Chapter Text
The next day was a school day.
Not that Tsumiki knew. (Or like anyone told her.)
But whatever. No big deal. She was gently awakened by Megumi using the sink in their shared bathroom. It was a faint sound, but it was familiar. He had always been loud in the mornings. He always used to wake her up.
She had missed her own plush bed, and was sad to leave it, but she wanted to go hang with her brother, so naturally she was immediately awake. The sun dappled on the floorboards in a way she appreciated.
She rubbed her eyes and stretched, slowly and carefully putting both feet on the floor. Her muscles were still pretty weak but she managed to support herself. She automatically made her bed, robotically brushed her hair-- it was all muscle memory. Which was kinda nice?
On shaking legs she slowly ambled towards the bathroom. The door was open, so she stepped inside to where Megumi was brushing his teeth, eyes half closed, leaning over the sink. He looked like he was mostly asleep, hair sticking up every which way, clad in a rumpled school uniform.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully.
He jumped, toothbrush falling in the sink, and toothpaste dripping from the corner of his mouth.
“Jesus, Tsumiki! You can’t just do that !”
“Do what?”
He sighed, fishing out his toothbrush and rinsing it off. He passed her the toothpaste.
“Never mind.”
Tsumiki shrugged and picked up her new toothbrush from their toothbrush cup that rested precariously on the bathroom sink.
“You got school?” She said through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Mhm,” he said, washing his face with a fancy soap she’d never seen before.
She spit out her toothpaste.
“Since when do you do skincare?”
He didn’t look up, reaching for moisturizer. “I don’t know, like, a year? Maybe six months?”
“Oh my gosh, what’s your routine?” She asked excitedly.
He glanced at the mirror.
“I’ll tell you later.” He said, eyes catching on his watch. But he must have seen the look in her eyes, because he caught himself. “I really will, I swear. But I have to go to school. I’m teetering on the edge of late. Not your fault. But… see you later?”
She didn’t even have time to respond before he rushed to the living room to where Gojo was probably waiting.
She followed suit, but slower. Her legs were uncooperative, shaky. As a result, when she entered the living room, Megumi was trying to shove a laptop in his overflowing backpack, piece of toast hanging from his mouth.
“Megumi, chop chop! ” Gojo called from across the room, fumbling with his keys. He walked out towards the car and she heard the engine start.
Megumi ran towards his room. “WAIT! One second! I don’t have my AirPods! I don’t know where they are!”
“You don’t NEED your AirPods!” Gojo yelled from the car.
Megumi’s voice rang out across the house.
“YES I DO!”
Tsumiki felt like a spectator. A ghost. Or, at the very least, someone who did not live here. There was a funny breeze that blew into the house through the open door. It gave her goosebumps.
“What are Airpods?” She asked no one in particular.
A beat passed.
Then Megumi came sprinting through the living room, bag in one hand, earphones (with a missing wire?) in the other.
“Bye Tsumiki, I’ll see you later?” He smiled at her over his shoulder, and she felt a little more important again. But not a lot.
The door shut behind him, but the house was still a little chillier.
She sat down on the couch.
It was quiet again.
Everyone had left, and irritation bubbled in her stomach.
Of course, she understood why.
There was a photo of Gojo and Megumi on the wall by the door that she was not in. There were not many clothes in her drawers. Her stuff had all been half-heartedly gathered and placed in boxes in her dusty room.
They had left because they all had lives, but not Tsumiki. She knew she was a thing of the past, an escapee of death’s prison.
As a kid, she had been good at not expecting things. She didn’t expect anything from anyone, and so she was never disappointed when they let her down. Which, they did. A lot.
But maybe she should have expected more. Maybe that would’ve gotten her further in life: thinking more than one day in advance. It might have saved her from this fate.
Everyone else seemed to have got what they wanted, strived for something new, done something great. They all lived their lives every day.
Unfortunately, it appeared that hers was taking some getting used to.
Then, out of nowhere, Tsumiki felt a sharp pain in her ankle.
Yelping, she looked down to see an orange kitten with its jaws clamped down on her leg, claws digging into her skin. It was jumping up and down, trying (and failing) to climb her leg. It kinda hurt a lot.
But also, Tsumiki was ridiculously tender-hearted when it came to tiny little baby things. She melted .
“Hi, tiny friend,” she whispered, touching the cat’s head.
The cat released her sheepishly, and she yoinked it onto her lap with ease. Squinting, she read its collar.
“ Mahoraga . Now who named you that?”
The kitten meowed as ferociously as it could muster, and she smiled.
“You’re just like baby Megumi, you know that?”
The cat, apparently Mahoraga, began to climb her sweatshirt, perching on her shoulder.
“Yeah. Just like him. I bet he named you that dumbass name.” Mahoraga began to sniff her face.
“I’m glad you’re here,” She said, quieter.
The kitten purred, and Tsumiki closed her eyes in a semi-relief, hands tangled in the warm fur.
“I was worried I was alone again.”
Tsumiki could do nothing but fuck around meaninglessly while Gojo and Megumi were gone.
Or, she wanted to. She wasn’t really sure where to start.
She had already tried to contact some of her old friends, but only one had responded. They were all going to university soon (if not already gone), anyway. She understood.
It still hurt.
So she researched a way to finish her education on her cracked, outdated phone. Google suggested she could study for a GED, which shouldn’t be too much of an issue.
She supposed she could get a job?
But kind? Without a high school diploma, without a plan? Did she even know what she wanted to do?
She turned her phone off and threw it across the room.
It made a small crash upon impact, but she didn’t care. The phone was outdated, old, unused.
Worthless.
Suddenly, she felt bad. Guilty for even thinking such a thing when she was the exact same thing. It wasn’t the phone’s fault.
She took a deep breath, picked it up and put it in a drawer, restraining the urge to apologize. Normal people don’t apologize to their broken, old phones.
It was all too much. Instead, she brought out her familiar arsenal of cleaning products, and got to work.
Maybe she could be a flight attendant, and fly away from it all. Spend her time above earthly concerns. Or maybe she could clean for a living.
Other people’s dirt had always been easier to scrub away than her own.
And so she scrubbed Gojo and Megumi’s dirt. Not her own. Her whole body buzzed dully with pain, protesting at her recent change in routine.
But the cleaning was easy and mindless, and she did not stop to admire her handiwork once, because stopping would mean thinking.
Hence the Gojo-Fushiguro household became so clean it practically sparkled.
The trim between the walls and ceiling? Scrubbed. The iron plating on the stove? Firmly stripped of all grease. She mopped the tile. She got rid of the patches of mold growing on the shower curtain. She put Megumi’s gargantuan pile of folded clothing away in his drawers.
She wiped it all clean, wiped her mind clean. The bleach bottle was her chosen weapon, heavy and smooth under her shaky hands.
Her legs hurt from holding her own wrong body up. They were not used to it, which was silly.
What else are legs for?
And her arms burned, too, from doing what she told them to. Again, dumb.
Maybe her job was currently to get better.
Gojo had some vague business job that he seemed to do well at, Megumi was a student and a writer and dreamer, and she was just trying to get better. Yes, sure. Possible. Maybe even good.
But what after that?
Who would she be if she ever got better? Would anything ever happen to her, or would she have to make it happen?
She was tired. She put away the sprays and bleach and rags and scrubbers and laid her weak, useless body (briefly made useful) down on the couch. Her eyes slipped shut. Mahoraga curled up on her stomach. Maybe it was for the best. The world seemed to operate smoother when she didn’t try and interfere like a fool. Sleep greeted her, and the embrace was more familiar than anything she’d seen or done today.
Before she knew it, Gojo was standing over her, shaking her awake. He smelled like ridiculous, expensive cologne.
“Cheeky Miki! Come on! Time to be a functioning member of society!”
She groaned.
“You know, you could have let me sleep. I’m not gonna fall into another coma.”
He cringed visibly, and she felt her own face turn red.
“Too soon?” She asked, embarrassed.
“Too soon.” He said, but there was a tiny, awkward smile on his face. “So, uh, you cleaned?”
She pushed herself up into a sitting position with shaking arms. “Yup. I wasn’t really sure what else to do… It was either that, or go apeshit.” She smiled at him sideways, trying to relieve some of the tension.
He looked embarrassed now.
“Yeah, I shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry. That’s on me.” He let out a breath. “But now that I’m here, I’m here for realsies! I took the day off work!”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“Yeah?”
He plunked down next to her on the couch.
“Yup! So, pray tell, during all of this heavy duty cleaning that went down, was there perhaps… a break for eating?”
“I… must’ve forgot,” she said meekly.
Thinking about it now, she was hungry. Like, really hungry. How hadn’t she noticed before? She stood up to make herself something, but Gojo put a hand on her shoulder. Expensive cologne was all she could breathe in. She would have to tell him to spray a little less in the future.
“Nah, you sit down! Let me deal with this.”
He wrapped a blanket around her (even though she wasn’t cold) and dashed off to the kitchen.
And this annoyed her a little bit, perhaps. It wasn’t like she had brain damage. She could make a fucking sandwich just fine, thanks.
She let him anyway, though, because it seemed important to him. She had noticed he wasn’t talking as loudly or annoyingly as he talked to everyone else, and she knew this was significant. But she didn’t want it to be significant, she wanted to be normal.
Tsumiki was sixteen eighteen whole years old! She didn’t need babying or babysitting!
Maybe her body didn’t always do what she wanted it to, yeah, but she was perfectly capable of making things happen if she wanted them to.
She told herself this before she went to bed each night, and each morning after waking up.
She needed to get out of this house.
Her brick of a phone buzzed from its prison in the drawer.
Sighing, she forced herself up. She had three new notifications.
It was Gojo.
Gojo: tsusususususussssuttsumikiigiimiki
Gojo: i forgot to tell u but u have a phys therapy appointment soon so come eat and we’ll go 2gether
Gojo: ill drive you!!1!!
She sighed, trying to stand up again. Maybe physical therapy would be good. Maybe then she could recover faster. But no matter how she reframed it, it just felt like Gojo babying her. She hadn’t even known he’d made the appointment.
Of course, she pushed it down, because he was trying to help. And, honestly he was helping. She was just… kinda self-centered. She needed to suck it up. Maybe physical therapy would help. Maybe it could even give her direction. She should be grateful.
She walked to the kitchen where he was waiting and typed a response (out of courtesy).
Tsumiki: 👍
“Gojo!” Tsumiki yelled over the music and the wind’s attention-hungry roar.
They were speeding down the highway, probably far faster than they should have been, and it was a beautiful, blinding day. Windy in the morning, yes, but now hotter than it had been for a while. She felt a particularly fat droplet sweat drip down her back, in spite of the wind, and sighed. Fucking springtime.
“GOJO!” She tried again.
He did not reply. His desire to not hear her must’ve been strong, because she felt like she was yelling pretty loud.
“GOJO! CAN YOU ROLL THE WINDOW UP? IT’S REALLY MESSING UP MY HAIR!”
(Perhaps defiantly?), Gojo did nothing of the sort.
“WHAT?” he said uselessly, nearly missing their exit.
The car lurched right down the ramp, and finally, slowed. Gojo, it seemed, had learned considerably more about traffic laws in her missing year.
“I SAID– You know what, never fucking mind.”
It was too late, anyway.
Her hair was sitting in a fuckass pile atop her head, officially ruined.
The silence was loud, sudden, and awkward. Heavy, maybe.
But Tsumiki was used to taking on heavy burdens. She broke it with practiced ease.
“So, Megumi’s award, huh?” she started, twisting the displaced, tangled strands of her long hair.
“Yup!” Gojo said gleefully, offering no additional information. He was considerate like that.
It became still again. The car crawled forward towards its destination dutifully.
She resisted the stillness again.
“It’s a writing award? What did he write? What’s it about?”
Gojo smiled fondly, and it was a nice reprieve from the awkwardness, one that made her feel like she was in the right place at the right time.
“He wrote a nice little poem. He’s obviously embarrassed, says it’s trash, but it’s Megumi. So, you know, I’m sure it’s great.”
She looked out the window, her thin brows knitting together in an ugly frown.
“You’re sure it’s great? You didn’t read it?”
In response, he laughed, if only to break up the awkward tension.
“Tsumiki, do you honestly think he would ever let me? Like ever? In the entire history of the universe? That kid keeps his shit locked down. Tightly.”
She bit her lip.
“I guess not.”
Gojo made another turn onto an unfamiliar street.
“So, how are you feeling?” he asked. “Anything I should know, things you didn’t say before?”
“What do you mean?” She picked at her cuticle.
“Um… is there anything you didn’t want to say in front of Megumi that you should say? Stuff we didn’t talk about earlier? About how you’ve been?”
His eyes didn’t move from the road.
“Gojo, it’s been exactly one day. No crazy revelations. I actually think I’m, like, mostly okay. I feel like I’m just… trying to catch up with you guys right now. I’m a little behind, maybe.” It felt like a confession of weakness.
Under her scrutiny, the targeted cuticle began to bleed lightly, and she squeezed it.
He seemed to accept this answer.
“Okay. Just… promise you’ll talk to me? If shit comes up? Or if you feel crappy?”
She hesitated.
Ugh, why did she hesitate?
She knew she couldn’t say no, but her body didn’t want to lie.
Then she imagined saying what she really wanted to say, telling Gojo that actually, she already felt crappy, that she actually was kind of mad at him, and she didn’t even know why or what she really wanted or how to move on with her life.
And then lying sounded a lot better.
“...Yeah.” she tested the word out on her tongue, and it hung in the air with an unintentional uncertainty.
She waited for his response with bated breath, waited for his acceptance so they could finally fucking move on.
He flexed his fingers on the wheel.
“And, I mean, maybe you’re a little behind. But that’s okay. We can catch you up! I just gotta… figure some stuff out. Maybe do a little googling.”
She leaned back in a stretch, hearing little pops in her back. As it turned out, even sitting for too long caused her bones to protest.
She supposed she understood though.
Her body thought it was too much, obviously.
And it was.
This conversation was too much, too.
She needed a way out.
Tsumiki really did not want to cry in this stupid car with stupid Gojo who it turns out is actually not so stupid anymore, (so maybe she’s the stupid one now?)
She spoke around the little gnarled ball of pain at the bottom of her stomach.
“A little feels like an understatement. You guys got a fucking cat!”
Easier subject matter. Now she had him. People with pets were always more than happy to talk about their pets. Which… now, she supposed she was a person with a pet? So maybe she’d adjust to that?
But for now, an advantage.
A tactical redirection, if not a retreat.
“Oh my god, Mahoraga is just the cutest little thing. I honestly didn’t think I was a cat person until I met her. I think she hates me, but I love her! And Miki, holy fuck, you should’ve seen Megumi with her when she was smaller. He probably brought her home when she was maybe five or six weeks? And he said she was probably still weaning, so I let him fuck around with some gross concoctions of like, formula and cat food, and he taught her to poop in a litter box, and I felt like a proud dad all over again! Not that I… am a dad, but like, you know. A proud… onlooker! Who is somewhat responsible for both involved parties!”
She let him keep yapping, finally, tentatively comfortable, as they pulled into the physical therapy clinic parking lot.
He carried her bag, despite her protests.
One consultation, three stretches, two pamphlets, and an hour of dissociation later, Tsumiki was able to come to the conclusion that physical therapy was fucking stupid.
She didn’t say it, of course she smiled at Gojo and did her exercises, but in her head, she had already decided how stupid it was.
Okay, not completely. Physical therapy isn’t stupid. Even though the room did smell weird. Like tomato soup.
But it really made her feel like an idiot. Especially when the physical therapist would cluck his tongue and modify the exercises for her benefit. Or, because she couldn’t do them.
Sure, Tsumiki could understand the benefit of doing this regularly. She could understand why people did it, and all the old people doing their stretches around her looked perfectly fulfilled.
Gojo was taking notes diligently (he had actually brought a notebook? Why was he so dedicated to this? ) and she took the opportunity to steal a glance at the clock.
What she saw made her nearly wilt.
Twenty fucking minutes?
It had only been twenty minutes?
Her sore arms hung awkwardly at her sides as she stifled the world’s biggest sigh.
“Nice work, but don’t overdo it!” said the physical therapist, straightening her back before she began the next rep.
She wanted to sock him.
How much longer did this have to go on for?
She knew it was important, and all, but it was also extraordinarily slow.
She realized she was being pessimistic, but in reality, this was not out of character for her.
People generally understood her to be an all encompassing, innocent, good , but no one is that good.
In fact, Tsumiki was definitely a pessimist. In her head she was whiny and brash and complained and cursed people out and didn’t shave her legs and maybe free.
But this inner life was locked away tightly.
No one liked that Tsumiki.
So she smiled, and kept doing her half-hearted leg extensions.
“Okay, so, let’s set some goals.” She heard the physical therapist behind her, and nearly jumped out of her own skin. She couldn’t remember his name. He had definitely told her, but she couldn’t remember.
He looked faintly like her old English teacher, with his crinkly eyes and turtle smile.
She had hated that guy. So self important.
“Goals?” She asked, finishing the rep.
She looked to Gojo in his little folding chair in the corner for support, but he only nodded, flashing her a thumbs up.
“Yeah. Goals.” Said English Teacher.
She looked back at him blankly.
“No, I mean what do you mean by goals ?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? You know, like a thing you work towards?”
She sat there dumbly.
“Um, yeah. I know the definition of goals.”
Their eyes met in a staring contest, waiting to see if the other would speak first.
She caved almost immediately, unable to bear the awkward game of chicken.
“But… wait, isn’t that, like, obvious? For my limbs to work like they’re supposed to? For… my body to be like before?”
He shrugged, too casually for Tsumiki’s liking. Yeah, she didn’t like this guy either.
“Sure, ok. I can see why you might think that. That’s why you’re here, I guess. But that’s big picture stuff. It doesn’t happen in three sessions. You know what does?”
She did not know ‘what does’. She was silent.
Being patronized was exhausting.
“Progress.” English Teacher said with a sigh, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So… think about it. What’s a little thing you want to be able to do?”
She was silent again, and she wished she was anywhere but here.
She did not know any little things, any details or observations to be taken from a life truly lived, had not stopped and smelled the roses in a long, long, time, and it was suddenly the most embarrassing thing.
She wanted to know little details, have little goals, sure, it wasn’t like she loved the way people treated her like a raison d'être. She didn’t like being reduced to a possibility, an ideology, a reason to keep going.
But was there actually more to her?
Tsumiki was coming to realize she was fuzzy around the edges, more memory than person, and suddenly the question seemed glaring.
Who even was she?
Was there even anything solid left beneath all the noise of therapy and people treating her like a project? What was left of her that wasn’t just a reflection of other people’s expectations?
Did she even have a favorite color?
Can a raison d'être, a tool for self-discovery and growth, be allowed her own raison d'être? Must her existence be so functional and symbolic?
The thought crept in, slow but undeniable, sinking like a stone in her stomach, solid and cold.
Would it have been easier if she had just fucking died?
It made her nauseous to think that maybe, just maybe, her absence had been less painful than her existence now. It lingered there, clinging to her, until she realized she was staring at the physical therapist again, lost in a fog of her own thoughts. She quickly tried to fake-yawn, embarrassed by the sudden lapse into herself.
He probably thought she was stupid, or had brain damage, or something.
Yeah, nice going, Tsumiki.
She hated that she cared anyway. Why should it matter to her what this guy she didn’t even like thought of her?
The weird leather of the table stuck to the underside of her thigh. She hated wearing shorts in general, but especially workout shorts with their needlessly high seams.
Finally, English Teacher patted her shoulder wordlessly (she felt the implication: you’re beyond my help) and walked away to help an old lady struggling with a five pound weight, leaving her sitting on the weird, elevated, medical-looking table. Gojo and her made eye contact (it seemed like he had finally stopped hovering), and she nodded at the door, sucking in a huge breath.
He winked, standing up and she rolled her eyes on instinct, pushing herself up on weak legs to follow him out the door, and pushing everything else down. The ache that came from doing it was a pain she was nearly addicted to, the convenience and safety of it dizzying. The ignored emotion pulsated deep in her stomach like a parasite and she almost thought she would be sick, but Tsumiki dug in her heels.
She would not be sad, that was even more pathetic. That warranted more babying, more coddling she couldn’t handle.
Maybe she would be angry.
Yeah.
She would be angry, she decided. That was finally, perhaps, a different path, a foothold further up the mountain of self advocacy.
Fuck personhood, fuck this clinic, fuck goals, fuck everyone.
She left it at that.
Tsumiki was quiet the whole car ride home, biting her tongue and stewing. Fortunately, Gojo didn’t seem to notice, busy talking about this and that and dinner and cats, flitting from subject to subject. He talked endlessly, filling her silence with ease, and it was almost a relief that she didn’t have to contribute anymore. The idiot didn't even seem to notice her outwardly drastic change in mood.
Yet, it was not comforting in the way it usually was.
His constant stream of words all hit an invisible wall around her and bounced right off as she tuned him out. It was honestly getting claustrophobic and hard to breathe between her wall and the car door, but she could not do anything but sit behind it.
The frustration of the appointment still draped itself heavily on her shoulders, a whiny, insecure little beast, and she slumped against the upholstery. Tsumiki was actually tired, which both surprised, and annoyed her. Like she had done anything remotely strenuous today.
The final straw, though, might have been when Gojo hopped out of the car energetically, and, before she could open the door for herself, ran over to her side and yanked her door open. He offered his hand, and blood rushed in her ears.
“Are you joking?” She asked him, patience and grace gone from her voice.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but he turned his head away slightly, and his face betrayed that he was slightly hurt.
“Why would I be joking? Just let me help you out of the car.”
And she knew she was being unreasonable, properly bratty, but she just couldn’t handle it anymore. Something snapped, and every drop of irritation and annoyance she had collected during the day spilled out of her mouth.
“Oh my god, stop trying to fucking help me !” She pushed herself out of the car with an embarrassing amount of effort. “I can get a job, I can make myself a fucking sandwich, I can take myself to physical therapy. I desperately need you to stop breathing down my neck. Stop treating me like a goddamn invalid .”
Gojo stepped backwards, eyes narrowing. It looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands: first they clenched into fists at his sides, then they flew up to cover his eyes, and finally, they awkwardly hovered in front of him, half flexed. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to find a response. His voice rang out loud and confused, matching her frustration with his own, frustration she did not know was there.
“Jesus Christ Tsumiki, I’m sorry! But I don’t know what you fucking want from me! I’m doing the best I can, there’s not exactly a guidebook for this shit!”
He ran a hand through his hair. “You ask me to stop treating you like an invalid, but do I need to remind you of the five hundred and seventy eight fucking days where you laid in a hospital bed, unresponsive?”
Goosebumps prickled on her arms. 578 was a big number, especially when he said it like that.
She stalked towards him.
“And how responsive am I now, would you say? Go ahead, why don’t you assign me a fucking number on the Glasgow Coma Scale? Would you say I’m… I don’t know, a 3? Maybe a 4? I’m eighteen years old, Gojo. Not a sad little abandoned baby you need to care for.”
He laughed mirthlessly, rubbing his face.
“Oh, but weren’t you? How do you think we met, Tsumiki?”
She jabbed her shaking hand into his heart.
“ You don’t get to bring that shit up. You weren’t there before, and honestly thank god, because Megumi and I were just fucking fine. I took care of us, well , might I add, and we were happy, and we were okay, and maybe that was because there was no one who could so truly and wholly misunderstand me back then. Why do you think I’m so weak when all I’ve ever done is show you that I’m not? Why are you treating me like this when you know I can do these things for myself?! I’m gonna suffocate, and you’re not even gonna notice because you’re holding me too tight.”
He wrapped a hand around the skinny little accusing finger poking him square in the chest and pushed it back towards her.
His voice was quieter now.
“Do not bring your brother into this, Tsumiki. Do you know how hard it’s been for him? Please don’t say you were just fucking fine without me when I found the two of you shivering in a blanket fort hiding from ‘the monsters in the dark’ because neither of you knew how to pay an electrical bill.” He bit out.
She looked at him with disgust, shivering slightly in the wind. It was starting to get dark in a way that hinted at the sunset, but there were no pretty colors in the sky to be seen.
“Is that actually what you took away from my statement? Yeah, you’re right. Megumi’s got it real tough being my brother. Keep making these ridiculous leaps, maybe you’ll figure out what I’m actually mad about.”
He was silent, and she turned on her heel, towards the house, reeling from the argument.
She should have ended it there.
That would have been fine.
She had done enough damage, she had said her piece, he knew how she felt now.
It should have been enough.
But she was still angry. She was still fucking pissed, and absolutely nothing had been solved, and so she turned around one final time and the words fell right out of her mouth. She didn’t even have to think about them, she just fired them right off, like bullets.
“I just—You’re not my dad, Gojo. Please get that into your big, dumb, head.”
And she knew that was not the right thing or the smart thing or the fair thing to say, but Tsumiki was entirely too tired of saying the right, smart, and fair thing.
As soon as the words left her mouth, she bolted through the door, and did not look back at him, did not listen for his response.
She didn’t want to know how she had hurt his feelings and been awful and cruel and mean, because then she’d apologize. Then she’d go back to being sad, and that would just knock her back down to pathetic.
No, she had to be angry.
A teardrop fell down her cheek, and she licked it off, utterly disgusted with herself. She caught her own eye in the mirror in the hallway outside her room, and looked away immediately.
The person that briefly met her gaze had pale skin, with limp hair and splotchy cheeks and watery, dark eyes.
She really did look like a ghost.
“Ew.” She said audibly, and slammed the door to her room, hinges rattling throughout the frame of the house.