and give a small, sleepy smile, oblivious to the storm inside him. 

“This was…exactly what I needed,” you murmur, fingers brushing the buckle. “I’m glad I agreed to your kidnapping.”

“You…you’re glad I stole you away?”

“I am. You gave me something I didn’t know I was missing.”

He snorts, a small, awkward sound that carries more feeling than words. “Then I’m…happy.”

You reach over, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it as tightly as you can,  letting him feel the depth of your gratitude, your love, and for what you know you’re about to lose.

“Thank you, Satoru. For giving me this.”

He wants to say more, but the words die in his throat. Instead, he nods as if to say he understands and lets his hand linger in yours. You draw in a shallow breath, committing to memory the warmth of his hand and the way his presence has always filled the space around you. 

And then…you’re gone.

The car door clicks shut behind you, and he watches your figure retreat into the lobby of your apartment complex. He slumps forward, clenching the steering wheel until his knuckles ache. The breath he’d been holding all morning tore out of him in ragged gasps, and the tears he’d fought to keep at bay spill freely.

He mourns. He grieves for what he can’t hold onto, for the love he can’t fight to keep, for the life he’ll never have with you.

“Good morning, viewers. We begin today with an unprecedented turn of events at last week’s Gojo Enterprises gala. What was meant to be a formal celebration of corporate milestones quickly descended into chaos when the future CEO, Gojo Satoru, allegedly released a flock of live chickens into the ballroom. JJK News’ Ino Takuma is on the ground with more details.”

“Thanks, Yuji. Yes, it was every bit as chaotic as it sounds. While authorities confirm that there were no injuries, human or feathered, approximately forty chickens remain unaccounted for. The circumstances surrounding the security breach are still under investigation. Back to you, Yuji.”

“Though Gojo Enterprises has yet to release a statement, witnesses and social media users have shifted their focus to locating the missing birds, dubbing the incident Chicken Gate. We’ll continue to follow this story as updates come through.”

“Oh god,” Dr. Hirano mutters, shivering slightly as the report plays overhead. Yuki shakes her head, adjusting your IV drip carefully, but darts her eyes toward the screen every few seconds.

The anesthesiologist continues as she maps out the procedure and explains the anesthesia. “We’ll start by monitoring your vitals continuously. Once the neural pathways are identified, the process should take approximately—”

You try to focus, nodding along, repeating instructions silently in your head, but you can’t stop glancing at him. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. And yet, it’s a perfect reminder of who he is and his essence. He’s impossible, alive in a way that will linger, even if you soon won’t remember.

You thought the sunrise was the last memory of Satoru that you would carry forward but now, as his laughing, chaotic face fills the TV screen, you realize it’s this image that lingers most vividly.

You think of the weeks before, when you’d been unsure how much of your life to sort through, what to let go of, and what to keep. The clinic staff had been patient, even happy to send a cleaning crew to your apartment to help sift through the accumulated years of clutter and memories. You remember opening drawers, cabinets, and boxes, half-dreading what you’d find.

There was a strawberry patterned scarf, tucked neatly between a pile of folded sweaters. You thought you’d lost it during your third date with Satoru, the one where he had insisted on carrying your groceries, dropped a jar of jam, and made a run for it before you two could be caught for creating a sticky situation.

Beside it lay a stack of polaroids, slightly curled at the edges, from the summer festival where you first held hands after he’d asked you to be his girlfriend. You were both so young, and the memory felt impossibly vivid as you timidly intertwined your fingers with his.

And then the slightly scorched recipe card from your ill-fated attempt at his birthday cake. Flour covered you from head to toe, the cake lay in ruins, yet he grinned through it all, insisting it was the “most delicious disaster” he’d ever tasted.

You close your eyes, and the memories unfold like a film in rapid cuts. His laughter, his touch, the chaos he brought into your life runs like reels before you. Soon, your mind will drift into darkness, and these scenes will fade, but something of him will linger, tucked quietly within your heart. 

⏾

You’re late for brunch with Shoko. 

Months have passed since the operation but your apartment is still covered in sticky notes and reminders with careful instructions from the doctors about memory loss precautions, pacing your days, neurological care, and not pushing yourself too hard. 

Everything is as it should be and yet there’s a heaviness in your chest you can’t explain. Weeks after the surgery, a dull thrum lingers, even though you’ve been cleared of any complications. You wonder if it’s the body’s way of grieving, one part of you straining to carry what another has lost.

You reach the coffee shop and Shoko is already there, tucked into the corner booth with her latte. You slide into the seat across from her, and she studies you quietly, measuring the distance between who you were and who you are now. Somehow, you’re still friends. Somehow ordinary is possible. 

“I’m sorry I overslept!” you huff, trying to catch your breath as you get yourself settled. 

Shoko laughs, shaking her head. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten what daylight felt like.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve been sleeping like a log since the surgery. The doctors would be proud that I’m actually getting my eight hours.”

Of course you were better. The panic attacks that had once gripped you so fiercely were gone, erased as if overnight. To Shoko, watching you move through the world unburdened, brought a wave of relief so profound she considered sending flowers to Twilight to thank them. 

But there was a deep sadness beneath it, too. The person before her wasn’t quite you—not the messy, stubborn, chaotic soul she had known and loved. You were freer, yes, but in that freedom something essential had slipped away. And as she sat across from you, smiling at the stranger you had become, Shoko realized healing could still feel like loss.

“Ready to order?” you chirp, pulling her out of her thoughts. Shoko nods, flags down the waiter, then tilts her head with a sly smile.

“So…you’re serious about getting a dog?” 

“Why not? The apartment’s too quiet. At least a dog would be happy to see me when I get home.” 

“Have you actually gone to the shelter yet?” 

“Not yet. But I’ve been stalking their website like crazy.” 

You unlock your phone, sliding it across the table to show her the ones you’ve saved. The two of you lean in, cooing over the puppies, their floppy ears and the silly names the staff have given them. 

That is, until a shadow falls across the booth.  

“Shoko, you know how much I love brunch and decided not to invite me!?”

Shoko lets out a low groan, muttering something about the universe having terrible timing. “Why are you here?”

“Suguru.”

“Figures.” 

You blink up at the snowy‑haired man. His eyes are the bluest you’ve ever seen, startling in their intensity, and for a moment it feels like they’re pulling you in. He falters when your gaze locks with his as though the ground beneath him has shifted. 

He’s handsome in a way that feels almost unfair, and the curve of his lips seems to hold back a smile meant only for you. The faint, intoxicating scent that clings to him stirs something unexpected, a strange sense of longing that rises before you can name it.

You search your memory for the fragments that remain, and then it clicks.

“Oh! You’re…the chicken gate guy.”

Shoko freezes for half a second, then bursts out laughing, loud enough to turn heads from nearby tables. 

“Oh my god, chicken gate!” she cackles between peals of laughter.

Her friend sputters—half offended, half amused—that you recognize him not as Shoko’s friend, but as the chaotic genius behind the infamous fiasco. It broke the internet, after all, and the PR team at Gojo Enterprises spent weeks trying to clean it up.

“That’s me!” he declares unrepentant.

It’s been so long since he’s seen you laugh like that, and the sound seems to undo him in ways he can’t hide. He takes your laughter as an invitation and slides into the booth beside Shoko. She groans, digging her elbow into his side. 

“Really? You couldn’t pull up a chair?”

But he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans forward with his elbows on the table and something sparks unexpectedly in your chest. You don’t know him but the way he looks at you makes it feel like you should.

“Do you want to order food?” you offer, brushing the tears of laughter from the corners of your eyes.

Shoko shoots you a warning glare over the table but her friend tilts the menu toward himself. 

“Sure,” he replies, “what do you recommend?”

You find yourself pointing out a few dishes, recommending the fluffy lemon ricotta pancakes with blueberry compote, the brioche French toast and the skillet hash loaded with crispy potatoes and caramelized onions topped with sour cream.

“Okay, so basically you’re telling me to order everything on the menu.”

You laugh, nudging the laminated card toward him. “You asked for my recommendations. Oh, and the avocado toast with chili flakes is amazing. Trust me.”

Shoko sighs, stirring her latte. “It’s brunch, not a five course meal.”

She watches the way you lean toward Satoru and the way he softens every time you turn your attention toward him. You don’t remember him but here you are, laughing together as if no time has passed at all. She hides her smile behind her cup, letting the two of you have your moment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get your name. I only know you as the Chicken Gate guy. I’m Y/N,” you add quickly, flushing with embarrassment.

“Satoru,” he replies, and you can sense something hopeful behind the way he says his name. 

“Satoru.” 

It had only been a few weeks since the gala, but time no longer made sense. The days had collapsed into each other. You barely remembered packing. Or eating. You had just kept moving because stopping meant feeling.

You hadn’t meant to give up on your marriage. You fought so hard, for so long, clinging to the idea that things could get better. And they were. Mingi wasn’t perfect, but he was trying in all the ways you used to dream about when things were at their worst.

But you weren’t.

You were unraveling.

You didn’t want to hurt him, but the guilt was eating you alive. The guilt of being loved so gently by a man who had once made so many mistakes and was now trying so hard to do better, even as you were falling apart.

And then the gala set everything into motion. You’d tried to hold it together and tried to pretend you were okay.

But when Ahri followed you back into the ballroom, spitting insults, you didn’t even remember crossing the room. You only remember your fist connecting with her face, then being dragged away.

She was just the match. 

The fire had been smoldering inside you for a long time. Your insecurities, your fear that you’d never be enough and losing those around you had become suffocating. 

That night, they tore out of you, ugly and loud. All the resentment, the grief, the exhaustion. The pressure to hold it all together. To be gracious. Forgiving. Sane. You couldn’t contain it anymore. 

So you asked for the divorce. 

And Mingi, in the most heartbreaking act of love you’d ever known, let you go.

“Okay,” he said, like he understood. Like he knew this wasn’t about love. That it never was. That you still loved him, but it wasn’t enough, not when you couldn’t even love yourself.

You blinked down at your hands, trying to stop them from shaking.

“You okay back there?” San asked, peeking into the mirror. 

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“You’re allowed to not know how you feel right now,” Jongho replied. 

You gave a small, broken laugh. “Yeah, well. I feel like shit. So I guess that’s something.”

San was quiet for a moment. “You’re doing what’s right for you, Y/N.”

“No,” you said quickly. 

“I’m not. I-I broke down. I couldn’t do it anymore. I’m insecure, I tried so hard to be someone I’m not but I’m just nothing.”

“And none of that is your fault.”

“What kills me is that he was so kind about it. He just…let me go. Who does that!?”

“Someone who really loves you,” Jongho sighed quietly.

You could still hear Mingi’s voice in your head, the way it cracked when he agreed to the divorce. He hadn’t tried to guilt you into staying or begged you to reconsider. 

He just held you and kissed you, understanding that you had to do what was best for you. 

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. “He didn’t fight for me, Jongho. He didn’t even reach out when I moved out o-or try to see me…”

The bitterness in your voice startled you. You’d been so numb for weeks, just surviving, just getting through that you hadn’t realized how deep the resentment ran until now.

“I know we agreed it was for the best. I know I left. But he just—” You exhaled sharply, the words catching in your throat. 

“He just accepted it! I hate that he was so gentle during the breakup,” you snapped. 

“I feel like part of him gave up before I did. And now? Now he gets to walk away as the good guy, the loving ex-husband who let me go like some fucking martyr.”

You wiped your cheeks roughly, surprised to find tears streaking down your face. It wasn’t fair. You had no right to feel this way. You were the one who asked for the divorce. You were the one who walked out.

You were the one who couldn’t do this anymore. 

It was ridiculous to feel jealous, to feel replaced, to picture him laughing with someone else. You had forfeited the right to that kind of pain the moment you signed your name on the dotted line.

You chose this.

What if all that tenderness he gave you in the end was just guilt?

You wanted to believe he was the man you'd grown to love, someone who tried.

“Because he knew the fight wasn’t with him,” Jongho said, turning just enough to look back at you, his voice cutting through your thoughts. 

“You wanted him to make it hard. Because if he had then at least you’d know it hurt him too.”

You wiped at your face, trying to will the tears back where they came from. It didn’t work.

“He didn’t make it harder,” Jongho continued. 

“Not because he didn’t care. But because he did. Because he knew the fight was inside you. That you were drowning, and you have to save yourself.”

There was something cruel about that kind of love. It was so tender and so selfless that it made your chest ache just thinking about it.

You looked back out the window, swallowing hard. You were angry that it had to come to this. That the person who loved you most also had to be the one to help you leave.

San pulled into the terminal, swinging into the private departures lane, way from the chaos of luggage carts and drop off zones. Jongho was the first to get out, popping his door open with a grunt and stretching his legs like he’d been trapped for hours. He rolled his shoulders once, then opened the back door and hauled your carry on from the backseat. 

“This family has enough emotional baggage,” he muttered under his breath, slamming the car door shut. “Don’t make me carry any more.”

“You sure you don’t want to change your mind and just move in with me and Kira instead? I can take the guest room.”

You smiled, misty eyed. “Tempting, but I think you and Kira deserve your space without me crying every night.”

“You can cry as much as you want, as long as I get to be a part of girl’s night,” he teased gently. “Text us when you land, okay?”

You nodded, getting out of the car. Jongho handed you your bag and adjusted the strap on your shoulder before nudging you toward the entrance.

“I’ll be back in July,” you said, pausing before heading in.

“You’d better be,” San said, stepping in to pull you into a tight hug. 

Jongho hugged you next. It was quick, almost casual, but his hand lingered on your shoulder in a way that said more than words ever could. 

“Everything will be fine. Don't forget to write, okay?”

You nodded, feeling the weight of their support, but your throat was tight again. The tears you’d been holding back were threatening to spill. With one last glance at them, you turned toward the gates, each step feeling heavier than the last.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The promise of what was waiting for you was ahead, even if the road to it was uncertain.

⋆

Mingi stood frozen, watching you walk away. He hadn’t meant to come to the airport. Had promised himself he wouldn’t. That he’d let you go, just like he said he would. But something in him needed to know you’d made it out safely and that you were okay. 

Hidden behind a pillar near the far end of the terminal, he kept his cap low, hood drawn tight, glasses shadowing most of his face. The urge to run forward, to call your name, to grab you and start all over again consumed him. But he stayed rooted in the shadows, knowing some goodbyes couldn’t be undone.

Mingi made sure you made it through security, watching your figure disappear among the sea of passengers until he couldn’t see you anymore. Even then he stayed, watching the departure board until your flight finally took off. 

The drive home alone was unbearable.

The passenger seat felt emptier than it ever had. He kept glancing at it like you might still be there, talking about dinner plans or complaining about the weak office coffee, maybe teasing him about his hidden love for anime.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. His throat ached, as if every breath were a betrayal. He recalled the night you asked for the divorce, like you didn’t have any fight left in you.

“I want a divorce,” you whispered.

He swallowed, his chest tight with pain, but he couldn’t speak. He just stared at you, trying to breathe through the knot in his chest. Then, in the gentlest voice he could muster, he replied. 

“Okay.”

It was the hardest thing he’s ever done. But in that moment, it was all he could say.

The tears welled up in your eyes, and he could see the strain of everything you’d been carrying alone. You were breaking, and it felt like he had been the one who drove you to this edge.

He wrapped his arms around you instinctively, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him together. He couldn’t fix what had gone wrong. He couldn’t take back the time he’d lost, unaware of the pain that had built up in you, quietly growing until it became too much to carry.

When he finally returned to the penthouse, the silence was suffocating. The place felt empty without you, as if your absence had drained all warmth from its corners. His footsteps echoed softly as he made his way to your old room, the space still holding faint traces of you. 

He sank down onto the floor, back against the wall, and for the first time since you left, he let the walls around his heart crumble.

He thought back to the early days of your marriage; how cruel he’d been, how undeserving. The memory of your wedding night made his stomach churn. Inviting another woman into your home wasn’t just a mistake, it was a betrayal. He had shattered your trust long before he understood what love truly meant.

When he fell into a coma, you stayed.

As a puppy, you carried him gently in your arms, booped his nose playfully, let him curl up beside you in bed. You held him through sleepless nights, wrapped your arms around his trembling body when the world felt too heavy to bear. 

He wished he could turn back time, erase the pain he caused, and hold you like you held him when everything else was falling apart.

Mingi’s tears fell freely, silent and unrestrained, as he grieved not just for you, but for the life that never came to be. He clutched his chest like he could hold his heart together. It hurt. God, it hurts. 

In the stillness of your room, Mingi unraveled completely, sobbing into the silence as if it could comfort him.

Eight Months Later

You already regretted leaving the farm.

The second you stepped off the train into the chaos of Saint-Michel Notre-Dame shoulder to shoulder with tourists, influencers, and interns sprinting in impractical shoes, you were reminded exactly why you left the life that you did. 

You hadn’t been to France in years. But after the divorce, Jiwoo found a charming little farm with a crumbling stone house and overgrown fields and somehow, it felt perfect. How hard could it be to go from former Choi family heiress to full time sheep farmer?

Turns out, quite difficult.

Because you weren’t sure it was what you wanted. But you knew it was what you needed. Even if your heart wasn’t fully in it.

In the weeks that followed the gala, you worked to make the divorce as clean and quiet as possible. You didn’t want alimony. You didn’t want your shares. You just wanted out, and Mingi made sure everything was handled with care. He didn’t fight you. Didn’t drag it out. He respected your wishes, even though it was clear the decision tore him apart.

You hadn’t expected him to make it so easy and heartbreaking.

Amid the paperwork and logistics, Jiwoo did her best to lift your spirits. She knew better than anyone how broken you were. After weeks of checking in, bringing takeout and bottles of wine, she finally convinced you to take a leap.

She pitched it like the opportunity of a lifetime. A seller had approached her about a quiet farmhouse in the French countryside, just an hour from Paris. You couldn’t shake the feeling you were being gently steered into something you didn’t quite understand. Maybe you needed something to fill the void. Or maybe you were just tired. 

So you bought it.

Jiwoo handled everything from the deed, the paperwork and even a local inspection. But when you arrived in Chevreuse, the farmhouse felt untouched like it was suspended in time. It was everything you thought you needed, yet somehow, it felt like a life that didn’t belong to you.

But there was one surprise that changed everything.

Your friends had arranged for a Valais Blacknose lamb with the fluffiest fleece and the most dramatic side eye you’d ever seen to be the foundation of your flock. 

You named her Kiki.

And then cried into her fleece for two whole days.

She didn’t mind. She would lean in, letting you cling to her as you sobbed. In those early months, when the silence of the farm was almost too much to bear, she became your comfort. Not just as you mourned the relationship, but the version of yourself who had tried so hard to hold it together.

Now the idea of leaving the farm, of stepping back into this city where everything felt like a mirror to who you used to be, was unbearable.

“I didn’t realize the heir to Park Enterprises moonlighted as a model,” you said dryly, approaching Seonghwa. 

He looked up from the menu, effortlessly chic in a tailored black coat that framed his broad shoulders. His hair was swept back with precision, probably done without a mirror, probably perfect anyway.

He looked up from the menu, flashing you that annoyingly charming smile. “Only for fun. They said I had good bone structure and excellent time management.”

“You know what else has good bone structure?” you said, sliding into your seat. 

“A skeleton.”

Back then, your interactions with Seonghwa were brief, just passing conversations during hospital visits. Then one evening, out of nowhere, he called you from Paris. Said he had a gap between fittings and shows, and for some reason, you were the person he thought to call. You weren’t really friends. But when he asked if you were free, something in you said yes.

“Put your back into it!” you called out from across the pen, grinning wickedly.

“I hate you!” Seonghwa shouted, staggering as he tried to lift a hay bale over his head. Bits of straw clung to his hair, now matted with sweat and flecked with debris. 

“You can’t,” you called back cheerfully from across the pen. “I’m your only friend.”

“When you said, ‘Come visit my farm,’ I thought there’d be wine and scenic views,” he snapped, glaring at you over the hay. 

“Not satanic sheep.”

“The sheep aren’t as bad as the chickens,” you shrugged, tossing another forkful of straw into the stall.

“I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed,” he snorted. 

“I just saw you in October,” you muttered, reaching for the carafe. 

Seonghwa watched you closely as you scanned the menu. Your hair was shorter now, tousled, practical and kissed by the sun. It spoke of mornings spent among your animals and a life lived outdoors. He noticed the subtle changes, but he also saw the parts that still made you undeniably you.

“How are you?” he asked, gently.

You looked away, scanning the menu, though your eyes weren’t actually reading.

“I’m raising sheep,” you replied flatly, folding your arms. “So either I’m thriving, or I’ve completely lost it.”

Seonghwa hummed thoughtfully. “That sounds…peaceful.”

You leaned back in your chair. Park Seonghwa was elusive, always keeping the world at arm’s length. But maybe that’s why it was easy for you to befriend him. There was always something just beneath the surface, something he never quite let slip. You wondered if anyone had ever really gotten close enough to see the real him. 

“So, is this your little last hurrah before you’re inevitably whisked away by that pharmaceutical heiress?”

Seonghwa scoffed and took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t remind me.”

“Men would rather fly halfway around the world to trauma dump than go to therapy,” you muttered, catching the waiter’s attention to place your order.

While your head was turned to the side, partially hidden behind the menu, Seonghwa quietly pulled out his phone. In that moment, there was a softness and freedom to you that the world rarely got to see, a light that had been almost extinguished but was now quietly burning again. The kind of light that deserved to be witnessed, even by the world that once tried to break you.

With a quick snap, he captured the moment.

⋆

Mingi stabbed at his salad like it had personally offended him.

Yunho sighed. “You’ve looked at that story five times. I’m starting to worry you’re going to create a burner account and leave hate comments.”

Mingi tossed his phone face down on the table. “I’m fine.”

“Hypothetically,” Yunho began with a sly grin, “if I were a petty man with a stupidly handsome face and a camera in hand, and happened to spot the girl my friend is still hopelessly in love with, who he hasn’t spoken to in eight months, living her best life in France… I mean, yeah. I might post a picture of her too.”

Mingi shot him a glare. “Seonghwa’s not my friend.”

“You haven’t spoken to her in eight months.”

“I told you,” he replied, “she needed space.”

“You both needed space. That’s not the same as disappearing.”

Mingi didn’t want to admit it out loud, but seeing you happy beneath the sun, far from everything he’d put you through, stung. You looked freer than he remembered. Lighter. Like the weight he used to see in your eyes had finally lifted. And maybe…maybe you deserved that freedom without him.

“I don’t want to show up half-fixed,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to pretend that I’m ready when I’m not.”

“So you ghosted her,” Yunho said flatly.

“I let her go,” Mingi snapped, running a hand through his hair. 

“I didn’t want to make any promises I couldn’t keep and I’m trying,” he said after a long pause. 

“I’ve been working with Jongho to finalize everything.”

Yunho leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady. “How much longer?”

“Couple more weeks. Maybe less.”

Mingi stared down at his hands, then out the café window, hoping, just for a moment, you might appear on the other side of the glass. The distance between you felt unbearable. All he wanted was for you to know how much he misses you, even from a world away.

“Once I sign the final documents, I’m out.”

“You’ve been planning this for months,” Yunho said. “You sure you’re ready?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. I’d rather be nothing than keep living as someone I hate.”

This was his chance to start over. Not just for you, but for himself. For the version of him he wanted to be. The version who didn’t flinch when he looked back on the choices he made or ran from the messes he made. 

Mingi’s phone chimed, reminding him of his appointment.

He exhaled slowly, though it did little to steady the jittery coil of nerves tightening in his chest. With a half-raised hand, he flagged down the waiter and quietly asked for the check. 

He paid quickly, murmured a thank you, and stood, brushing invisible lint from his shirt as if that would make him feel better than he looked.

Yunho gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

Mingi didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he believed that yet. But he left the café anyway, because this wasn’t about comfort. It was about facing the consequences. And maybe, if he was lucky, starting to make things right.

The drive to his meeting felt endless. In the elevator, he kept fidgeting with his jacket sleeve, chewing the inside of his cheek raw. He’d rehearsed the conversation a hundred times, and still wasn’t ready.

“Mrs. Kim?” her secretary said gently, peeking through the cracked door. “Your appointment is here.”

Mrs. Kim perked up, straightening her spine from where she'd been slouched in her office chair. Things had been nonstop with the foundation lately, especially with the board vacancy.

“Send them in,” she said, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. 

A tall man stepped inside, his broad shoulders nearly eclipsing the hallway behind him. He removed sunglasses and tucked them away as the door shut with a soft click behind him.

He was still striking in that way that used to command a room the moment he entered it. But the shine was gone. The last time she’d seen him, he was the kind of man who believed nothing could fall apart simply because he was holding it together.

Now, he looked like someone who’d already lived through the collapse.

“Song Mingi.” 

“Mrs. Kim,” he greeted. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

She regarded him in silence.

She hadn’t expected to see him again, especially not after the fiasco he caused at the foundation’s gala the year before. The memory of angry board members demanding answers sent chills down her spine. That night hadn’t merely called her reputation into question; it had cast doubt on the very mission she’d spent years building.

And more importantly, the damage that had been done to her son’s memory.

The Cromer Foundation had been born from grief, a tribute to Hongjoong’s boundless love for music, and his quiet dream of making it accessible to those who needed it most. It had grown into a respected institution, funding music schools, community orchestras, and scholarships for underprivileged children.  

And then Mingi stumbled into the gala, spewing bitterness towards you in front of donors, students, and press. What should have been a night of celebration and remembrance unraveled into a public scandal.

She’d spent the next year quietly salvaging what she could, writing letters, making phone calls, doubling her hours to assure the public and the board that the foundation’s values remained intact.

But when she received word from her secretary that Song Mingi had requested a meeting, she was intrigued. 

“How can I help you?” She folded her hands together on the desk, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“I owe you an apology.”

Mrs. Kim said nothing, and Mingi took that as a cue to continue. 

“I shouldn’t have come that night,” Mingi began, voice heavy with regret. 

“I was angry and bitter. Y/N and I hadn’t even been married that long, and in my selfishness, I just wanted a way to hurt her without even really seeing her. Without trying to understand her.”

He clenched his fists at the memory, haunted by how deeply he had hurt you without ever really seeing you, without even trying to understand you.

“I let that resentment rot me from the inside, and then I carried it straight to your door. What I did wasn’t just shameful. It was a betrayal of that light of someone who gave so much to everyone around him. What I regret most is the damage I caused to his memory.”

He took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry for turning your grief into a public spectacle. I know how much Hongjoong meant to the community, to you, and especially to Y/N. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But this…this was the one apology I couldn’t stay silent about.”

He bowed deeply, and for a moment, Mrs. Kim struggled to reconcile the man before her. This was Song Mingi, once arrogant and reckless, now stripped of pride, looking almost like a stranger.

Though Mrs. Kim had never cared for the world of the wealthy, she was well aware of its undercurrents and drama. Her focus had always been on education, and through the Choi family’s influence, and Y/N’s heartfelt recommendation, she had become a sought after piano teacher among elite households.

“Are you only doing this because you and Y/N are no longer together?” Her voice was measured but edged with skepticism.

Mingi’s shoulders tensed slightly, then he nodded. 

“Yes. I lost her, and maybe this is my way of trying to make amends for everything I failed to be. Not just to her, but for myself.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. In that moment, he understood where Hongjoong had gotten his strength, his unwavering kindness, and his love of music.

“But there’s something more…I’m stepping away from my family. I’ve begun the process of selling my shares and succession logistics.”

Mrs. Kim raised a brow, clearly taken aback. “Your father will be left without an heir?”

“That’s his problem to deal with,” Mingi shrugged. 

“Whatever arrangements the Songs and the Chois had through my marriage were dissolved the moment the divorce papers were signed.”

Mrs. Kim sat back, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “And once you walk away from the company… what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Mingi admitted. “Maybe I’ll get into art. Therapy’s been helping me find better ways to express myself. Maybe I’ll travel.”

He glanced down at his hands, then back up with a small, tentative smile.

“But more than anything…I think I’ll let myself dream again.”

“You’ve changed.”

Mingi gave a small, almost shy smile. “I’m trying.”

He hesitated, then added, almost under his breath, “Hongjoong was…a good friend to me.”

Mrs. Kim’s brows drew together. “Was?”

Mingi blinked, realizing the slip. “I-I mean, he would’ve been. I think we would’ve been good friends.”

Mrs. Kim didn’t respond. She simply nodded, walking him to the door.

“I won’t say I forgive you. Not yet,” she said, hand hovering over the doorknob. 

“But you’ve done more than most. You owned what happened and I accept your apology.”

Mingi bowed again. “Thank you for letting me speak,” he said quietly. “I appreciate you listening to me.”

“If you mean to build something better…make it matter,” Mrs. Kim said as Mingi turned toward the door.

And with that, he stepped out, the door closing behind him.

Mrs. Kim walked slowly back to her desk, lowering herself into the chair with a thoughtful exhale. Her eyes drifted to the framed photo of her son on the shelf beside her, frozen forever in his twenties, smiling with a piano behind him.

Hongjoong was a good friend to me.

“When did you meet him, exactly?” she murmured under her breath. 

There was no answer, of course. Just the hum of the office around her. She shook her head, lips curling into a small smile.

“Everything’s been reviewed by legal. You just need to sign,” Jongho said, sliding a thick folder across the table.

Mingi stared at the papers. His name was on every page, neatly typed, notarized, official. But for the first time in his life, it felt like a weight being lifted off of his shoulders. 

“Once this is finalized,” Jongho continued, tapping a finger against the folder, “you’ll no longer be tied to the company. You’ll retain your existing personal assets and shares, but all family holdings will be dissolved or transferred as outlined.”

He hesitated, then softened. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

“I’m sure,” Mingi said, his voice quiet but resolute. “Who’s to say I haven’t disappointed my family enough already?”

Across the table, Kira scrolled through the legal documents on her tablet. 

“His legal team will fight this. They'll go public if they think it’ll scare you into backing down. They’ll accuse you of breach of duty, maybe even moral failure.”

Mingi let out a humorless laugh and uncapped the pen. “Let them try. What’s the press angle?”

“You’re stepping away on your own terms to pursue independent ventures,” Jongho said, flipping to the draft statement. 

“We center the story on autonomy, long term vision, and the desire to innovate outside of a legacy framework.”

Kira looked up. “We embargoed an exclusive with Golden Hour. It goes live the same hour the documents hit the registrar. One interview. After that, we disappear.”

“And if my father tries to bury it?”

“He’ll try,” Jongho said. “But you’ll already be gone by then.”

Mingi leaned over the folder and signed. His name curved neatly into ink, followed by the stamp of his official seal.

Who knew freedom could feel so unceremonious? 

But it was real.

For most of his life, Mingi had believed there was only one path: one paved by his family and reinforced by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of wanting something for himself and being punished for it. Fear of what it meant to let go.

But the day after you left, something shifted. He wandered through the rooms of the penthouse, sat at your piano, stared at your half-used mug still by the sink, your faint perfume lingering on his pillow and he couldn’t breath. 

And that’s when he realized: maybe it wasn’t your absence that undid him. Maybe it was the fact that you’d finally saved yourself and that meant he could too.

So he made the leap. He searched for a therapist after hearing from you about how you’d been in therapy since you were 20 and how it had helped you survive grief, pressure, and loneliness.

At first, it was just a way to cope with the sudden emptiness. He felt awkward during the sessions, offering half-truths and questioning the point of opening up. He was bitter, angry, and convinced you had abandoned him, even as he told himself that letting you go had been some noble, final act of love.

But little by little he realized there were pieces of himself he’d buried, goals he never pursued and entire parts of his identity molded to fit someone else’s expectations. He wasn’t the only one who’d lost parts of himself in the process. 

You had sacrificed just as much. Maybe even more. You tried to mold yourself into the perfect daughter-in-law, the perfect partner, the perfect pawn in the legacy machine. And in the end, it had cost you everything.

You had been brave enough to leave and that terrified him. But it also inspired him at the same time. 

Because if you could walk away from a future already written for you, maybe he could too.

He started the process quietly. He arranged meetings with Jongho and Kira to restructure his holdings, transfer succession rights, and build a legal firewall between himself and the family. 

“I want out,” Mingi announced. “All of it. Not just the company, everything tied to my family’s name.”

Across from him, Jongho slowly set down his pen. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.

“You’re serious?” Kira raised a brow, looking up from her laptop.

“I want to walk away. But I can’t do it alone.”

Jongho leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Do you understand what you’re asking for? Once this goes through, there’s no walking it back. Your family will go scorched earth.”

“I know,” Mingi said quietly. “And I’m fine with it.”

Kira was quiet for a moment, studying him. “Does Y/N have anything to do with this?”

Mingi hesitated, then nodded. There was no point lying. 

“How romantic,” Jongho chuckled, flipping his pen between his fingers.

The youngest Choi had been devouring legal textbooks for fun by the time he was 10, competing at university level mock trials at 13, and ghostwriting threatening emails under fake burner accounts to hedge fund managers for misleading the public. 

He was a genius with a vindictive streak. And that’s exactly why Mingi needed him.

“You’re asking me to burn every bridge with your family including your relatives and their legal teams. You’ll be persona non grata in every major investment circle from here to Malaysia.”

“I don’t care,” Mingi said. 

Jongho tapped the pen once. Then again. And then he stopped.

“What’s in it for me?”

Mingi blinked. “Whatever you want.”

“I want revenge for Y/N. I want her to get every single thing that woman tried to take from her. I want to take Ahri’s deals. Her endorsements. Her agency contacts. Her fucking invitations to fashion week. I want her blacklisted from every high society circle she ever tried to climb.”

Kira let out a low whistle. “God, this is going to be fun.”

That made Mingi gulp. Here he was, sitting between two members of your family who weren’t just capable of chaos…they thrived in it. Maybe love really did run in your blood. So did vengeance. 

And Mingi was just beginning to grasp how meticulous your family could be when it came to madness.

It had taken months, months of sleepless nights and second guessing every step of the way. 

But now it was nearly done. He had chosen you instead.

Kira had already disappeared down the hall, relaying the next steps to the press team. Jongho offered a quiet nod, taking back the stack of documents.

“We’ll hold the final filing until you’ve spoken to them. After that, it’s official.”

Mingi nodded as Jongho left.

After a long moment, he stood slowly, smoothing the front of his jacket, his eyes lingering out the window.

It was done.

And in a few days, so would the rest of it be.

⋆

Seonghwa had convinced you to stay for his show after his assistants staged an emergency intervention over your “farmer chic” ensemble. Now, you sat front row in a dress that cost more than your entire farm, looking like someone who belonged. You weren’t sure how you felt about that.

The crowd burst into applause as the final walk ended with influencers and editors clambering about. A few minutes later, Seonghwa strode off the runway, still flushed with adrenaline. He spotted you instantly and grinned, tugging the pins from his hair so it tumbled messily around his face.

“I need carbs,” he groaned. 

You laughed, halfway on to your feet, ready to follow him backstage. But your phone buzzed in your lap. You glanced down instinctively.

And froze.

Your fingers hovered above the screen. You hadn’t meant to tap the notification, but somehow the article was open, its bold headline glaring back at you.

Breaking: Song Mingi Steps Down, Issues Statement on Leaving Family Empire

“After years of speculation about his role within the Song conglomerate, Song Mingi has officially filed to dissolve all family held assets and relinquish his stake in the company. 

Sources confirm he will retain personal investments but has no plans to return to corporate leadership. The exclusive interview with Golden Hour details his decision to walk away from the legacy built by four generations of Songs…”

“Hey,” Seonghwa called over his shoulder, already pushing through a curtain flanked by security. “You coming?”

You held up your phone. His gaze landed on it and his jaw went slack.

“Holy shit.”

The article continued, accompanied with courthouse photos: Mingi in a suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, collar open. His gaze never wavered beneath the flash of cameras as he walked like a man with nothing left to lose.

The words on the screen blurred as your mind raced. He’d done the unthinkable. He turned his back on the empire his family had built. The same empire that nearly destroyed you both.

Seonghwa nudged your shoulder. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know what this feeling was. Relief? Disbelief? Hope?

The last time you saw Mingi, he was still the heir. The next time you see him, he might finally be just Mingi.

<< x | xii >>

a/n: just one more chapter and the epilogue and this baby will be done *cries*

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