#wtfreak

"You hurt people as though they're all guilty."

a low quality, highly saturated video of our halftime show from the crowd..? the field was red. ok that's weird. i go look to see if he has a note up.

he does and i'm not kidding he might be THE most annoying person with THE WORST!! grammar i've ever seen. guys wtf is a girlboi. apparently he's a senior but like i said i've never heard that name. i unfollowed him bc his note yesterday said "dayum u corny bois need to chill" YOU'RE 17-18 PLEASE GROW UP😓

i am standing on top of a table. i am yelling into a sock. i am clutching my phone like it holds the secret to life and muttering quotes under my breath like a man possessed. the way this fic unfolded??? the rhythm?? the audacity to be this good at writing emotion??? i am shriveling. i am a person-shaped husk. you wove yearning into every line like it was your full-time job. i could feel the weight of every look, every twitch of a hand, every breath caught in the throat like it might never come out again. you made silence scream. you made a microwaved meal feel like a declaration of eternal love. you made eye contact feel like a war crime. i actually cannot breathe.

THE BANter. THE DIALOGUE. THE WAY THEY TALK TO EACH OTHER. it’s criminal. illegal in at least seventeen countries. how are you this good at letting two people argue like they want to kiss each other sick. she’s all brittle edges and sleep deprivation. he’s sunshine with too many teeth. it’s electric. it’s feral. and underneath every snide comment is a tenderness that makes me want to bite drywall. i had to pause. i had to stand up and walk around the room with my hands on my head like i’d just seen my otp invented in real time.

and the sketchbook scene? no. no because that was not a scene that was a spiritual event. that was a holy pilgrimage of emotion. the fact that he wasn’t just chill about it, but delighted? like it confirmed something he already hoped was true? the fact that she’s humiliated and he’s over here like, "you like me. you love me. you want to kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid" without even saying it out loud??? teeth. gone. disintegrated. he looks through those drawings like it’s a photo album of a life he didn’t know he was already living with her. and her, standing there like she’s been stripped down to bone and nerve?? i am SCREAMING. in joy. in pain. in religious awe.

i’m typing this from the floor. i’m typing this from inside a hoodie pulled over my head because i physically could not handle the softness of gojo bringing food like it’s no big deal. the way he’s just there. always there. every time she needs him, every time she pretends she doesn’t. he’s obnoxious and dramatic and too much and he notices. he doesn’t ask for anything in return. just lets her pretend it doesn’t mean anything while also clearly meaning everything. this fic proves god plays favorites and you are one of them.

the dorm room. the tiny overheated dorm room that smells like paint and effort and something that aches under your ribs. that room is alive. i have never felt so attached to four walls. the way it holds all their moments. the way it becomes this microcosm for love and growth and chaos. the way they orbit each other in that tiny space like moons tied to the same planet. if i close my eyes i can hear the fan. i know where the sketchbook is hidden. i know where the ramen cup got knocked over and left a ring on the floor. i live there now.

i’m also not okay about how their tone shifts with the seasons. you made emotional progression taste like sunlight. summer is heat and hunger. autumn is collapse, burnout, the quiet beginning of intimacy. winter is soft touches and shocking vulnerability. i could write an essay on the use of seasonal metaphor alone. you don’t just write change, you embody it. you let the relationship expand and shrink and find new ways to exist over time. it’s real. it’s patient. it hurts so good.

i need to talk about how you handled care. the acts of care that go unspoken. the ramen. the drinks. the nudging about meals. the way he knows she’s broke and doesn’t make her feel bad about it. the way she starts to soften, to let him in. she doesn’t know how to accept help, and he doesn’t make her ask for it. he just gives it. and then gives more. and more. until it’s love and no one’s said it out loud and it doesn’t even matter because it’s all over the place. in the meals. in the hands. in the sketchbook. in the game.

THE GAME. I ALMOST FORGOT THE GAME. the way he plays like the whole world depends on it because she put twenty bucks on him and he decided that meant everything. the way he performs like a man possessed. and then sulks when she tells him how little she bet. sir you destroyed a team over that. you flexed so hard over twenty dollars. i love him. i love him in ways that embarrass me.

and your writing. your writing is disgusting. it’s alive. every word has weight. the prose is fast and clever and heartfelt and punchy. i read it out loud to myself in a whisper. i highlighted lines like they were scripture. the little beats. the way you describe his smile. the way you let them move. the way she holds the pencil like it’s the last tether to something real. i was THERE. i could smell the ramen. i could feel the heat. this wasn’t reading. it was possession.

this fic is the blueprint. this fic is everything i love about fic in one place. it is clever and stupid and slow and messy and warm and infuriating and i want to build a small shrine to it in my closet. thank you. thank you for the art. thank you for ruining my day in the best way. thank you for writing satoru gojo like a problem and a promise. thank you for writing a reader who is tired and proud and still learning how to want things.

i am unwell. and i would do it all again tomorrow. louder.

I—HELLO? HELLOOOOOO??? WHY ARE YOU WRITING REVIEWS THAT SOUND LIKE YOU JUST SURVIVED A HISTORICAL EVENT????? this was a spiritual retelling of your reading journey. i feel like i need to frame this and hang it above my bed. i was grinning, pacing, blushing, kicking my feet, and then pacing again like i was the one waiting for a letter from war.

i’m actually about to cry because you GET IT. you get all the little things i was obsessed with while writing—THE MEALS. THE SEASONS. THE FIC BEING ALIVE IN THE DORM ROOM’S WALLS. you saw it. you lived in it. and now i’m gonna reread your entire ask like that’s the fic. i'm SO serious, you took the time to write all this and understood what i was trying to do and now i’m feral and curled up on the floor.

thank you for making me feel like what i wrote mattered. thank you for screaming, sobbing, and punching the air. this is the nicest, most dramatic, most deeply insane message i have ever received and i want to hug you so hard we both disintegrate. just. thank you.