#neujo

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. nerdjo, neurodivergent!satoru, satoru is a cry baby, fluff, fluff, fluff, angst w comfort, sentimental things, nostalgia.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ. 808(? i think. shoorrttt :p

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ.

You were used to coming home and finding a mess — the floor covered in papers filled with notes, scribbles, and things about advanced physics you didn’t fully understand and maybe never would, despite the countless times your boyfriend tried to explain them to you with excitement in his voice.

When he explained things, his voice never stopped, like chatter that had no end. He’d get so excited and run out of breath so quickly that his voice would crack from how fast he was going, coughing and pausing just to catch air before continuing.

It made you smile just thinking about how, the moment you walked in, he would stop murmuring, rush toward you, and try to explain his quantum physics thesis that you didn’t understand. And maybe he’d tremble with excitement when he saw the sweets and Digimon keychains you brought especially for him.

Because you always thought of him.

And passing by a GachaPon machine that was exclusively Digimon made you think of his crooked smile and his glasses slipping down the bridge of his straight nose as he lowered his head to look at you.

So it was surprising when you walked in and the only thing you heard after closing the door was the sound of your keys resting on the entry table. You glanced inside. Maybe he was in the bathroom, you thought. You slipped off your low heels before announcing your arrival.

“Toru! I’m home!" And again — silence. That was strange. You walked further into the living room, glancing toward the kitchen and the balcony. He wasn’t there. You sighed in relief when you saw his bedroom door open and the small desk lamp turned on. “Toru, I’m back, I brought you— …uh, Toru?”

On the other side of the bed, with his back to the door and leaning against the mattress, he sat curled into himself. You could hear him breathing fast, anxious, murmuring something.

But he didn’t turn to look at you.

There were papers scattered across the desk and books fallen from the small shelf near his PC. Was he crying?

“Toru, honey… are you okay?” You approached slowly, stepping carefully through the endless papers with the slippers you’d put on after entering. You crouched down at the edge of the bed. “Toru, love, what’s wrong?”

Your worried voice made him turn. The desk lamp finally revealed his fogged-up glasses and his flushed, tear-streaked face. Your heart broke instantly. You didn’t understand why he was crying, or why he was apologizing.

“I… I—” He hyperventilated, his face twisting before he began crying again. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

You looked at his trembling hands. He was holding something pink, familiar.

“Oh…” You understood. It was a small music box — old porcelain — with a tiny ballerina on top. A nostalgic piece from your childhood. The last gift your mother gave you before she left this world.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He repeated it over and over when he saw your face, crying harder now, breathing unevenly. You gently took his wrists. “I’m sorry, really… forgive me… I didn’t mean to break it, I didn’t mean to—”

“Toru, it’s okay… it’s really okay.” You weren’t angry. You could never be angry at him, knowing it had never been his intention. Satoru Gojo was the kindest (sometimes arrogant), most dedicated (a little prideful), and most loving (clingy) person you knew.

Did it make you sad? Yes. A lot.

But things could be fixed.

Your eyes drifted back to his hands, noticing small cuts — probably from trying to gather the pieces in desperation. You knew your boyfriend too well.

“Why don’t you let go of it, hm?” He kept sniffling, breathing unevenly. Someone as tall, strong, and seemingly untouchable as Satoru didn’t look like the emotional type — at least not like this. The class prodigy. Quiet. Intimidating for those who don't know him at all.

You had seen him complain anxiously about clothing tags that irritated his skin. Seen him grow upset when plans changed unexpectedly. Seen him dissociate in loud, crowded places. Seen him make disgusted faces in restaurants, openly telling chefs that certain meat textures were unbearable.

But you had never seen him cry.

“Let’s wash your face, okay?” You placed a soft kiss on his cheek and forehead, gently stroking his face. His sky-colored, diamond-bright eyes looked at you with guilt and fear.

“I’ll put this away, and later we’ll find a way to fix it, alright? But first let’s take care of those cuts… and then you can finish your thesis for Thursday.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, baby.”

“Are you mad at me? Are you going to leave me?”

“No, and no. Just a little sad — but nothing that can’t be fixed. I swear I’ll feel better if you stop crying.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you more.”