Time Will Tell

you told yourself it was petty to care.

but then it happened again, in different ways.

the time he “accidentally” spilled water near your laptop but somehow turned it into a joke about you overreacting.

the way he always managed to just barely beat you in class rankings, like he was toying with the margin on purpose.

how he’d answer a question you were raising your hand for, looking over his shoulder to wink at you while the professor praised him.

the worst part was how untouchable he was. no matter what he did, everyone liked him. the professors adored his wit. classmates leaned toward him in conversation like plants toward sunlight. even the people he embarrassed seemed to forgive him instantly.

and you? you played along.

because to break the illusion would mean explaining— to people who wouldn’t understand—that he wasn’t your rival in the fun, cinematic way they thought. he wasn’t a foil or a muse. he was just… exhausting.

so you kept your voice dry and your smile tight when you spoke to him. you let him think it was banter. you let everyone else think so, too. because it was easier to let the world believe you were some clever pair locked in an endless, flirtatious duel than admit the truth: you wanted him out of your life.

and yet, despite all that—he was everywhere.

every class. every study group. every event you didn’t even know he’d be attending until you heard his laugh from across the room. and each time, he’d make a beeline for you, all effortless energy, as if you were a fixed point in his compass.

you hated how good he was at finding you. you hated even more that you’d started noticing when he wasn’t there.

still, the things he did to piss you off(or just things he did, the way he existed) were too irritating, you absolutely despised him sometimes.

like that time you were deep into exam prep, surrounded by a fortress of books, when a hand slid a cup of coffee across the table toward you. you didn’t look up, because of course it was him, but you did say, flatly,

“if this has spit in it, i’m reporting you.”

gojo dropped into the chair across from you like he’d been invited. “spit? no way. that’s an artisanal oat latte. i had to wait in line for seven minutes for that.”

you stared at him. “i didn’t ask you to.”

“oh, i know.” he leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “but if you burn out before the exam, who will i crush?”

you meant to roll your eyes and go back to your notes. instead, what came out was, “you’re not half as smart as you think you are.”

he grinned. “sure i am. you just think you’re smarter.”

you bit down on the urge to tell him you didn’t think—you knew.

or when you’d somehow gotten paired with him for a group project. halfway through a work session, he started idly tapping his pen against your notebook.

you looked up. “can you not?”

“what, this?” he kept tapping.

“yes, that.” your voice sharpened, the way it did when you were one irritation away from snapping. “you’re distracting.”

his eyes lit up like you’d complimented him. “oh? then it’s working.”

you were so stunned by the sheer audacity of that answer that you just stared at him, giving him exactly the amused eye contact he thought you meant in the first place.

or the afternoon you’d just gotten a test back—second place again, him barely ahead—and you found him leaning against the wall outside, already waiting.

“congrats,” you said dryly, shoving the paper into your bag. “another half-point victory for the golden boy.”

he raised a brow. “you sound jealous.”

“i sound annoyed.”

“same thing, in my experience.” he fell into step beside you as you walked away, his voice easy and bright. “don’t worry. one day you’ll beat me again, and i’ll act all shocked, and we’ll laugh about it. that’s our thing.”

you stopped mid-step. “our thing?”

he smiled like it was obvious. “yeah. the whole ‘you chasing me, me pretending you’re catching up’ thing. it’s cute.”

you almost told him you weren’t chasing him at all. instead, you kept walking, because you knew it wouldn’t matter—he’d just think you were raising the stakes.

one late afternoon, after a seminar, you finally let the irritation slip.

“do you ever stop?” you asked as you both left the building.

he tilted his head. “stop what?”

“being—” you gestured vaguely at his whole existence “—you.”

“not really,” he said cheerfully. “i mean, would you want me to?”

you opened your mouth to say yes, but he was already smirking, like he’d caught you in some elaborate romantic setup. “yeah, didn’t think so.”

you hated him.

and worse—you hated that he was right about one thing: you’d never really get rid of him.

because of that, for a while, it was easier to hate him.

hatred is simple—it’s sharp and clean, like the edge of a paper you didn’t see coming. but somewhere between the constant barbs and the inevitable groupings and the countless “accidental” encounters, you started… not minding him as much.

it was never a sudden switch. it was little things.

like the time your umbrella broke in a sudden downpour and he wordlessly held his over you the whole walk to the station—not teasing, not smug, just humming something under his breath and keeping you both dry. you didn’t thank him, but you also didn’t tell him to get lost.

or how, during one particularly brutal presentation day, he passed you a pack of gum under the table before yours started. you didn’t notice until after you’d nailed it, when he leaned over and said, “told you it’s magic,” and you realised he’d given you his last piece.

and there was that week you got sick. you didn’t tell anyone, but you came into class looking pale and ready to collapse. he noticed instantly—slid his notebook across so you could copy without asking, didn’t make a single joke about it. that was weird for him. unsettling. you didn’t copy anything, instead giving him an exhausted, weirded out look.

yet you started to think… maybe he wasn’t completely insufferable.

you still didn’t like him—god no—but there were moments where the energy between you didn’t feel like a battle. sometimes it was just… something. it felt like calm before storm.

and then came the internship.

you’d both applied for it—competitive, prestigious, the kind of thing that could shove open doors for the rest of your career. you wanted it so badly you’d cut your free time to nothing, prepping and polishing every piece of your application until it was practically a reflection of your soul.

when the results came in, you didn’t even have to check the email. you saw him in the hallway—leaning against the wall, phone in hand, that unstoppable grin stretched across his face.

“guess who’s officially off to the big leagues,” gojo announced to… well, everyone. he was holding his phone up like a trophy, scrolling through something with one hand while he waved the other in a lazy half-gesture. a couple of classmates offered congratulations, and he soaked it up like sunlight.

you felt the floor tilt under you.

you’d been waiting for that email all morning. checking your inbox every ten minutes, refreshing so much your phone battery had dipped into the red. you’d prepped for this internship like your life depended on it—cutting back on sleep, skipping out on weekends, combing through every requirement until you knew them better than your own name.

and he’d gotten it.

of course he had.

when he spotted you, his grin widened. “ohhh, there’s my runner-up. c’mon, don’t keep me in suspense—did you get it too?”

“no,” you said, too fast.

he blinked. “really? huh. weird. you were working your ass off.”

you don’t know if it was the casual way he said it, or the fact that he meant it like some kind of backhanded compliment, or just the sheer unfairness of it all—but something in you cracked.

“yeah, well, some of us have to,” you said, and it came out sharper than you intended.

he tilted his head. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means you breeze through everything without trying, and then you stand there acting like it’s all just some fun little game.” you stepped forward before you could stop yourself, voice rising. “i killed myself over that application. i did everything right. and you—”

you broke off, because your hands were shaking.

gojo straightened slightly, the first flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “hey, it’s not like i didn’t work for it—”

“you didn’t work for this. not like i did. not like anyone else did. you just… exist. and things happen for you. they always have. you can waltz into any room and get whatever you want, because you’re gojo satoru, and people fall over themselves to give it to you.”

he opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him, hand flying up to shut him.

“and you know what? i don’t think this rivalry thing you keep talking about is cute. i don’t think you’re clever, or charming, or any of that crap you clearly believe about yourself. i don’t like you, gojo. i fucking hate you. i have from the start.”

the hallway felt suddenly, horribly quiet. someone down the way ducked into a classroom.

gojo just stared at you.

for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t look like he had a quick comeback ready. he didn’t even look like he knew where to start.

“okay,” he said finally, and it wasn’t his usual playful tone—it was quieter. “didn’t realise you felt that way.”

you almost laughed, because how could he not have realised? but you didn’t. you just shouldered past him and walked away, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

—

he didn’t move for a long time after you walked away.

he just stood there, phone still in his hand, screen dimming to black while the echo of your voice replayed in his head.

i don’t like you. i hate you. i have from the start.

gojo satoru wasn’t used to people telling him they hated him.

sure, he’d heard worse in debates, maybe in a couple of online comment sections, but those were strangers. disposable opinions. and when people didn’t like him in real life, they usually hid it. smiled through their teeth. tolerated him because it was easier than being on his bad side—or, more often, because they didn’t want to miss out on the good side.

you?

he thought you were in on it. the banter, the jabs, the constant back-and-forth—he thought that was your thing. your thing. he’d built the whole framework of whatever the hell your relationship was on that assumption.

and you’d just ripped it apart in a handful of sentences.

he tried to replay your expression, but all he could see was the way your hands had been shaking. not in fear but in that kind of restrained fury that felt personal. not academic, not playful. personal.

“dude, congrats on the internship,” someone said, passing by.

gojo smiled automatically, a thin, mechanical curl of his mouth. “yeah. thanks.”

his body moved through the rest of the day on autopilot. meetings, classes, congratulations. he kept hearing bits of your voice threaded through the noise.

you just exist. and things happen for you. they always have.

it wasn’t like he’d never heard that before—he had. but from you, it landed differently.

by the time he got home, the words had settled somewhere heavy in his chest. he told himself it was just surprise. he told himself you’d cool down, that you’d come back in a week with some sarcastic remark and they’d pick up where they left off.

but there was something else gnawing at him—a suspicion that maybe you hadn’t just been angry about the internship. maybe you’d been angry this whole time, and he’d been too wrapped up in his own little game to see it.

and for the first time since he’d met you, he wasn’t entirely sure how to win.