Weeks passed.

She made excuses to sit next to him.

Asked for his notes even when she didn’t need them.

Gave him hers anyway.

“You should eat something,” she murmured once, placing a sandwich on his notebook.

His fingers twitched. That was all.

He never looked directly at her.

Always past her, like she was fog on a lens he hadn’t wiped clean.

Still, she learned his schedule.

He liked room 213 for its quiet.

Never ate lunch.

Sketched with mechanical pencils, not charcoal.

His phone had accessibility mode on, but he never asked for help.

Once, she caught him staring at a wall, unmoving, for six full minutes.

That night, she wrote his name in the margins of her notes eleven times. All caps. GOJO SATORU.

---

“He doesn’t even know your name,” Kashimo said flatly, legs crossed on the dorm rooftop, a Red Bull between his knees.

“I don’t care,” she lied.

Kashimo laughed, mean but not at her. Never at her.

His voice was rough, like he’d swallowed a hundred thunderstorms and only learned to whisper after.

Cyan hair, broad muscles showing, a tattoo above his collarbone that no one knew the meaning of. He wore nail polish and bruises and sat with her when she cried. Always.

“Is this like a Florence Nightingale thing?” he asked, eyes on the sky. “You want to fix him, so he’ll love you?”

“I just want him to see me.”

“He won't.”

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

---

The bullying got worse when finals started.

Someone poured ink on Gojo’s blueprints.

Another smeared ketchup over his chair.

A guy in their cohort called him something she couldn't bare to hear anymore.

She had heard the snickers in the library.

Gojo said nothing.

Just picked up his bag and left, as if disappearing was easier than retaliating.

That night, she waited by the vending machines near the back stairs.

When he appeared—taller in the dark, too-thin hoodie swallowing his sharp edges—she stepped forward.

“I saw what they did. I’m sorry.”

He paused.

“I brought you notes. On Professor Ryomen’s lecture. And… some snacks.”

Still nothing.

“I care about you,” she blurted. “You don’t have to be alone all the time.”

His head tilted slightly.

“You're not alone anymore.”

Then came the silence.

A silence so loud it cracked something in her ribcage.

“…Who are you?” he asked.

---

She didn’t cry in front of him.

But she sobbed later, facedown in Kashimo’s white hoodie, curled on his lap like a child.

“He forgot me,” she choked. “I sat next to him for three months. I—I brought him food. I waited for him after class. I tried.”

Kashimo didn’t say “I told you so.”

He just ran his hands through her hair, soft and slow, like he was afraid she’d break more than she already had.

“I think he’s sick,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong with you,” Kashimo murmured, voice low. “You’re trying to drown in someone who won’t even notice the splash.”

She hiccuped.

“You deserve someone who sees you. Really sees you.”

Her breath hitched. “I don’t want anyone else.”

Kashimo’s silence was a knife. Then—

“Then you’ll die waiting.”

---

She tried again. Of course she did.

Brought him a small cake on his birthday. He didn’t eat it. She found it two days later in the trash, untouched, box unopened.

She told herself maybe he just didn’t like chocolate.

---

Winter turned the quad into ash.

Bare branches clawed at gray sky.

Her GPA slipped. She lost weight.

She stopped laughing.

Kashimo noticed. He always noticed.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said one night, brushing snow off her shoulders as they walked back from the studio.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re fading.”

She smiled, brittle. “I’m just tired.”

Kashimo grabbed her wrist, sudden and cold.

“No, you’re bleeding out, and he’s the wound.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked away.

“Stay with me tonight.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Does it have to be?”

She blinked.

He let go.

“Forget it.”

---

Weeks later, Gojo sat beside her on the bench near the east fountain.

He didn’t say hello.

She didn’t say anything either.

Then—

“I know you.”

Her breath caught.

“I didn’t before,” he added. “But I… do now.”

He turned his face toward her. Too directly.

His glasses were gone.

His eyes were pale. Too pale.

“Were you the one with the coffee?”

Her throat burned.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He nodded, slow.

“I remember your voice.”

Her heart cracked open.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you,” he said.

“I still don’t.”

He reached for her hand but missed. Grabbed air.

That’s when she knew.

He wasn’t ignoring her.

He was blind.

---

She cried in Kashimo’s arms again that night.

But this time it was different.

“I thought he hated me,” she whispered. “I thought I wasn’t enough.”

“You’re too much,” Kashimo said bitterly. “Too much for someone who can’t even see the light you drag into rooms.”

“I just wanted him to love me.”

“And what about me?”

Her breath caught.

His jaw was clenched.

“I sat with you through every breakdown. Every night you cry for a ghost. I fucking see you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She didn’t answer.

Kashimo stood up.

“I would’ve kissed the bruises he left on your heart if you let me.”

His voice cracked.

“I would’ve loved you gently.”

She couldn’t look at him.

He walked away.

---

Gojo apologized the next day.

His hands trembled when he passed her a note written in blocky, slanted letters.

I’m sorry I made you feel invisible. I didn’t mean to. I don’t… see well. Or understand people. But I remember your voice. I liked it. I still do.

She didn’t know what to say.

So she hugged him.

He flinched like it hurt.

---

Things got better.

In class, Gojo started sitting beside her. He laughed once. Awkward, too loud. But real.

People stopped bullying him. She made sure of it.

But Kashimo stopped texting back.

She missed him more than she could admit.

---

Graduation came.

Gojo held her hand when they walked across the stage.

She smiled in photos. But her eyes were elsewhere.

---

Months later, she found Kashimo at an art gallery downtown.

He was thinner. New piercings. His smile wasn't the same.

“You look good,” she said.

“You look lost.”

She laughed.

He didn’t.

“You still love him?”

She nodded.

“He still doesn’t know how to love back?”

Another nod.

Kashimo looked at her for a long time.

“I would’ve let you ruin me,” he said quietly. “But you wanted someone who couldn’t even hold a mirror.”

She reached for him.

He stepped back.

“I’m done being your second choice.”

She didn’t cry this time.

But she wanted to.

---

That night, Gojo asked her why she felt sad.

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

“I miss someone,” she said.

Gojo held her hand.

“I’ll try harder,” he whispered.

She nodded.

But inside, she knew:

He couldn’t try what he’d never learned.

And she couldn’t fix what wasn’t broken.

It just… was.

Unlovable in its shape.

Like rain in a paper cup. Beautiful. Temporary. Inevitable.

A/N: Let me know if you guys would like another part to this. 💜❤️💙 Be honest, besties: are you choosing Kashimo or Nerdjo?

Masterlist

Gojo Satoru

In the midst of the ruins of Shinjuku stood, bloodied, Gojo Satoru. He won the fight against Ryōmen Sukuna, but why does it seem so surreal?

Maybe it's the morbid scenery surrounding him. All of the damage he caused, wether it be material, physical, or mental. He can't think straight—no, he can't think at all. The only thing he sees is you, standing in front of him, wearing that heartwarming smile he fell in love with, but you're barely recognisable. Cuts, blood, dirt... everything that should've been on him is instead painting your body.

"I'll make sure you win."

You told him that before the fight, and he just laughed, playing it off as a personal offence to his whole existence.

"I'll win on my own, you don't have to worry your pretty head about a thing. I'm the strongest after all."

He said that knowing he will lose.

And somehow, you knew that, too.

Everyone was watching the fight from a safe place— everyone but you. Running all around Shinjuku, following his steps from a far enough distance to not get detected by either of them, but close enough to jump in if something were to happen. You were stronger than most special grades, strong enough to do something so reckless and supposedly strong enough for Sukuna to personally request a duel to death after he inevitably wins his fight with Gojo. That wasn't on your bucket list, though. You were there to make sure Satoru lives.

And you did just that.

That warm smile you flashed has long grown cold, your lifeless body hurriedly taken from Satorus grasp. "Is there any chance...?" were the only words he could muster up the strength to ask, his voice sounding uncharacteristically weak. "Only time can tell, Gojo." Shoko sighed "Go ahead and get patched up... It's been a rough day for you."

The 24th of December has now become a shared anniversary between the two people Gojo Satoru cared for the most.

Ryōmen Sukuna

Grueling hours of fighting passed, sorcerers upon sorcerers attempted to fend against Sukuna's relentless attacks, but to no avail— they lost. Yet, the monster does not feel complete. He doesn't know what is happening to him. Humane feelings have been a taboo subject regarding his person, truly believing he is unable of experiencing such things.

"Master Sukuna–" His servant Uraume began, but shut it down just as quickly as they followed Sukuna's eyes to the bloodied ground.

You were laying there, breathless, unmoving.

He tried to tend to your wounds, tried to somehow figure out how to use a reverse-cursed technique on someone other than himself, but it was all for naught— you never woke up. Yet he was not mad, no, he was distraught. Your power piqued his interest just enough for you to not only be considered by such monster as an equal, but even more, as his half.

Sukuna cursed the universe for playing this sick joke on him and for making him feel these weak emotions. Love, sadness, worry...you cursed him to care, so he'll curse you as well. And maybe he does so with a foolish hope that fate might just give him another chance at a life with you standing next to him.

Kashimo Hajime

Another day passed alongside tens of sorcerers who were naïve enough to consider this to be the day Kashimo fell to their attacks, but it was all a waste of time in both sides. As he walked back towards your shared house, something strange hung in the air, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"I'm back." Hajime announced, closing the traditional sliding door behind him, though no answer could be heard by the only other person living there, you. Such deafening silence was truly uncharacteristic, and so he bolted through every room in the house, frantically searching for you, until he barged into his bedroom, where your body laid underneath the sheets. "There you are..." He whispered to himself "You scared me." His body relaxed as he walked inside of the darkened room, not bothering to light up a candle.

Splat!

His movements faltered. 'What?' thought that led to him crouching, using his technique as a makeshift lantern to investigate whatever could've made that noise, and upon seeing the pool of blood at his feet, Kashimo stiffened. He was unable to do anything but stare for a few seconds, which afterwards brought a wave of panic over him. He ran to your side, shaking your body in dying hope, chanting your name over and over again as if it was a mantra— then he stopped, clutching so tightly at your sleeve it started ripping at the seams.

Naoya forces out a strong huff of air through his nose, the way horses do when they’re irritated. He doesn’t dare stop being fast. The other man’s speed took him by surprise, and Naoya finds himself a bit overwhelmed. Nevertheless, he stays his confident self.

“Nah, I need ya for something,” he replies and hauls you into the air. Your upper body hangs down from his shoulder as you thrash around with your legs, your face collides with his back. The impact flattens the tip of your nose, and a dull throb of pain shoots through the area. There was no audible cracking of bone, but you can’t help squealing once. The familiar scent of rough linen climbs up your nose. You can’t even summon a shikigami in that position. Even if you could, the weird body structure under Naoya’s kimono distracts you. It feels like his bones are in the wrong place, bumps and dents appearing in spots where you know they’re not really supposed to appear.

Instead of trying to do the hand signs of your cursed technique, you tap around on his back, feeling out the irregularities. Kashimo’s efforts to get you back go unnoticed. “Huh…? What happened here?”

“Did you know you’re special?” Naoya doesn’t bother replying to your question. “Father told me. Don’t think I was s’posed to know, but he was so out of it on his deathbed.”

“You feel weird.”

“Are you listening?”

“Are you?”

This is how it always was between you and him. Talking but never hearing each other. You’ve always been a bit blind to Naoya’s true nature, mostly because he toned down the predatory streaks around you. He did so out of fear. Naobito unfortunately had some morals and paid attention to how Naoya treated you. Making you cry would have been a death sentence.

Father is gone now.

The news doesn’t come as a surprise, and you just don’t have the time or urge to feel sad, the Zenin are still big assholes. There is a reason why you’re with Tokyo’s Jujutsu High.

You should be more worried about Naoya being free to do as he pleases now. And his body, his whole presence, just feels weird. The speed with which both Naoya and Kashimo move is making you dizzy; a stinging scent of burnt wood drifts through the air, intensifying the assault on your senses.

“This is becoming tedious,” Naoya mutters. He decides to go for the trick he originally wanted to use on Sukuna’s vessel.

You should’ve been more hostile toward him, should’ve fought more. You just assumed this was one of his annoying games. It was all just pestering, and deep down, you selfishly hoped that this was Naoya’s way of wanting to reach out to you.

You were never there when he bullied Maki, and no one told you about him wanting to kill Fushiguro. Once you realize how awful Naoya actually is, you’re going to feel a lot of guilt for being ignorant, but right now, you have bigger problems.

Carrying you around while being chased by a high-speed ball of electricity isn’t efficient. How does Naoya disable you from moving?

At first, the pain doesn’t register as much as it should, simply because your brain refuses to believe that Naoya would actually break your leg. Really, it’s the loud crack, followed by crepitations, that send a sharp shiver down your spine, and immediately, bile rises in your throat.

Naoya only stops for a second to kneel into your tibia and then yanks you into the air, far away from him. Out of his way.

Mid-air, you realize what happened, all the pain shoots into your leg, like your body just remembered what it is to be hurt. You inhale way too much air with a silent scream and finally summon your shikigami just in time to catch you before landing on the cold, hard ground.

White, soft fur surrounds you, and instantly the huge fox presses all its weight on you, keeping you safe under its belly. It’s an automatic, defensive response you’d have to override manually with extra hand signs.

You can’t.

Now the pain is just too much. The ground is still a bit muddy from the rain, and the yucky dirt seeps into your clothes, further lowering the temperature around you. Kashimo’s labour to keep you from being sick is nullified by now. You whine softly, tears welling up in your eyes.

Your leg throbs, and for a moment, all sound and feeling disappear. The white-hot pain blurs your vision.

“Be my wife and stay inside today. Just this once.” “Then be my husband and buy me something I don’t need. I’d like the new silks other ladies wear now. The ones with the embroidery.”

What?

“Kashimo-san…”

Your words come out too weak for anyone to hear you. The noise starts fading back in, and you can tell there’s a fight going on, but from under the fox’s belly, you can’t see anything. Half of your face is pressed into the ground, and the taste of sandy dirt invades your tongue.

Another wave of sharp pain.

“Be good and be safe.” “Oh? Awfully sentimental today, Hajime.”

Maybe it’s some kind of shock reaction. Your mind makes up random scenarios, like you’re dreaming but awake.

The slow, dull kind of pain takes over your leg.

Your stepbrother really just turned on you. In a way, it’s your fault for being so naive. He is a Zenin. He was saying alarming stuff. If he needs you for something and he’s not simply asking you, then he must assume you wouldn’t just say yes automatically.

So whatever he wants, it must be something bad.

Honestly, he could’ve lured you in. You would’ve fallen for something along the lines of “I need to apologize for my attitude toward women, let’s talk privately” because you’re so damn naive, and you want him to be good so badly, you would’ve believed him. Stupid girl.

That bait would’ve been more efficient, and it’s actually surprising how much Naoya underestimates your gullible self.

Too bad you can’t see Kashimo in action now.

You attempt moving your injured leg.

“F-fuuuuck—“ You groan into the shikigami’s stomach, its fur muffling your cursing almost completely.

Your fox immediately presses down harder in response, a low, warning whine vibrating through its chest and into your crushed body like it’s scolding you for even trying. Right. Broken leg. Bad idea.

Your fingers claw weakly into wet fur instead, bunching handfuls of the thick white coat between trembling fists as another violent pulse of pain radiates from your shin straight into your skull.

The scent of burnt plants intensifies, and based on the vibrations spreading in the ground, you can tell that something exploded, somewhere left of you.

Old man Kashimo must be really upset.

Your common sense is telling you to get away. Wait, no, that’s Okkotsu’s voice in your head; you can practically see him shake his head in disbelief and concern.

No way you’re leaving Kashimo. Is he stronger than Naoya? It’s hard to tell. Hakari was in a tie with him, and just his martial arts skills are pretty impressive. Plus, he literally had 200 points in the Culling Game.

“He’s got a knife,” you slur out, but most of the sound doesn’t make it out from under the shikigami. Yeah, Naoya is a cheater. He’s always on about not using cursed tools, except when he thinks they’re warranted. It tricks his opponents into thinking they’re safer than they actually are. “…ngh, knife—“

It’s useless. Kashimo will figure it out.

Another strong vibration shakes the ground under you, closer this time. The huge fox above you is forced to move. With you, of course.

Its mouth opens suddenly, and sharp fangs sink into your flesh, deep enough to drag you away by your waist but still careful. Not a comfortable feeling as you’re dragged through the mud, your clothes now soaked with the animal’s saliva too.

“Oh my god,” you moan in pain as sharp pebbles scrape against your skin. “That hurts so bad.”

Now you can see some of what’s going on. Tears run down your cheeks as you watch two figures move— Naoya in grey, Kashimo in white.

Kashimo is a storm given human form. Even through the haze of pain, through the nauseating pulses wrecking your leg and the mud sticking to your skin, you can see it: electricity peeling off his body in violent arcs, illuminating rainwater and blood alike in brief flashes of blue-white. His expression is sharper than you’ve ever seen it. Usually, there’s amusement buried somewhere in his brutality. A kind of feral thrill.

Now, there is only a haunted kind of anger.

Your gaze lands on Naoya next. Oh. His hand was blown off. You barely have time to process the sight before something weird happens.

You’ve seen cursed spirits do that. You’ve seen that from Mahito. The tumorous amalgamation of flesh and bone that regrows into a new body part.

Your vision swims again from the next wave of dull pain, and when it clears, Naoya’s hand is as good as new.

Kashimo has no context for the situation, so he doesn’t bat an eye. It looks like just another cursed spirit to him. He keeps fighting; electricity sparkles in his hair constantly.

You, however, have reached your wits’ end. You’re feverish, you have a broken leg, your stepbrother just betrayed you, and you’re so damn tired. For a moment, everything stills, and you watch Naoya’s face, focused, menacing, and without a doubt inhuman.

It’s just too much.

One last look at Kashimo. He’s doing okay. He’s not so bad.

“M’gonna take a nap,” you mumble to your fox spirit as it keeps pulling you further away from the fight. Your fingernails dig into the dirt, thinking that will make it stop, but your grip is too weak.

Darkness takes you gently. Your consciousness slips through the cracks of pain, through the throbbing agony in your shattered leg, through the cold and mud and blood and static in the air. Your fox gives one final distressed whine as your body goes limp, and with that, the cursed technique is deactivated, letting the spirit dissolve.

When awareness returns, it does so in fragments. You’re being carried, that much you can tell. It could be Naoya, it could be Kashimo, that depends on how the fight ended.

You see trees, then the open sky. It has turned beautiful shades of orange. You fall unconscious over and over again before you wake up to seeing the familiar white ceiling and Ieri’s unamused expression. There is no sound, like you’re watching everything on a TV from behind your eyes. There is movement around you before everything goes dark again.

And then—

“Hi.”

Kirara’s big doe eyes stare down at you in the dimly lit room. They blink multiple times in silence with a wide grin on their face and tilt their head slightly, dark hair falling with the motion. They’re used to you getting into trouble.

“So…” Kirara trails off, leaning into your personal space just a bit. “You don’t look so good, girl.”

“Where’s Kashimo-san…?”

Kirara snickers, scratching their head with their long nails. “That’s the first thing you think about?” Their eyes drop to your leg. They should cut you some slack.

“Probably stewing somewhere. Okkotsu tried chewing him out, but he wasn’t having it.”

“…huh?”

Kirara is already moving on. They lean back in the chair, swinging one leg over the other. “You were out for a while. Ieri fixed you up. She said you were being weird. Anyways, what old Pikachu told us sounded wild.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to soak up all the information. The pain is mostly gone now.

“…Naoya…?”

“What about him?” Kirara frowns automatically.

“He was—he was there…” Obviously, Kashimo wouldn’t be able to identify him, so right now, no one knows Naoya was the one responsible for your injury and attempted kidnapping.

“Seriously? That was him?”

You nod weakly.

“So not cool.”

“Wanna see Kashimo-san…” Your fingers curl into loose, weak fists, and you squirm lightly under the blankets. Kirara sighs.

“I can get him for you, but he’s not in a very talkative mood.”

Turns out, he really isn’t.

The man slumps down in the same chair Kirara occupied with a quiet huff, arms crossed, brows furrowed. He doesn’t relax, not even after Kirara leaves.

Awkward silence settles.

Faint scratches decorate his cheeks, and his hair is let down. Kashimo looks like a mess, but you’re probably worse.

“So…” you start and immediately trail off when you don’t know what to continue with. There are many things you want to say and ask. You settle on a wonky understatement. “…that was weird, huh.”

Kashimo’s gaze stays on your hand that peeks out from under the covers. As usual, you can’t read his expression, though this time, he really has that hundred-yard stare that creeps you out sometimes.

“Sorry about my brother… he’s… worse than I thought.”

No reply comes. You keep going, to fill the uneasy silence.

“Is he… alive?”

Nothing.

You shift on the bed, sitting up slightly against the headboard.

“Thank you for saving me.”

Now, Kashimo reacts. Slowly, his head turns, and he looks into your eyes intently. Then, like a switch has been flipped, he falls out of the chair, onto his knees, and bends forward until his nose brushes the floorboards.

“Kashimo-san…?”

Light blue hair spills out around his head as he bows to the floor.

“I do not ask for forgiveness, for I should not have it. Grant me no pardon. I lament every choice I made that led to your suffering. I am so sorry.”

“Wh-what—“

“I allowed you to be harmed. I did not remove you from danger fast enough.”

“Okay, stop—no, hey—” You push yourself up a little more, immediately regretting it as your body reminds you that you are still recovering and your leg was broken a few hours ago. “Kashimo-san, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t look up.

“I thought I had it this time,” Kashimo mutters under his breath, and you’re not sure you’re hearing him correctly.

“This time?”

Things are getting too confusing. The man on the ground lifts his head. Too much hair hangs into his face for you to really see his eyes.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“How are you feeling?” Kashimo’s mind seems to be catching up. He moves back into the chair and even pulls it closer to the edge of the bed.

“I’m okay, I’m just confused, why did you say—“

“Answer.”

“…it’s a little warm.”

To add to the list of unexpected events, Kashimo lifts his hand and places his palm against your forehead with gentleness you’ve never seen from him before. Well, technically, you’ve only known him for two days, but still.

His skin is cold, or maybe your own body temperature is just too high.

“You have a fever.”

He looks terrified saying that.