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If you asked Gojo to define love when he was seven he’d tell you that love was his nanny. His parents weren’t around much due to being first grade sorcerers. So he’d spend the days with Aiko. Between meals, training, and playing, Aiko had become like a big sister to him. Aiko cared about him.
If you asked Gojo to define love was when he was fifteen, he’d tell you that love was stupid. He had no time for love. When you’re the strongest, little things like feelings were no matter.
If you asked Gojo to define what love was when he was seventeen, he’d tell you that love was this moment. Sitting at the table in Okinawa with Suguru, Riko, and Misato. Looking at the grin on Suguru’s face and the giggle from Riko, Satoru had finally learned what love is. Love was the jokes between him and Shoko. Love was the small remarks from Suguru about his sleeping habits. Love was this little family he had found.
If you asked Gojo to define what love was when he was eighteen, he’d tell you that love didn’t matter to him. But that’s untrue. Love was the sleepless nights spent with Shoko as he sobbed over a lost cause of a man. Love was the fleeting feeling he felt when he watched his best friend walk away for the last time. Love was the most twisted feeling to Satoru Gojo.
If you asked Gojo to define what love was when he was twenty, he’d deny the question. However, love was watching Tsumiki and Megumi run around the school grounds. To him, they were a blessing.
If you asked Gojo to define what love was when he was twenty seven, he’d tell you that love was the most twisted curse of them all. Perhaps love didn’t exist. If it did, he wouldn’t have had to watch the life drain from his best friend’s eyes. If love were real, maybe they would’ve been alright. But it isn’t, and that’s why Getou Suguru had to die at the hands of a man that once loved him.
If you asked Gojo to define what love was at twenty eight, he’d laugh in your face. Because he knew what love is now. It was his only true weakness. Love was hearing his given name out of the mouth of his best friend. The same best friend he’d fallen in love with eleven years ago. The same best friend who chose to leave anyways. The same best friend he killed one year ago. Except it wasn’t him, just a puppeteer, exploiting the body of his best friend. A simple “Yo! Satoru!” and all of a sudden he was a seventeen year old again, falling in love.
Love was a fallacy to Gojo Satoru. A weakness to be exploited.