đ àšàš ÖŽ ÊáŽÊáŽê± đČ ÖŽÖ¶Öž â đ â 22, she/her INFJ. XG enthusiast and an ateez soft enjoyer. Love color brown and rainstorms. Scared of people smh. absolutely LOVE WOS, Sade, Seal and HUMBE. LADS and genshin player (oh lord have mercy)[that is a TW enough lmao].
Kaeya main (a sad try of one), Zayne main girl and a Xavier protector smh. Letâs share playlists?
which ones are your favorites?
art lover, but somehow ended up studying something that involves maths and tons of physics.
todayâs tape đ§âŠ
plss don't hesitate to talk w me i love love love talking abt your day or anything. I for sure will lend you a hand <33
Did you know that hippo milk is color pink? Thatâs - the forbidden strawberry milkđ!
He said he would win, but he didnâtâŠsigh, all men do is lie.
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Winged cats are the result of a genetic skin disorder called cutaneous asthenia, which makes the skin across the shoulders and back extremely elastic. When the cat runs, the dense mats flap up and down giving the impression of wings.Â
man i was like, how does a person write smut? and then i was like, okay you know what? let me see if i can do it without having experienceâŠ.
i think i discovered some things about myself that made me close my damned laptop and go touch some grassâŠ
PD: im actually shocked i canât even look at myself without scolding me, like a disappointed parent, like, why am i like this? since when? i didnât raise you like this.
SUMMARY: Some confessions were never meant to be heard â only written.
A/N: Okay, it took me a while because I had to get a lot of things out of me. I have a crush for the first time (or at least one I have to write PAGES about, for days (i swear, now counting my diary pages they are around 20 i hate this omg)). Itâs definitely inspired/pulled straight from my diary pages, but with help from the song âCĂłmo Respirarâ by HUMBE, so I hope you like it. Honestly, I didnât have one of the LADS in particular in mind, but I think it leans more toward Xavier, though it could fit any of them.
Something youâd never dare to say out loud is how much you longed to be loved. Not that fleeting kind that dissolves in empty promises, but one that would look at you without fear. A love that would hold your wrists gently, that would kiss your palms as if they held secrets, that would desire you without restraint.
You dreamed of someone truly seeing you. Of someone saying your name with the trembling voice of someone whoâs thought about it too much. Of someone searching for you with their eyes as if afraid to lose you in the crowd.
And then, without warning, he arrived.
He didnât bring flowers or pretty words. Only a simple, almost distracted presence that, without meaning to, disarmed you. He was a light that carried calm within it, with a voice so light yet so deep it demanded the attention of your senses. The first time you noticed him, it was barely a spark. Then, it became a habit.
A dangerous habit.
You started looking for him without saying it.
Waiting for him without admitting it.
Noticing the small gestures: how he seemed to drift away when talking to someone, the way his eyes absorbed the light, how his brow furrowed right before he laughed.
And with every detail, your heart wove an illusion.
Every coincidence became a sign.
Every held gaze, a promise.
Every word, a prophecy you invented yourself.
âWhat were you talking about?â he asked one afternoon, approaching with a distracted yawn.
âNothing important,â you replied, though inside your voice screamed the opposite.
And it was enough. A phrase. A fleeting glance. A brush of his arm against yours.
Tiny crumbs of attention you turned into constellations.
Love didnât strike you like lightning; it just wrapped around you slowly, like a warm tide you never noticed rising. Every day you saw him, your chest filled with a soft hope, a gentle anxiety.
And every night, that same hope withered into silent tears.
Because you knew the truth. You knew he didnât look at you the way you looked at him.
You knew the coincidences were only that: coincidences.
Yet your mind and heart argued every time you saw him smile.
It was an impossible love, but the kind that hurts sweetly. The kind that feels real only in solitude. The kind that burns without touch.
âDo you see me the way I see you?â youâd ask silently when you caught him staring for a second, only for him to look away right after.
Sometimes, you believed he did. Other times, that he was simply looking through you. Maybe you were caught in the middle of his daydreams, the ones only he could see when he drifted off into his thoughts.
You hated yourself for reading so much between the lines. For thinking maybe your delusions could bend the universe in your favor: like the rain that started the day he arrived late, soaked and drowsy; the coffee he spilled by accident when he passed by you, the one that ran down to your feet and made him look at you; that one time when, instead of leaving, he stayed beside you, just a breath away.
âWhat were you saying?â he asked that day, joining the conversation. You looked at him, and for the first time, you held his gaze without running away.
âNothing,â you whispered, handing him a stack of papers. âIâm done.â And inside you thought: Iâm done pretending you donât matter.
That night, you cried. Because during the meeting at the association, you realized you loved him, but he didnât love youânot when his eyes lit up as he turned to look at her, and there was no cure for that. That even if you were never something, he already lived inside your thoughts, in every word you wrote, in every song that made you remember.
Holding back your tears as you closed your eyes, you tried to focus on the music playing through your headphones, soft melodies your only comfort. And as the singerâs voice dissolved into the air, you understood: he had been your mirror.
Your reflection of desire, but never your destiny.
You built defenses, walls, everything to stop feeling again. But one laugh of his was enough to make them crumble.
One greeting was enough for your foolish, hopeful heart to bloom again.
And still, with your soul torn apart, you knew you had to let him go.
That day, he came closer than ever. He greeted you naturally, as if he somehow knew it was a goodbye.
You only looked at him and smiled. Not with sadness, but with gratitude.
âAre you okay?â he asked, sensing your unusual calm.
âYes,â you said, looking into his eyes. âJust⊠finally breathing.â
And it was true. For the first time in a long while, you breathed without your chest hurting. You watched him lean back at his desk, but now without that old ache. You no longer searched for him desperately. You no longer feared his smile.
You knew you had loved him because you were able to let him go. Because you turned him into poetry, because there was no other way to have him.
Love, you wrote, isnât always about fighting for someone. Sometimes, love is accepting that they donât belong to you.
And letting him go is your final act of love.
He never knew. He never read your words.
Never heard the echo of his name between your lines.
But you did. And that was enough.
Because even as the world kept spinning, even as your heart still whispered his name in dreams, you knew it had reached the end.
He was the storm.
You, the air that held him as he passed.
And when it was all over, you took a deep breath and, in silence, almost tenderly, you said your farewell:
âYou will be the air⊠because I canât have you, but you still make me breathe.â
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Genre: Comfort (a bit angst but only mentions of it mostly fluff bc i like someone)
Summary: The moon watched them love each other, and since then the sea has not been able to sleep.
A/N: Sick fluff, people in love ig (ew) jk. English no my first language, i do what i can. It was a fic that i did for atz lmao, i adapted it to raf, bc i can, and bc i love him ok?
INSPIRED: by the songs slow down & be myself by Why Don't We
He had told you he needed to vent to the sea to calm the nerves you caused him, that the time he spent away from you was meant to stop thinking about you (something that always proved useless). You both knew the cold wind that filled the beach at night wasnât the reason for his trembling, but a terrible excuse to explain it away.
He smiled when you understood, took your hand with a confidence he didnât feel, and led you to the pier.
âCome with me, darling,â he said as he looked at you. His eyes, teary from the sand and from the emotion that crossed them in bursts, witnessed how the moonlight, once the spotlight that illuminated a dream he didnât know how to make real, that incandescent light, now shone upon his reality.
The music of the waves was soft, an echo that seemed to rise from the deepest part of the seaâs heart. Everything smelled of salt, sometimes a faint trace of tamed despair, it smelled like nights that refused to end. You let your fingers slide through his hair, surprised by how soft it was, almost as if the ocean had forgiven him.
That was him: spontaneous, imperfect, luminous, always finding beauty where others saw only routine.
That was why you loved him.
The kiss came without warning, warm and slow. The vanilla of your balm mixed with the salt clinging to his lips, as if it were a blessing from the ocean. And for an instant, you thought that if love did have a taste, it must be that oneâsweet, salty, almost burning. When you parted, both of you wore smiles stretched by the complicity of those whoâve shared something that can never happen quite the same way again.
You watched him carefully, as if trying to memorize him: the straight nose, the eyes like the colors of that dayâs sunset, when, after almost losing you, he decided it was time to confess what he felt. And behind him, a barely perceptible shadow, the sea embracing him in a melancholy that did not belong to the night.
He had that almost sickly beauty everyone desired, but only the brave could look at without fear.
He covered your face with kisses when he noticed your attention had drifted, one on each cheek, another on your eyelids, one more on the tip of your nose. You closed your eyes, surrendering to the game once again, breathing in his scent mixed with the sea breeze.
The entire night seemed to rest upon that suspended instant.
You laughed. You danced. You forgot everyone else.
No one would have guessed it, but neither of you had expected the night to end that way. It had started with an argument, about how he seemed to spend more time with his â beloved bodyguard.â Tired of a discussion without end, youâd walked out, with him following behind, trying to explain himself.
And outside, when both were surrounded by the salty air of truth, you began to learn to recognize your own feelings. During the bright colors of sunset, you confessed everything you felt.
The music of the tide had grown louder, and he watched you dance. There was something in you that seemed to contradict the world: an ancient sadness hidden beneath your smile. He remembered how you had just apologized for being, now, in such disastrous condition, and that was when he told you, almost without thinking:
"We all look pathetic some nights⊠but youâre beautiful, even more so tonight".
You didnât blush. You simply looked at him with tenderness, with that calm that comes when one is too tired to pretend. You leaned closer and let his breath dry the tears you hadnât realized youâd cried.
For the first time, neither of you felt the need to hide anything.
His hands, firm at first, now trembled slightly. You took them gently, as if that were a kind of unbreakable promise, and between the two of you.
âI wish the sun wouldnât set,â you whispered, watching the moon shine brighter than ever. âI donât want this to ever end.â
He smiled, closing his eyes, brushing your nose with his.
âIt doesnât have to end, right? Letâs make it eternal.â
The starsâ glow reflected on the water, and the air seemed to dance with joy around you, but for the two of you, the world had shrunk until it fit between your intertwined fingers.
Then he said, kissing the knuckles of your hand as he sealed his promise:
" Tomorrow we can turn back time, darling. We can go back, and Iâll fall in love with you all over again".
You didnât answer with words. You only kissed him, and in that kiss, time seemed to stop. Behind you, the sea kept breathing, slow, heavy, eternal. The moon shone in happiness with the stars, and the air leapt with excitement.
Surely the night wasnât eternal. None ever is.
But the memory was.
Sometimes, in the years that followed, you thought of that night while watching the sun set over the sea from your window: of the salty skin, the moon, the way he looked at you as if seeing you for the first time, every time. You knew that even as the world kept turning, a part of you both had stayed there, in that place where time had chosen not to move.
You learned to love each other in many ways after that, with more silences than words, with days that no longer smelled of the sea but still of home.
Of paint and laughter. Between tired chuckles he said one afternoon:
âDo you remember that night? I promised Iâd make it eternal.â
âAnd it was,â you answered, brushing a bit of paint from his cheek, the evidence of your small war of brushes. âItâs not like any other night.â
The love that began with an argument and unfolded into a night before the calm of the sea survived the seasons that changed the tide, the noise of the waves, and the changes within you both.
Because when you found each other, you learned something time could never erase:
that love isnât always about lasting, but about stopping long enough to be yourself inside the other.
And in that infinite pause, the night remained alive.
The sea that watched the moon will be there, even when they will not.
Some nights, when the wind smells of salt and the waves seem to laugh, itâs easy to believe that time, for a moment, stopped as it did back then.
That they still danced beneath the silver light, unafraid of dawn.
That the moon, faithful witness, still keeps in its reflection that love which, though mortal, was eternal in its own way.
SUMMARY: Sometimes love isn't a heart's fire: it's a heartbeat that brings the cosmos to rest.
A/N: Hi! so, for my first no angst i wanted it to be Zayne, again i'll like to add that english is not my first lenguage and that I sometimes ask help of my bff (google translate) for some words :]. That's my MC in the pic, she is pretty lmao.
Night had fallen hours ago, but the city was still awake.
The traffic lights flickered like exhausted stars that still refused to die, and the headlights blended into the drizzle.
Zayne parked the car in front of the house without looking at the time; he'd already learned that clocks only reminded him of the distance between his time and yours.
Inside, the silence smelled of calm.
The table was set, the kitchen light on with a warm hue, as if the home were waiting awake, patiently.
You were there, sitting on the couch, with a book open and your eyes barely holding on. You didn't get up immediately; you just smiled at him, that kind of smile that, if you ask himâdoesn't question, just welcomes.
"I thought you weren't coming today," you said, your voice a mix of relief and sleep.
He sighed, taking off his shoes, his coat, his gloves, his tie... everything that weighed more than it should have.
"Me too," he replied tiredly, plopping down next to you.
Zayne felt the weight of your body disappear from his side after a few minutes, and when he opened his eyes planning to ask why you left his side, he saw a plate, still warm. And although you didn't say "you have to eat," Zayne didn't ask any questions and took the plate from your hand. You waited for the sound of cutlery to break the silence.
He ate slowly, as if afraid of waking up in the night. The lights of the operating room, his racing heartbeat, the mechanical sound of the machines deciding who stayed and who went were still in his head.
But at home, everything was different.
The ticking of the clock sounded like a sleeping heart.
The air, warm.
The sound of pages turning and the almost imperceptible sound of cutlery hitting the plate filled the room with music.
And your gaze, the only constant.
âI don't know how you do this,â he murmured suddenly, placing his plate on the table.
You stopped reading, placing a finger between the pages as you looked at him.
âWhat? Cook without carrots?â
âWaiting for me without getting tired.â
You smiled, gently putting the book down.
âBecause I know that, when you arrive,â you said, lowering your voice as if afraid the night would hear, âthe universe rests a little⊠or at least mine does.â
Zayne looked at you then, and understood.
That heart in the galaxies that bears your form, that life that only turns when you breathe
His entire life revolved around a pulse: that of others, that of his job, that of the city.
But you were the only one who didn't demand him to save you.
You just let him exist.
Outside, the rain turned to mist, and the lights reflected in the windows like fragments of galaxies that had forgotten their names.
Zayne rested his head in your lap and closed his eyes.
You ran your fingers through his hair; he sighed at the touch, as if your touch traced orbits on his skin and rearranged the constellations of his weariness.
In that moment, there were no hospitals or alarms.
Only the sound of breathing, as two people who had survived the day.
And as he closed his eyes again, he thought that maybe that's what love was:
A gravity that holds without demanding movement...
a piece of the Milky Way held in a weary heart,
a pause where even the stars stop to look...
Then Zayne looked up at you. There was a suspended moment, a flicker where the world seemed to hold air.
His hands sought yours, timid at first, as if afraid of breaking something sacred. His fingers brushed yours, and a small, almost electric tremor ran up both arms.
You didn't say anything, but your eyes invited him closer.
Zayne leaned up a little, and when his forehead touched yours, the universe stopped for another second.
The first kiss wasn't an explosion, but a shared breath.
A brief, contained touch, but so full of silence that even the rain seemed to fall silent.
A heartbeat.
Two.
And then the gentle vertigo of meeting.
He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed.
Maybe that's what love is... he thought, not knowing if he was speaking or thinking, he murmured, "Because all the nights under the stars seemed eternal if you weren't there."
Because in every galaxy, there's a point where everything stops;
And he had found his eternal calm right there,
in the chest of someone who didn't mend hearts,
but who knew how to put his own to rest.
From then on, when he looked out his office window, he didn't look for stars: he only followed the invisible heartbeat that guided him back to you, murmuring your name to make it immortal.
That soft, steady rhythm that seemed to come from far away, as if the universe itself were breathing between your hands.
The pulse of the cosmos.
His pulse.
Yours.
A/N 2: Also, I genuinely thought that people wouldn't like what I wrote, but it seems I was wrong. Thank you so much for interacting with my few works! I hope you like the future ones that I will make, as much!
SUMMARY: Whatâs stronger? The fire of the dragon or the light of the fireflies?
A/N: angst again because im petty, Sylus hasnât come home and im brokeđ€Ș. Btw english isnât my first language soâŠ
INSPIRED BY: the song âsiento que merezco mĂĄsâ by latin mafia (i know i deserve more by latin mafia)
The clock on the table read 2:47 a.m.
The lights in the hallway seemed to communicate with an almost electric hum, and you were still there, in front of the screen, your already cold cup of coffee between your fingers.
You had stopped counting the hours weeks ago; time had become background noise, like Sylus's voice in meetings.
At first, you had dismissed it as tiredness, because, Onichynus's boss, right?. But the days turned into months, and he never changed; it seemed as if he was already used to you being there.
He no longer looked for you. He no longer said "what do you think?" after outlining a plan. He just nodded, gave precise orders, and left before you could finish speaking.
And yet, you stayed. Out of habit. Out of loyalty. Out of a kind of love that merges with vocation. Because you had been a perfect team once.
You invented, he executed.
He dreamed of controlling the chaos of the world, and you of deciphering it. Sylus had told you one night, between ballads and glasses of whiskey:
âYou are indispensable.â
And that had been enough for you to believe.
You believed that âindispensableâ had a softer tone than the professional one, that behind the word lay a silent promise, a kind of alliance. You believed so much that you changed without realizing it, undergoing a metamorphosis that enveloped you in a cocoon of lies and dreams that were no longer yours.
Less rest, fewer mistakes, less âI.â
More precision, more silence, more him.
And time doesn't careâŠ
Because now âsheâ was here, that new figure with a bright smile and a warrior's spirit; the air in the mansion changed. Sylus smiled more, and not at you.
Now decisions were made in another room, and the projects that had once been both of you now bore only his name.
It wasn't the lingering silence of his "what do you think?" anymore, but now his mangy "what are you doing here?" And you understood...
And it hurt slowly. That kind of pain you don't feel the need to shout, but rather you let accumulate like dust on shelves.
One night, one of the many where your work seemed endless, and after gallons of coffee, you were granted a break.
That night, while you were putting away files that Luke and Kieran had brought in the morning, you heard him come in. The sound of his footsteps was the same as always, confident, restrained, dangerous.
Your gaze didn't rise until he spoke.
"I didn't know you were still here."
âNor youâ you replied without turning around.
There was a short, awkward silence. You didn't stop typing, the sound the only familiar and comforting thing in that room. He watched you for a few seconds, curious and anxious rubies that appeared when Sylus didn't understand something.
"You've been distant lately."
"No, I'm just more efficient."
He frowned, taking a step closer. "Did I do something?" You gave a short, hollow laugh.
"That question comes fashionably late."
You turned, and Sylus could finally see your eyes, eyes that once shone despite the dark circles under their eyes, now empty and tired.
Your hair was disheveled, and you trembled occasionally; a twitch in your eyebrow from the amount of caffeine consumed that day, a figure that seemed straight out of a poorly edited dream. Sylus grimaced a bit.
The blue glow of the monitors painted his skin with an almost spectral light. In the end, that's what he became, a ghost of what was indispensable.
You or him?
"You know what hurts, Sylus?" you asked, lowering your voice.
"Surprise me."
"That I... changed for you." The silence fell like a drop on glass. You took a deep breath, letting the words out, cold but shaky. âFrom day one, we clashed on everything. I didn't think like you, I didn't work like you, and yet I tried. I learned to follow the plan, to keep quiet when I had to, to not contradict you in front of others. Because I thought that was what you needed.â
He narrowed his eyes. âI didn't ask you to change.â
âNo. But you also werenât human enough to stop me when I did.â You paused trying to calm down âThe worst part? That I stood too long inside your abyss, that for years, i didnât knew who i was anymoreâ.
A spark crossed the air, invisible but real. You turned back to the screen, moving the cursor meaninglessly. Silence appeared for minutes, as if it was mourning with you something only he failed to notice was no longer there.
Trying not to be too disturbing to your new found friend, you murmured, âThe difference between the right word and the almost right word is the same as between lightning and a lightning bug.â
âWhat's that supposed to mean?â
âThat you were my almost. You were almost a friendship. Almost appreciation. Almost love. But never enough to not make me feel replaceable.â
He didn't respond. And in that lack of response was everything.
In the days that passed, no one noticed the change. You still arrived on time, you still made every task praise worthy. As if that conversation had only been the product of Sylus's nightmares.
But he noticed; he realized that you no longer sought his approval; you no longer waited for his gaze.
You now returned to the mansion before dawn, a big smile on your face and cologne that wasnât his. You turned on your office lights, and began building things without purpose, for him ant least ,machines that turned just for the pleasure of it. You liked the sound of the gears, the smell of hot metal, the fact of creating something that had nothing to do with him.
Build something that's yours.
Something you decided to do.
It didn't hurt anymore. But it didn't heal either.
Sylus watched you through Mephisto's mechanical eyes, occasionally resting on your window.
You laughed with someone you were talking to on the phone, a laugh he no longer knew.
You talked about your dreams, dreams he'd never heard of. Things you would never have dared to try if you'd chosen him.
You didn't say anything to him anymore, and he didn't know why that weighed so heavily on him.
But now he knew. Art is a lie that tells the truth, and she had become his most honest work: You stayed, but not for him anymore.
Because a dragon will never stay with the firefly, because its light comes from different emotions.
Where the fire burns proudly, the light that learns to shine on its own will never stay.
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Summary: The stars finally realized the Earth wasnât yearning for them.
Genre: Angst (oops, kind of in my feelings bc i wrote thins on the bus while listening to music)
A/N: First time posting anything LADS related, so yeah. Also my first language isnât english so, if there are any typos sorry đ„č.
INSPIRED BY: the song Astros by HUMBE
You were walking back from what you would pitifully call a date.
Heâd received a call during dinner, he said it was important.
It wasnât from work.
It was her.
You had to end your first night out before it even started, just because she needed help. With what? You didnât bother to know.
Not anymore.
The night stretched wide and heavy, stitched together by a thousand silent stars. The air was cool, almost too still, the kind of quiet that makes thoughts louder.
âLaying down to watch the stars?â
His tone cut through the silence like frost: cold, faintly irritated, as if the very idea of rest were a sin.
Youâd asked to stop here, after passing a small clearing where the moon seemed to shine brighter than anywhere else. Without waiting for him, youâd walked toward it.
He followed, boots pressing against the grass with impatience.His tone cut through the quiet like frost, cold and faintly irritated, as if the very idea of delaying were a sin. You had requested it, after passing by a nice soot where the moon seemed to shine brighter than anywhere else. Without waiting for him you went there.
He followed, boots pressing against the grass with impatience.
âWhat are you doing? I told you not to. I donât have time for this.âHe looked up then, but only for a heartbeat, as if the stars themselves had insulted him by daring to be calm.
You didnât move. Your body already melted into the ground, arms folded behind your head, a small smile resting on your lips.
âHow unusual from you, colonel, you who built your life around the stars on the sky, have you become to used to them that you donât find them beautiful anymore?â you asked, as if the last line held another meaning that only both of you knew, you closed your eyes, unwilling to watch the way he frowned when words hit too close âThen perhaps thatâs your fault,â you murmured, voice soft, almost swallowed by the wind. âYou rush through life so fast, you fail to see how slowly the Earth spins.âthe words seemed to hang in the air, shimmering like starlight; quiet, but impossible to ignore.
You raised one arm toward the sky, fingers tracing invisible constellations. âBreathing shouldnât be a survival instinct,â you continued, knowing heâd call it yapping if he could.
He shifted, restless because she was waiting.
âIt should be something we enjoy⊠something we do willingly, something we take time to care about.â
A small sigh escaped you as you turned your gaze back to him. Your hand hovered, palm open, as if offering him one of the stars youâd caught.
âAfter all,â you said softly, âthe real luxury is living. And if you rush through life, you donât get to enjoy it...you only suffer it.â
He stood there, silent. The impatient anger in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something heavier, a weight he couldnât name.
For a moment, he looked at you. Then at the sky. âBut maybe rushing through it⊠is what Iâve been doing all my life,â he said quietly.
You smiled faintly, not looking at him. âBut is it worth it? The sun can wait for the Earth to spin around it, why canât you wait?â
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
âThe Earth can only circle the Sun,â he said, voice low. âNo matter how much the stars yearn for the Earth.â
You looked up then, your expression unreadable.
âBecause the Sunâs gravity pulls harder than the stars ever could,â he continued, almost to himself.
âThe Sun canât wait, because there is only one sun but millions of stars. And the Earth⊠doesnât know how to love a light that isnât born from fire.â
You closed your eyes as his footsteps faded into distance, tears slipped free, not from surprise, but from understanding.
You understood when he answered that call.
You understood that she is all he knows.
All he would ever love no matter how much he is surrounded by beauty, warmth, and love... because none of it will ever be hers.
Because she was the one that taught him what light was, and everything else feels dim in comparison.
Soulmate AU! With Caleb. (Non MC Reader) (pt. 1 here)
"You don't like me much, don't you doc? " You non-chalantly ask, munching on some chips your cousin brought. They said that they read somewhere that taste can jog up memory. You remember your family, but other details you don't. It makes you feel sad, like you had been robbed of your life, but for some reason, remembering nothing also makes it easier to breathe. Your question stops the doctor in his tracks.
He puts down the chart before resigning himself to take a seat beside your bed. It's not like he hates you, he just... Didn't appreciate that you put his wife on the spot that night before this happened... And he might've told you to fuck off the morning after. So imagine his surprise to see your name on his rounds. He just decides to tell you, "That's not true. We were friends."
"Uhuh, they keep telling me that too. Sorry I can't remember you, Doc. I'm sure you must've been nice." He almost grimaces at that, the guilt bubbling in his throat. Truthfully, what you said that night wasn't exactly a lie, it was nonetheless true. But still, husband duties.Â
There is something that changed within you, Zayne notices. A striking difference between before and after- significant one being that you seem to speak your mind more. You weren't a push over before per se, but you also didn't say things that's on your mind, specially when it came to Caleb. But you don't seem to care now. He can't say he doesn't appreciate it. As a doctor, it's frustrating, given the depth your condition has seem to reach. But honestly, as a friend? He thinks this is better.Â
"Mrs-Doctor-Zayne also visits me every now and then. Brings me mementos and pictures. They tell me she's my bestfriend. It's honestly frustrating that I can't remember anything aside from my family. I'm sorry Dr. Zayne, I know your wife means well. But I really can't remember anything. I'm trying. But it's like I'm in an empty room and all the doors are locked and the open ones are also empty rooms."
"It's not your fault. You're trying." He gets up and puts a hand on your shoulder. You awkwardly offer him a smile and a thumbs up before he leaves to continue his rounds.
Caleb comes around noon. He does it every day without fail. He brings you everything he can, he brings you food, scents, a playlist. And now, in his arms, is a memory box you kept under your bed. He doesn't lose hope, they told him they might take some time and he'll be damned before he gives up. He sees you staring outside your window. You look so much at peace he has half a mind not to disturb you. But your eyes catch his, and you offer him a polite smile. Before you invite him in.
He won't lie there is hurt, to see no recognition in your eyes. You look at him like he isn't anything special. Like he's just some guy you bumped on the streets with. You say his name like you just memorized it because people keep saying it. Like he's some mutual friend you shared with people and nothing more.
"So Caleb, what goodies do you bring me today? "
He presents the box to you. Tells you that you made it during your teenage years. It's full of tickets, of receipts, of pictures. You take each one, study it intently before taking another and doing the same. Your face registers something lips pursing and he swears there is recognition there. You look at him with curious eyes, "Why is it always in threes?"
He stammers. "We always travelled as a group. With MC."
"Oh, Mrs-Doctor-Zayne! " You nod.
You find the pictures. You study them. They are candid ones taken in photo booths, polaroids. They did make you feel something and brings him hope. There is a way that your eyebrows furrow and your chest heavily breathes. You don't like the way you look in this photos. It's not that you look ugly, but you look so fucking sad. Like you smile in pain. Like your trying to convince yourself you're supposed to be happy and you don't like it one bit. You also see the way Caleb smiles in this pictures. You put them back in the box.
"I must have been so in love with you. Otherwise, you can't think of a reason I'm in these pictures even though it clearly pained me so much." You tell him with a small laugh.
Straight to the chest, aim and shot in bullseye. Caleb isn't prepared for this reaction but he swallows it down. His eyes water but he blinks it away. "Yeah, yeah you loved me."
You study the pictures again. A scrunch on your lip. You contemplate whether to tell him, but he looks at you like he wants you to tell him what's on your mind, so you do. With a scratch on the back of your head, you try to word it as gentle as possible, "In these pictures, I get the impression that you have uhm, deep, very deep feelings for Mrs-Doctor-Zayne, am I wrong?"
He slowly shakes his head. Your smile grows bigger, so you are right! Yes! Improvement! You make mental note to flex it on your new friend later. Before a thought dawns on you and you are again left with confusion.
"But if you have feelings for Mrs-Doctor-Zayne, then how come they tell me you're my fiance?"
That question stabs him. It hurts him. How? Why? He knows he's been a piece of shit, but he vowed to himself to spend every waking day and dedicate it to you. This isn't going to falter him now.
"Because your my soulmate. We're meant to be together." He puts his hand up, showing you the red string tied to his pinky. It's magical really, the way you see it wrapped around his finger without knowing where it comes from and it never seems to end. You have seen it with Dr. Zayne and his wife, with other patients. Your eyes travel from his hand to yours. You place your hands neatly om your lap. Intenselystudying them you almost incinirate them if you could. Because...
You raise both your hands for him to see, you nervously laugh but you also feel kinda bad,
"I'm sorry, but... I think there's nothing there. "
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operation: get over your childhood crush! â gojo satoru
synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friendâwho definitely doesnât see you the way you wantâyou hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.
contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably
notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P
The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoruâs bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. Youâre both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like itâs the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.
Satoruâs Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. Youâre curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.
âYour room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,â you mumble, nose scrunching.
âThatâs because you bought it,â he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.
âBecause your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.â
âHey!â He whines. âI shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?â
You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. âRude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.â
âAh yes,â he deadpans, ânothing like artificial sugar scent.ââ
You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. Thereâs a long pause before you say, âYou know, if we fail our exams, Iâm blaming your Digimon addiction.â
He grins. âIâm raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And Iâve never failed an exam, donât wound me now!â
âThey look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.â
He gasps, clutching his heart. âTheyâre champions, you monster.â
You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.
His glasses are tilted again. Of course.
You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. âHonestly, youâd be lost without me.â
âNot true.â He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. âOkay, maybe. Iâd probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.â
You smile faintly. âAnd thereâd be no one there to patch you up.â
âTragic,â he agrees. âWould bleed out on the floor, probably.â
âYouâre so dramatic.â
âYouâre so bossy,â he counters, shooting you a sideways look.Â
âAdmit it,â he says, voice full of faux-smugness, âyouâd miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.â
You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, âDonât joke about that.â
Itâs quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.
He doesnât say anything.
You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.
But something inside you twists, the same something thatâs been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.
Another type. Thatâs not you.
âYou know,â you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure modelâs latest issues as its wallpaper. âYou could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? Itâs anti-girl repellent.â
He makes a noncommittal sound. âDoubt it.â
âI donât. Youâve got that whole genius-who-doesnât-realize-heâs-hot thing going on.â
He glances at you, skeptical. âIs that⊠a thing?â
âIt is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.â
He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. âWell, good to know I have options.â
You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.
You shouldnât ask. You really shouldnât.
But youâre lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.
So you pretend itâs a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. âHey, be honestâdo you think Iâm cute?â
He goes still.
His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think youâve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.
âNot like⊠like that,â you say quickly. âI just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls youâre into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?â
His jaw tightens.
Youâre still trying to play it off. âI mean, Iâm not fishing for compliments. I justâwas wondering. Curiosity. Science.â
He finally turns to look at you.
His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, heâs not smiling.
You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.
Then he shrugs.
ââŠNah.â
It slices through the air with quiet finality.
Your heart drops. You donât let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.
You laugh. It sounds forced.
âYeah, thatâs fair. I mean, I wasnât expecting a yes or anything.â
Heâs silent.
You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. âI should head home soon. We didnât really get any studying done, anyway.â
âItâs late. Why donât you stay the night?â
Usually, youâd accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.
âItâs fine, I have something to do anyway,â the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.
And you miss the way he watches youâguilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.Â
You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.
It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.
Youâd been doomed since day one.
And to make things worse, youâd both gotten into Japanâs most competitive universityâtogether. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You werenât just stuck with him. You were haunted.
But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldnât keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it âsmelled like you, so why not?â
You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and todayâs topic wasâunfortunatelyâyour love life.
âHonestly, I canât believe youâve been stuck on Gojo for this long,â Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. âYou could do so much better.â
âIt was kind of cute in high school,â Shoko added âbut now itâs just sad.â
You sighed, blowing on your drink. âI know, okay? Itâs not like I havenât tried. But heâs literally the only guy Iâve ever been close to. I donât even talk to guys besides him.â
âThatâs because heâs been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,â Utahime said flatly. âI swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.â
You wrinkled your nose. âThat doesnât sound like âToruâŠâ
Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.
Utahime cleared her throat. âIt doesnât matter! What matters is you are hot. Youâve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.â
You peeked up at her, unsure. âYou really think so?â
Utahime leaned forward, smirking like sheâd just won a war. âI know so. And thatâs why Iâve come up with a plan.â
You narrowed your eyes. âA plan?â
She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. âOperation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.â
You blinked. âThatâs⊠a long title.â
Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. âItâs either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.â
You stared into your cup, sighing. âFine. Iâm in. Whatâs step one?â
Utahime grinned.
âWhatcha doing?âÂ
Gojoâs voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. Heâs far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.
You donât even glance up. âStudying.â
The two of you are supposed to be studyingâ finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like itâs second nature.
He hums, skeptical. âLiar.â
You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.
âWait,â Satoru says slowly. âAre you on a dating app?!â He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.
You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. âKeep your voice down, idiot!â
His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like youâve stabbed him. âI leave you alone for two minutes and youâre already planning a life with someone named âKeita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healerâ? Iâm wounded.â
âYou werenât supposed to read that far.â
âIâm a speed-reader,â he says with a smug grin. âItâs part of the whole âgeniusâ thing.â
Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isnât the first time heâs done something like this. He grins like heâs won a prize.
âSatoru!â
âRelax, Iâm not texting anyone,â he says, fingers flying across the screen. âJust⊠optimizing.â
Your heart drops. âWhat are you typing?â
âNothing~â
You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.
âGive it back!â
âPatience.â
âGojo Satoruââ
âOkay, okay!â he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like heâs done you a huge favor.
You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.
ââŠWhat did you do?â
âI didnât message anyone,â he assures, too innocent to be trusted. âIâm not that cruel.â
You narrow your eyes, suspicious.
âBut,â he adds with a grin, âI didnât know you were dating.â
âIâm not,â you mutter, clicking your phone off. âJust⊠considering it. Trying. Itâs not going well.â
âGood.â
The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesnât match the light tone heâs trying to play off.
You raise an eyebrow. âGood?â
He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. âI mean, itâs good youâre not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.â
You snort. âYou are a guy.â
âExactly. I know what weâre like.â
You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. âIâm sure you think youâre the exception.â
âI know I am,â he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. âIâm just⊠looking out for you.â
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.
You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesnât help. The words come out before you can stop them.
âYou know with the way things are going⊠maybe you should just date me at this point.â
Silence.
Itâs a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.
Gojo freezes.
You panic. âI didnât meanâlike, I was just jokingââ
But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. âMaybe I should.â
You blink.
And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.
âAnyway,â he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, âYuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.â
You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.
You donât even notice what heâs done until laterâuntil you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.
Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.
You want to scream.
Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?
Yeah. Not going great.
Not at all.
You werenât sure why you agreed to it.
Maybe it was the look in Utahimeâs eyesâdetermined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldnât let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone elseâs eyes. Someone who wasnât Gojo Satoru.
âToday,â Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, âis the first day of your Gojo-less futureâ
You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasnât your usual styleânot the dewy makeup you werenât used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.
But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked⊠beautiful.
When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediatelyâGojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.
He didnât notice you at first.
Then he looked up.
His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.
âWhaââ he said eloquently. âWhâwhat did you do.â
You blinked. âHi to you too.â
He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.
He blinked. âYou look like⊠like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with⊠I donât know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.â
You blinked.
Utahimeâs voice in your head: Youâre hot. Unstoppable. Heâs going to be speechless.
And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.
You tried to laugh. âSo I look like a cartoon?â
âA beautiful cartoon,â he said, serious now. âLike the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.â
Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.
But the moment passed.
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, âYou just⊠you look different. Thatâs all.â
Different.
Not better. Not prettier.
Just different.
You swallowed. âYeah, well. Thought Iâd try something new.â
âI didnât say it was bad,â he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.
âI should⊠use the restroom,â you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.
In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully youâ the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You werenât like those girls on the magazines.Â
What you didnât see, what you couldnât see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.
He didnât even notice.
âYou good, Satoru?â Shoko asked, walking by.
He blinked. âI think I just saw my best friend⊠and my final boss⊠and my future wife⊠all at once.â
Shoko snorted. âYouâre a dork.â
Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, âIâm so doomed.â
Itâs a mild Friday evening when you meet himâKazuya, the guy from your psychology class. Heâs polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.
Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. âA change of pace,â they called it. âYou need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.â
Exactly. That was the point.
Youâre sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.
âWell, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.â
Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enoughâ
Satoru.
In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like heâs been there the whole time.
âYeah,â he says, tone innocent. âWeird coincidence, huh?â
Kazuya offers a polite smile. âYouâre her friend, right? Gojo?â
âOh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.â He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. âWhatâs your name again? Kaname?â
ââŠKazuya.â
âRight, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.â
You stare at him, incredulous. âSatoruââ
But heâs already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuyaâs arm. âOoh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.â
Kazuya blinks. âDo you⊠like developmental theory?â
âI like being correct,â Gojo says with a cheeky smile. âAlso, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him âthe Freud of toddlersâ last semester.â
Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. âReally?â
âIâI mean, yeah,â you mumble. âSort of.â
Gojo beams. âTold you.â
Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.
âSo, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?â he says, offering a gentle smile. âI thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinatingââ
Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. âI actually thought that was pretty moving, too.â
âWow,â Satoru deadpans. âA match made in neuroscience.â
Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. âSo, uh, any research plans after graduation?â
You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.
âShe used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.â
âIs that true?â Kazuya turns to you, amused now.
âTechnically, yes,â you mutter into your drink.
By the time your cup is empty, you realize youâve laughed more at Satoruâs interjections than you have at anything Kazuyaâs said. Not because Kazuya wasnât interestingâhe was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didnât stand a chance.
Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,
âSo⊠is Gojo your boyfriend?â
The question hangs awkwardly.
You and Satoru answer at the same time.
âNo,â you say quickly.
âYes,â he says with a smile.
You both turn to stare at each other.
âI meanâno,â he corrects, waving his hands. âJust a joke. Hah. Obviously.â
âI should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.â Itâs the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.
Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. âThanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.â He hesitates, then adds, gently, âI just think maybe youâve already got someone.â
You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. Thereâs nothing to say.
Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe thatâs just the confusion burning in your chest.
Satoruâs already waiting for you. Of course he is. Heâs leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.
He doesnât say anything right away. Neither do you.
You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. âYou didnât have to crash it, yâknow.â
âI didnât crash,â he replies without looking at you. âI was invited.â
âBy who?â
âFate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.â He shrugs.
You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.
âSo,â he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, âhowâd it go?â
You glance at him. He still wonât meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like heâs holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.
âHe was nice,â you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.
âNice is boring,â he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.
You laugh, soft and tired. âYouâre the worst.â
He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. âBut you like me anyway.â
You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.
You donât answer.
You donât have to.
Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel⊠bearable.
Almost good, even.
Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didnât. And maybe, just maybeâ his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did⊠maybe it all meant something.
You let yourself believe it, just a little.
And that was your first mistake.
It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. Youâre both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.
Youâre halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and saysâfar too casually:
âSo, guess who asked me out?â
You hum absentmindedly. âWho?â
âAyane.â
The name hits you like a slap.
You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. ââŠAyane? From the biochem track?â
âYeah,â he says, practically glowing. âYou know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.â
You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.
Sheâs beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of eleganceâlong legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.
But heâs not joking now. Heâs beaming.
âShe asked me out to dinner this Friday. Sheâs so smart, tooâI didnât even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. Itâs wild.â He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. âI thought sheâd never go for a guy like me, yâknow?â
You force a laugh. âA guy like you?â
âYeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ârefreshing.ââ He grins.Â
Your stomach sinks.
This is what you thought you wantedâfor him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.
But now that itâs happening, it feels like someoneâs slowly pulling your ribs apart.
âOh,â you manage, smiling like youâve practiced it. âThatâs great. Iâm happy for you.â
He doesnât notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.
Because it isnât just that heâs going out with someone else.
Itâs that he chose her.
Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesnât need to try. Her, with everything youâre not. And more than that, itâs that he made you believe you could have meant more to himâwhen really, heâd been searching for someone else all along.
You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.
He doesnât follow.
You donât cry until youâre halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.
For the first time in years, you donât text him goodnight.
You donât wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, âHey, genius. Sleep.â
You go silent.
And when he texts the next day, you donât reply.
You skip your library meet-up. You donât sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.
Itâs not because youâre mad. Itâs because youâre heartbroken.
And you canât keep pretending it doesnât matterâthat he doesnât matter.
Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.
So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.
But then Friday comes.
And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. Sheâs telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think isâ
Youâd be making fun of me right now.
Youâd be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. Youâd be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. Youâd be⊠you.
Ayane is lovely.
But she doesnât laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.
She doesnât ask about why his glasses are always crooked (itâs so you could fix them). Doesnât tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesnât call him âSatoâ like itâs some private joke only the two of you get.
He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.
Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.
And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.
He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.
No new messages.
Just the last one you sent days ago:
âLaundry. Rain check?â
And nothing since.
He waits. Another day. Then two.
You donât show up to class again.
You donât like his latest meme.
You donât comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.
You are silent.
And Satoru Gojoâbrilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps aheadârealizes, too late, that heâs been a fool.
That he didnât just lose a study partner.
He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.
The one person he couldnât replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.
And for the first time since he was a kidâ
Heâs afraid.
Itâs been a little over a week.
A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering âtoo sweet for meâ when you really meant âI got this for you.â Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.
And Satoru is suffering.
He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (âHey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?â). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.
But you were always one step ahead.
You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (whichâouch, even though you hadnât used it seriously). You didnât even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a âyou really fumbled the bagâ look in her eyes.
Gojo Satoru is⊠just tired.
Miserable.
So when he finally finds youânot because heâs chasing you down this time, but because heâs walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first metâit knocks the wind out of him.
You donât look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.
âI figured youâd find me eventually,â you say quietly.
He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like heâs preparing for a fight.
âYouâve been avoiding me,â he says, like it isnât obvious. âWhy?â
You look away. âYouâre smart. Figure it out.â
Gojo looks down at his feet.
âI didnât know you felt that way.â
Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.
Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. âLook, I canâtâI canât take this anymore.â
You glance up.
âI canât either.â
Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like heâs been holding up the world. âThatâs good,â he breathes, stepping forward. âBecause the silent treatmentâGod, I thought I was going toââ
âI donât think we can be friends anymore.â
The words stop him cold.
âWhat?â he breathes.
You laugh, but itâs hollow. Like something already broken. âDonât you get it? I canât be friends with you and pretend that nothingâs changed. That Iâm okay just being your best friend. Iâve been in love with you for years, Satoru.â
His heart stutters. You donât stop.
âAnd I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesnât even look at me that way.â Your voice cracks, but you push through. âDo you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like youâll never be enough?â
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. âYou never even thought I was cute.â
He looks like heâs been hit.
âIâve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. IâI canât do it anymore.â
You finally meet his eyes, and thatâs when he sees it: the hurt youâve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.
And for once, Gojo Satoru canât find a single thing to say.
Not yet.
Not until he stops you from walking away.
âWhere did you get an idea like that?â His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. âI-I donât think youâre just cute, are you kidding?â he blurts, eyes wild.
âY-youâre breathtaking! Everything Iâve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playgroundâsince you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!â
Your breath catches.
He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.
âI love you! And not like a brother. LikeâI want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. Sheâd be the boss of the house.â
You gape.
âWaitââ
âIâm not done!â he says, hands thrown up. âThen weâd have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and theyâd absolutely terrorize usâbut their sister keeps them in check, sheâs fierce like you.â
You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.
âI want to move to Kyoto,â he says, softer now. âBuy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes weâll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where itâs quiet.â
You cover your mouth, stunned. âYou⊠really thought all that out?â
âItâs easy,â he breathes, âwhen all I can think about is you.â
He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesnât blink.
âI go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even thatâs ruinedâmy lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!â
A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.
âYou idiot,â you murmur.
âI am,â he nods solemnly. âIâm the worldâs biggest idiot. And Iâm in love with you.â
Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.
âIs it too late?â he asks, voice cracking slightly. âPlease tell me itâs not too late.â
You stare at himâthis man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.
âItâs not too late,â you whisper.
He doesnât speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.
Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.
âIâve been waiting to do this for years,â he whispers.
And then, finally, he kisses you.
Itâs not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but itâs warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.
When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. âSo⊠are we still doing the whole âOperation: Get Over Gojoâ thing, or?â
