Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2-4-2015 

Dear Fushiguro Tsumiki, 

How are you today? I’m so sorry that we haven’t talked in so long. 

Forgive me for asking so many questions in this letter— I know too little about writing them; my mother is the one who asked me to write this saying that it would help me keep in touch with my friends or write better (either of the two, I can’t quite remember). 

Between an urban area or a rural area, which would you prefer? I’ve had to go all around the place because of my mother and I’m still all the way in Tanegashima now. If you were to go from Tokyo to where I am, you’d have to either go for a drive lasting more than 20 hours or book a three hour flight. 

I’ve only stayed in the city once— that was when we were still in the same school, and we could all fit in my aunt’s apartment since my father was outstationed for the whole year. But I digress. Personally I prefer the city. It all feels so modern, and so much less empty than how it’s like here on this little island. I mean, we have the space centre, so I can always visit that, but after the third or fourth time you’d probably get a little bored of it too. 

I wish I could go to Tokyo again one day, though. I’d definitely take the time to visit you, too. I read on a pamphlet once of how pretty everything gets in Tokyo during winter time, especially during Christmas. We don’t really celebrate Christmas here but the pamphlet reminded me of that one December when we spent it at my aunt’s, we ate lots of KFC and had a little party while my aunt sang songs and drank enough alcohol to prove she had a liver of steel a million times over. 

It’s nice to reminisce on these things, and it’s nice to reminisce on when we were still there too. I know I never told you this enough, but I was so happy when you walked up to me on the playground that day and asked if you wanted to be friends. I really, really liked your hair and wanted to ask you the same. I was just too shy to do it, and thought that if I would I’d end up messing things up and mortifying myself. I miss that and you and I miss 2010 and I miss Tokyo, and walking back from school with you and Megumi (you were like my cool older sister), and I really, really miss doing each other’s hair. It was the most joyful I’d ever been in my then 8 years of life and every day was a new fragment of happiness to keep in my heart like a picture in a locket. 

Now I really want to go there again, and maybe go to the Shinjuku-Gyoen, or see the lights at night. I wish I could stay for a whole year and see how the trees can change from being highlighted cherry blossom pinks, to lush greens with summer dew on them, to golden ginkgo leaves. I’d keep them with me, too. I hope you can take me there one day and we can see everything together again. My apologies if I’m asking too much of you. 

Also, how is Megumi? I miss him too. Is he the way he was, still? Is everything okay between you and him, still? Unlike elementary school, the boys in junior high are all taller than the girls, so since we’re the same age do you think he’d be taller than me too? Is he taller than you, or are you still one of the tallest girls in junior high like how you were in elementary school? 

It’s very late and I still have so much I want to talk about with you, but I’m really sleepy now. My eyes are barely open and my face is about to fall on the paper, I think. Just know that I’m thinking of the two of you all the time. XX 

Love, [Name] 

(P.S.: I still have your hair tie. Do you know if I’ll ever be able to give it back?) 

—

28-2-2011 

The train to the airport is arriving in a minute, and you’re sure your mother won’t let you just wait for the next one, so you’re stuck clutching your little luggage bag as you look at Tsumiki and Megumi, that inseparable pair, and their snowy-haired “benefactor” (you think he’s more like their father sometimes, though). 

Even if you knew it was inevitable, and that this day would eventually come, especially with your leaving Tokyo being pulled even earlier than you thought it would, a part of you pretended that you’d still get to stay with them for a little while longer. In Tokyo you’d solidified your place and built your roots— you had friends, were doing alright in school and had even begun to be less anxious about everything. Now you’d be uprooted again, you thought as your fists trembled, Now you’d be back to square one.  

2011 had started as a busy year— your father had begun preparations to move somewhere else where you and your mother could follow him and the three of you would be together again. It was busy for Tsumiki, too, who had more school matters to tend to due to her being one of the best, most well-rounded students in her year (you didn’t know much of the details). 

…it had also begun with you seeing a dog when you were alone with Megumi once. It had these unique markings on its head, with alabaster fur and jaundice-hued eyes. And Megumi then had a panicked look in his eye, asked how and why you could see them as well as whether you’d seen them before, which you suppose caused him to be busier after that, too. Tsumiki and Megumi’s benefactor visited you and your mother the night after, asking to speak with your mother and your mother alone. He paused before you, almost shocked, you supposed, but you couldn’t see through his pitch black sunglasses (he was one weird guy, seriously— pitch black sunglasses? Really?). To which she frowned, as the man uttered that you could be a “window”, but that you could still be able to use “cursed energy”, or something. You’d heard of neither of those, and weren’t able to eavesdrop or discern anything else they’d said. 

Then nobody else mentioned the dog anymore. 

If you questioned any of them, you’d only be told that the dog was a stray, and that those markings must have been a particularly special birthmark. Yet you knew it was all a lie, but after multiple tries you gave up on wondering. 

When you’d first learned you’d be moving yet again, you cried and screamed for your mother to let you stay, and for what felt like hours. After relaying this to Tsumiki, she just put her hand on yours before hugging you— always wise, always kind, always smiling, you can’t say this enough about her. Megumi patted your back before she pulled him in as well, and for once he didn’t shove her hand away. You couldn’t even bother to be confused at that— you just continued to weep as Tsumiki comforted you, whispering, “I can’t promise I’ll always be able to talk to you, but I’ll try my best to keep in touch when I can. And even if we don’t, we’ll always be friends, okay? So we’ll meet again someday, don’t forget that, okay, [Name]?”  

A day after that Megumi told you to stay safe. Nearly ordered you to swear you’d stay safe and protected, always. He said that the world was dangerous since it was full of dangerous creatures and people who could kill you at any moment, but as long as you were on an island like the one you were moving to, you’d be fine. You furrowed your brow at that as he held your hand and felt him squeeze it— subconsciously, most likely. 

“Well,” Tsumiki starts, a tinge of sadness in her tone, her eyes slightly swollen. Megumi’s expression is unreadable but his fists are balling the fabric of his shirt and his leg is shaking. It makes you want to sob and cling to both of them and you know if you did they wouldn’t ever let go, “I guess this is goodbye, [Name]…” 

Before you realise it, tears start pooling in your eyes and soon they’re trickling down your face uncontrollably, just like the day when you’d first met her. “We’ll still be friends, right?” You won’t leave me, right?  

“Mhm!” Tsumiki smiles— she was always smiling, always, even when she was about to cry along with you. Her lip was trembling and for a second you swore you could detect that in the ever-stoic Megumi, too. “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry. We’ll be friends forever, so we’ll surely see each other soon enough,” Tsumiki assures you, close to sniffling, “We made a promise to always be friends, right? So you’ll see the two of us again in just a few years’ time no matter what.” 

“Okay,” you sniff, “I’ll see the two of you when we’re all grown up, and… and I’ll be taller, too! I promise I’ll visit Tokyo next time!” 

“...that’s good,” Megumi says, his leg still shaking discreetly, joining you and Tsumiki’s conversations in a way he’d rarely done. 

Tsumiki nods, “Yeah. That sounds really, really good, [Name]. Wait—! Let me give you something. You can call it a gift!” 

She takes it off, and her hair unfurls like flowers from bouquets after they’re untied, placing the red-ribbon hair tie securely in your palm. 

“Your hair tie?” you ask, “No, it’s okay—!” 

“Please, just… just keep it, okay? It’s a gift from Megumi and I to you, [Name]!”

Then you’re in her embrace again as you clutch the hair tie, while after a little hesitation Megumi joins in and you swear you can see their benefactor smiling— not just the smile he had when you first saw him, this one in particular seemed proud, fatherly, the same way your father did when you told him about how you were able to read through a whole book with beginners’ kanji in it. 

“You’re my best friends forever,” you whisper to them. It’s the truth and it’s a promise. 

The train halts with that chuffing sound all trains produce, and your mother holds the luggage as well as your other hand as you wave to them goodbye. 

—

15-3-2011

The phone continues to vibrate in your hands as you anxiously tap your foot on the ground. You’re sure it’s going to end up sore. Frantically, you press it almost forcefully to your ear when it stops ringing. “Tsumiki, Megumi!”  

“[Name]!”  

“Are you alright? I saw the footage of the earthquake on the news, are you safe? Were you and Megumi evacuated, are you all safe? Please tell me whether you’re safe—!” 

“Megumi, it’s [Name]!— Don’t worry, we’re safe now.” 

Relieved, you sigh, “That’s good, that’s good,” you say, “It must’ve been really scary…”  

“Mhm— everything started shaking as if we were on some boat in the middle of the sea and the waves started getting wilder, and it was like the ground was rumbling.” 

You shiver. “That sounds so scary…— I’m glad you’re safe, though. I don’t know why stuff like that has to happen so quickly sometimes, and so suddenly, too. And it takes so many people along with it. I thought I could’ve lost the two of you.” 

“Well, we made a promise,” she tells you, “So don’t worry. —Oh! Megumi wants to talk to you. Here, Megumi.” 

“Are you alright?” he inquires, “Have you seen anything scary in the countryside?” 

“Huh? Oh, no, I haven’t seen anything. Why?” 

“Nothing. Just wanted to know.” Now that sounds like a bold-faced lie. 

“Uh-huh, okay.” 

-20-5-2011-

“Hello? Is this Tsumiki? I need to ask if she’s alright—” 

“Oh, little [Name]?” a man says over the phone— the benefactor, you remember, “So sorry, she’s pretty busy right now… call next time, okay?”

-21-5-2011-

“Hello? This is the Fushiguro house contact, right?” 

“Sorry, Tsumiki’s busy at the moment. Me too, actually.” 

“Megumi!” you smile, bringing the phone closer to your cheek in excitement, “How is everything?” 

“Good, to say the least,” he replies, “We’re just a bit busy. Sorry, but I’ve to hang up soon.” 

“Oh, oh-okay! Bye bye, Megumi!” 

“Bye.” 

-13-7-2011-

“Hi, [Name] speaking. I called twice last month and a few days ago. Are you still busy?” 

“A little— well, Tsumiki is,” the voice on the other side says. You know it’s not Tsumiki, not yet at least. “She’s really sorry, [Name].” 

“No, no, it’s okay! I don’t want to bother any of you either, so thank you for telling me!” 

“Well, if you want I can try to get Tsumiki right now,” the voice offers. 

“Really? Thank you so much!”

The pause that ensues after is followed by the fifteen happiest minutes of your life since February this year. 

“[Name]? Is that you?” 

“Yeah! Hi, Tsumiki!” 

She gasps slightly in the way that children do when in awe or when someone finds out they’ll be eating their favourites for lunch. “Hello!” 

“How are you?” you ask.

“I’m good! Really busy, though, so I’m really sorry if I can’t call you as often… but everything’s been alright. You?” 

“Mm,” you hum, nodding your head even if she can’t see it, “I’m good, too!” 

-18-8-2011- 

You don’t know when you started heading to the phone and keying in the number, doing everything but ringing it. You’re busy, too— you’ve less time now to ring them up, and the last time you did, Tsumiki still apologised but sounded a little distant, just that one bit too busy to be able to tend to you. One step farther away from you. And Megumi was seldom ever the one by the phone. Still, you could understand why. You supposed they always had something going on that you never understood or never asked about. That would explain the incident with the unusually marked dog. No, they weren’t sketchy, but there was definitely something they must have known about the world that you didn’t. 

Now you don’t know if you can even muster the courage to talk to you or write to you. The distance between you has widened exponentially and you hesitate just a bit more every time you hold the phone and press its buttons. 

Then the phone rings, and after you hesitate once more, you put it down. 

—

9-2-2016

If there’s one thing you remember from about half of your life ago, it’s that your first crush was probably Fushiguro Megumi. 

You’re honestly surprised it wasn’t actually his sister. That over Tsumiki and her abundant compassion and beautiful soul, you’d feel your heart leaping and overflowing with warmth because of him instead. Constantly angry, never for once not irascible, always serious and aloof. You’re sure that if you’d met him now instead of back then you’d find him some asshole who you just wouldn’t be able to understand— why’d he always have to seem so angry?  

Yet it was a struggle, trying to understand him. It really was. Maybe you didn’t really have to understand anyone, much less Megumi. He never ceased being so serious and easily angered but you could tell from his eyes that he must have not intended to hurt anyone; half of the time you understood him: like when you could see that glint in your eyes that replaced what would have been a ghost of a smile on his lips, the other half of the time you didn’t: like whenever he shoved Tsumiki’s hand off his shoulder, and Tsumiki just continued to smile. Now, that really confused you. You’d thought about that for days before coming to the conclusion that you’d probably never find an answer. 

Conversely, Tsumiki was kind and patient. If you’d met her now you’d have fallen in love with her immediately and she probably wouldn’t even notice in that terribly goodhearted, unknowingly innocent way of hers. 

In retrospect it should have been more obvious: he scowled at you and if it were anyone else who did so to you back then you would have merely cried and closed in on yourself, yet you never did when it came to him. You just continued to stick to him like those kind of glue residuals left behind after you take a sticker off a table or a price tag from the back cover of a book. You were probably annoying like that. And to some degree you suppose he’d given you his own form of special treatment by letting you do so anyway. 

If you’d known what you were feeling back then you probably wouldn’t have admitted anything, anyway. Probably you would’ve kept it all within you, quiet and unnoticed, trying to drown yourself into life’s backdrop like an insect engulfed in resin. 

But you’re older now, more mature and slightly more outspoken; you’re going to try to be confident and meet someone, this one person alone who you can only meet now without his sister there just because you used to have a crush on him and— 

You don’t think you’d be able to admit anything either. Yet to yourself he’s the first. He always will be, and you’re not sure whether that sounds pathetic, miserable or disgustingly, hopelessly delusional, considering you don’t even want to pursue anything yourself. 

It’s going to be Valentine's Day soon and you’re quite sure that most of your school friends are making Valentine’s chocolates for their boyfriends or their crushes. In all truthfulness, you might as well not feel blue about it— you’re 14, that’s still pretty young, you don’t have to rush things like relationships or confessions through and you’ve been told to focus on your studies instead— but the thought that you’re going to be alone is still kind of depressing. 

—

10-4-2015

Dear [Name] , 

Don’t apologise— it’s partially my fault. I ended up being really busy that year due to something we had to deal with. 

But anyway, it’s been so long! I miss you every day as well! 

Megumi and I’ve been great, and I hope you’ve been too. It’s been a long five years since we last talked (it’s already 2015, how time flies!), but you still sound the same. It’s like you’ve got better handwriting now, though! 

Aside from the fact that I’ve been swarmed with stuff to do (I joined the student council, yay!), junior high has been okay, to say the least— and hey, I’m still pretty tall, you know? Plus, a lot of the teachers say I’m surprisingly tall for my age, heheh. Things are going the same as always. I’ve got accustomed to the loads of homework we have now too. But it’s like Megumi’s been having a problem lately— he’s getting into fights, beating people up, things like that. I wouldn’t call him a delinquent, though: moreso someone who beats the delinquents up instead. I know what he wants to do and why he does it, but I don’t want him to fight other people and get himself or others hurt. 

I’ve tried to tell him this before, to be honest. I’ve tried it many times but each time I must sound more annoying to him than the last— I don’t want to force him to do anything, though, and I understand that part of why he does this is because of his own ideals. I just want him to not raise his hand against others. So I have to resort to this. 

Sorry for spilling it all on paper like this… I just wanted someone to talk about this to, and I thought you would listen to me, I suppose. Sometimes it’s hard— sometimes I really do feel like his parent instead of his sister and it makes me feel so lonely, really. 

Oh dear, what do I do to make him hear me, seriously… 

Anyway, I totally get what you mean— I’ve stayed in Tokyo all my life, but I’m sure that if I was uprooted and had to live somewhere else I’d have lots of trouble. Tokyo to me is my home, and my whole life is here. Moving somewhere else would probably shatter it completely, I think. 

And please visit when you can! Maybe if your mother allows it, we can come to us instead, one day! And it’s not like we can’t visit you either. Our door’s always open. Once this school year ends, perhaps we could stay with you for a night or two! (If you would have us, of course). 

Besides that, I don’t really have much to say. I did have a good day today, though. I went out with some of my friends from school after our classes ended and we ate some donuts. They were so tasty!!! Honestly, whenever you have the time, I really recommend going there with some of your friends after school!! 

Regardless, I think this is all I have to say in this letter. I promise I’ll try my utmost best to always set aside time to write to you!!! Get some good rest whenever you can, okay? Miss you always! 

Sincerely, 

Tsumiki 

(P.S.: Do you have an email or a phone number of your own yet? If so, please shoot me an email or give me a call! I can reply more there since I have those now and can use those instead of always relying on our house contact.  You can keep the hair tie, too, by the way! It can be like a memoir (*^▽^*). And it’s for you, after all!) 

—

13-3-2015 

You remember seeing a little dog one time back in your hometown when you were around six or seven years old. 

It was a tiny little thing, with the fluffiest black fur you’d ever stroked, and though every second it was barking louder than your mother could ever handle, it was adorable and seldom threatened to bite anyone. And it liked you— it never barked at you and let you shower it with pets despite how much it had frightened you initially. 

He was irritable but calm, someone who frowned and scolded but never raised his hand against anyone— not even that “benefactor” of his who you’d never heard him talk about without mentioning how much he’d like to punch him someday. You genuinely don’t think he’s ever done so, either. He doesn’t seem like the type: from what you remember, if he were to think he’d hurt someone he knew or evidently cared about— as much as he’d like to deny this, however— he would blame everything on himself, you think. He’d feel the guilt rake through his body and lacerate his skin, piercing through his ribs. Yet he’d keep living, and he wouldn’t tell anyone about it; he’d be so quietly miserable. 

That’s what he was like: quietly miserable. There’s a certain sorrow in the way he does things; you could tell this from the start despite how young and inept at articulating yourself you were at that age. But you’d always known and sensed that there was a sadness running through him, coursing through his veins, one that you could feel like heat from the warm blood beneath one’s skin. 

Today you wonder if he’s the same, if he still seems like the saddest person you’ve ever met, if he still seems like he would have been the saddest and most doleful had he not always tried to act as if otherwise, living defiantly against it. If he hadn’t always been able to keep living while suffering quietly like a child with nothing but muffled sobs in the desolate corner of an empty classroom. 

But at eight you thought maybe you could liken Megumi to a puppy. Or something like that. He certainly reminded you of that all-bark-no-bite puppy from the past. You wondered how it was now, whether it was still being fed and taken care of. 

Tsumiki was vastly different, though— the kindest girl you ever knew, with neat, soft hair and the type of handwriting all the girls in her class wanted to have. She was always smiling, always kind— you thought she was immensely wise for a girl around your age; you always wanted to be as amazing of a person as she was: always hardworking, always clever, always kind and forgiving, no matter what. 

…you don’t even know why you’re thinking about some kids you met once who you’ll probably never see again. Just two kids who you never kept in touch with. Or at least never tried to. You had their contact— you tried talking to Tsumiki a few times, but for some reason she could only ever reply once or twice (she apologised profusely for not being available any time she picked up as well), and as time passed the way the distance between the two of you grew, by the summer of 2011 you’d begun holding a telephone close to your ear without keying any number in it, as if clinging onto it would provide you with any sort of closure. 

You miss them, though: smiley Tsumiki and frowny Megumi. 

Leaning back into the mattress, you trace your fingers over the hair tie on your wrist, fingers rubbing against each thread of fabric in its red ribbon. 

Could you even talk to them or face them anymore after ceasing contact with them for years, though? Heck, you don’t even know whether they’re alive or not. Would they be angry at you? Disappointed? Feeling as if they’d been wronged or left behind? 

Still, you miss them. You really do. 

Your mother’s calls bring you downstairs, and you eat until your stomach is full before washing your plate. The only other step in your routine now is to head up and retreat to your room again. 

“Come down, [Name], could you?” your mother says, interrupting your trip back up, “I just want to talk to you for a second.” 

Now, that… that was a bit strange. Your mother rarely ever asked you to talk to her. You spent enough time with each other as is, doing almost everything else besides being in school or at work in the same house, even if it never meant asking about each others’ day. It just was never part of the conversations you had with each other. You’d ask where she wanted you to throw things or how you could cook something, but she’d never go out of her own way to learn about your own day since you were about nine or ten, and it wasn’t like you ever did either. Perhaps she was trying to make the effort to? 

“What is it?” 

“You like writing, honey?” 

“I mean, I guess so?” you reply hesitantly, “As long as it’s not for school or my grades don’t rely that heavily on a task, writing can be pretty fun.” 

“Good, good,” she remarks, nodding her head, “Actually, I recently found something you may be interested in online. You still have your friend and her brother’s house contact, right?” she questioned. Instantly you know which friend she’s referring to and say yes— how could you not, after all? “Ever heard of pen pals, darling?” 

Which brings you to where you are now: your mother leaning by the door frame of your room as you’re hunched over the table writing the letter. Surprisingly, she really seemed to care about this, even preparing the prettiest paper you’d ever seen, with pastel pink patterns printed on the paper’s edges, and though you struggled with what to say it first the words have begun spilling out of you despite how late it’s started to get. 

You wonder whether she’ll reply. She probably will, though, but a fragile part of yourself surmises that she may not, and although you’d like to talk to her again you fear that because of the time that’s passed things may just not be the same anymore. You wonder if the years have made the three of you infinitely different than your eight and nine year old selves. 

But that was growth, right? So you had to grow and learn how to talk to her, learn how to face her without thinking that she’d be angered or frustrated, or anything like that. And even if she did, even if it would hurt you, you’d be able to live. The world would keep spinning and all that would be lost were two friends who you lived without for about four years, ceteris paribus. Who could claim that the seventy or so years after those four would be any different? 

That’s why you took the pen and paper and started to write, telling yourself you’d face it and finish the letter no matter what. Even if it was short. Even if it wouldn’t be enough to express four years’ worth of unspoken words, from funny things that had happened in school, or what you thought of whatever was on the news, or how your parents had gotten you a new phone. 

As your eyelids gradually grow heavier, you watch how you fill two whole pages in the handwriting you have— you wish it could have been at least a tad bit more similar to Tsumiki’s, who never needed any boxes or lines to write completely straight and uniform for each character as if copying excerpts from finely printed books to the letter. 

Soon, you’re reaching the end of the letter, determined to keep the handwriting legible even if you feel like plopping your head on the table and falling asleep— to some degree you still need it to look presentable, after all. 

“(P.S.: I still have your hair tie. Do you know if I’ll ever be able to give it back?)” 

Chapter Text

2-4-2010

It’s 2010 and your teacher introduces you in front of a previously bustling class turned silent by her (and your) arrival. There’s the chill of spring entering from the slightly opened windows and into your nose and, as desks flank either of your sides before you scrounge for and reach an empty seat. When you sit down you can sense the light graze of spring wind settling itself on your tiny trembling lips and you feel like hiding under the table while your teacher erases your name, written in cloudy white chalk, from the blackboard. 

When lunchtime barrages in and your classmates sit on each others’ tables or excitedly rummage through their backpacks, you mumble out unnoticed greetings, invitations for connection falling on deaf little ears. There are so many people here, too many for your liking, with voices that accumulate until they make a cacophony reaching the highest heights a tiny, packed classroom of kids can. Of course, they’d start the year with their own friends— there wasn’t much you could do to introduce yourself, anyway, when all of them were off to their own devices in friend groups they were in before the third grade. 

In front of you: a girl with brown twintails and a flower hair clip sits on another girl’s dress, while another girl stands there with a cartoon-themed t-shirt layered over long sleeves; on your left: a boy flipping one of those flat, white erasers and playing them with his friends (you wonder if in terms of quality those erasers are actually good for school); on your right: a boy sitting with his head resting against his palms, sitting as if his chair is a hammock, and he’s talking to two other boys about something indiscernible that you probably know less than nothing about. All the way from across the classroom: a boy with the longest black eyelashes you’ve seen, hunched over and engrossed in a book with a title that you don’t know how to read the kanji of yet. 

It’s so loud and your senses feel inundated suddenly, like a tiny glass cup about to overflow— so much to hear, so much to see. Your head and the way you think turns their laughter into wails drowning your ears in an inescapable ocean with the most torrential of currents. But you want to go home. You want to be with both your mum and dad again. 

You eat from the bento your mother made for you, your hand holding the container up and drenched in cold sweat as you compress and close in on yourself. This new school and classroom is so very, very loud, relentlessly so, and Tokyo is not a pleasant place at all. You’re sure you don’t like it, that you want every chance to leave. 

After school your mother takes you to the playground nearby, probably to placate you and shush your cries as you ramble on and on about how much you want to go back to your old school. You have her hand in a vice grip (or at least, you try to, but the strength of an eight-year-old who struggles on the monkey bars doesn’t account for much) as she repeats that it’ll just be for a year, and that if you really wanted to she would let you call them on the telephone later or give you a handphone of your own to talk to them once you’d got older. You wonder why she wouldn’t just give you one now, though. 

When the two of you reach the playground she says, no doubt exasperated but still enduring it at all from how the tone of her voice is, “See, darling? Look at the slide! You love slides, don’t you? See? They’ve got swings too, even!” And with a face blotched with tears and hiccups rapidly spilling out of you, you waddle over to the park. 

There’s a girl over there, by the swings, long brown hair pulled back into a pretty high ponytail, with an equally pretty white-collared navy blue dress. Probably around your age, or slightly older— she seems quite tall, too; has the friendliest-looking brown eyes you’ve ever seen, those types of brown eyes a person has that make their eyes shine like gold when they smile or when the sunlight hits them; a red ribbon on her hair tie that matches the strawberry hue of her backpack. 

Then a boy next to her, and this one you know: long, raven eyelashes that look even longer up-close; spiky hair sprouting out in all directions; green, green eyes that take you by force and bring you into reminisces of fields of grassy gardens in the summertime, pure viridian in his irises as they stare back at you, quiet and observant. The same boy hunching into his book earlier, probably a really smart kid, probably someone you want to make a new friend of if you ever knew just how to. 

Were they siblings? Friends? You weren’t sure, but tears were still running down your cheeks as you processed all that information and silently thought to yourself about them, these two strangers, these two kids who could be friends if not for your touch-me-not-plant-like shyness. 

“Hey, hey! Why’re you crying? Are you okay?” the girl asks. 

(And the rest was history, but you’d still like to tell it anyway.) 

She heads over to you, her pleasant expression contorted into one rife with worry, and your mother smiles, letting out a relieved sigh. The girl pats your back and it’s the warmest touch you’ve felt since you arrived in Tokyo, her hand feeling like home or your old bed from before you moved; you almost melt in it the same way ice cubes do in hot chocolate. “Aw, it’s okay,” she coos, awfully gentle, managing this strangely comforting tone for a child your age or maybe just a year older, “You’ll be okay.” 

You start bawling again when she says that for a reason you can’t tell yet; it’s just so comforting, the way she rubs strokes across your back with her palm and tells you it’s okay. It feels like a promise. It feels like she’ll keep it. 

When everything’s calmed down and you feel a bit light-headed from crying so much, and the hiccups have been smoothed over by longer, calmer and steadier breaths, she guides you to sit down on one of the swings, your hand in hers. “Are you okay now?” she questions. The boy seems slightly concerned, but perhaps too hesitant to communicate with you, instead seeming perfectly comfortable with watching you and following behind her, becoming the girl’s shadow. 

“Uh huh,” you sniffle. You still want to go home, though. 

“That’s good,” she smiles, and it really is pretty and pleasant. Her smile isn’t just an ordinary one: it’s one of those smiles that gleam like the sun or candles flickering at midnight; it’s the type to have that glimmer in it, that twinkle in her brown, almond-hued eyes that solidifies itself in some comfortable nook or cranny in a person’s memories forever, the type that you can just think of when things aren’t going well and suddenly you can tell yourself you’ll be alright because somehow you now know you can. Because somehow that kind of smile grants people the ability to keep going. 

“I’m Tsumiki,” she introduces herself, “And this is my little brother Megumi. What’s yours?” 

Tsumiki, you think to yourself, Tsumiki and Megumi. Tsumiki and Megumi. They’re nice names. First Tsumiki, with the ‘tsu–’ produced by back of the teeth and the tip of the tongue, the ‘–mi–’ carrying the voice over to the lips, the ‘–ki–’ light and brisk with the back of the tongue and the roof of the mouth; second Megumi, ‘–me–’, ‘–gu–’ and ‘–mi–’ a quick ride from the lips to the tongue against the roof of the mouth and back, something soft and sweet and quick and quiet about the name. 

“[Name],” you mumble, eyes moving all over the two of them indecisively— maybe your mother was right when she tried to force the impeccably useful skill of using eye contact onto you for situations just like these, “Tsumiki, Megumi, can… can we be friends?” 

“Sure!” 

Tsumiki and Megumi, you think again, Friends.   

—

8-4-2010

It seems that, at his sister’s behest, Megumi makes an effort to interact with you more or at least look out for you in school— reluctantly, though, and that’s how you know this must be Tsumiki’s doing. He doesn’t talk to you between lessons, uttering not one word to you in class, but he does direct you to different places at school if you seem like you want to go somewhere, but are too scared to ask, leaving your anxious face as the only clue for others who take notice of you. 

There was one time, before meeting Tsumiki and walking to the playground together with Megumi in tow and after a particularly riveting lesson from one of your favourite teachers— a young woman with glasses and silky brown hair in a bob— when you’d wanted to go to the library, yet didn’t know how. In your mind you merely contemplated whether you should ask anyone you saw, or whether you should wait for the sake of keeping your mind at rest. 

Once Megumi saw you, eyes wandering aimlessly outside an empty classroom as you tapped your foot louder than you thought you were, merely scowled.

“Hey.” 

“Huh? O-oh, hello.” 

He sighed exasperatedly, almost too grumpy for an eight year old— “What is it? What do you need to find?” 

“T-the library,” you stammered, hands pulling the fabric of your clothes into tight fists, “It’s okay! I’ll find it myself—” 

Suddenly something pulled you forward, like a still-damp shirt on a clothing line, and he dragged you along. Your footsteps stumbled behind him until you matched his pace, his hand lightly squeezing your wrist as he continued to walk. 

“Wha—?” 

“I’m taking you there,” he said, “Just pay attention to the route.” 

“T-thank you,” you stuttered, unsure of what to say. 

So you saw the way your footsteps echoed behind his, his right followed by your right and his left followed by your left. You followed him through the hallway, then down the stairs until it was you and him on the ground floor, and the cherry blossoms were raining down like snowflakes. You didn’t see his face and he didn’t turn back to face you until you arrived. 

Back then you didn’t know why that made you feel a little sad. 

“We’re here,” he signified with a finger pointed to the library door. You thanked him again and promptly entered through the large glass door, using all the force your limbs could muster, only to find out that the door being opened was a feat only accomplished by the force of your arms combined with his own, too. “What?” he asked pointedly after noticing your glances at him, “I’ve to come along too.” 

And soon it became just that. In your own silly little tradition, you’d stand outside the classroom and wait for him at the end of the day, and the two of you would walk with zero words exchanged until you got to the library and picked out a book each. You’ve found that Megumi likes to read long-winded books about anything and everything— especially about animals; you’ve learned that there exists no one who adores dogs and animals related to them except for him— besides the same fantastical creatures and adventures that you enjoy reading about, with kanji on their covers that you can’t read. 

But he’s always the same every day: frowning and rolling his eyes at your anxiety-induced antics or your curiosity over what he reads. You don’t think he actually means it— he still does the same for you, spending time with you in the library every day, and even though he seems to huff whenever you peek at what he’s reading and ask him how to read the kanji in his books, he’ll still teach you anyway. It’s not like Tsumiki seems to know either. She still encourages the two of you to get along as if you don’t know each other at all. 

—

9-6-2010 

The first and only time you see Megumi smile, you know it isn’t intentional. As if it just slipped out of him on accident without him realising, because you know hundred per-cent, even at your age, that someone like Megumi would never smile on purpose. 

It goes like this: the day before Tsumiki’s ninth birthday, Megumi approaches you after class before you go outside to wait for him. 

These days you feel like you’re opening up so quickly, it makes you feel giddy at times. You stutter less, you can speak a little louder, and you can even read through texts in class when you’re called to without stumbling through and accidentally blabbering about whatever you’d read before. 

“I don’t think we should go to the library today,” he says. 

“Huh— why? I don’t want to walk home on my own…” 

“Just because we aren’t going to the library doesn’t mean that you’ve to walk home alone,” he sighs, “I need you to come to our house. We’ve to prepare for Tsumiki’s birthday since she’ll be coming back later today.” 

“...”

“You never asked when her birthday was?” he asks, his tone the embodiment of an audible facepalm. 

You suppose you didn’t, because you don’t know, or perhaps you’ve asked, been so absent-minded you’d forgotten what she’d told you, and eventually forgot you’d even asked her in the first place. 

“...oh, no!” you shudder, “Today’s her birthday?!” 

He rolls his eyes. “It’s tomorrow. It’s just that we should start preparing early if we want to keep it as a surprise for her.” 

“Ohh…” 

“...so? Can you come along today and tomorrow?” 

You pause. Your mother would be fine, right? She’d probably ask how many adults there were, but then again, even if their benefactor wasn’t there, she’d met Tsumiki and Megumi at least once or twice. Even for children your age she’d know that they were trustworthy enough, so it should be fine. You’ll just ask her the next day anyway. She’d probably let you be there. 

“Of course!” you tell him. 

The path to his house stretches over concrete sidewalks and compact alleys filled to the brim with storefront signs. Temperatures have started to rise, and your switching from knee-high socks and cardigans to t-shirts and socks that only reach your ankles have been an indicator of that. Summer has started to bring in its breezes which blow like whispers against your ear, leaving warmth crawling and blooming across your skin. 

When you reach the crossing, your legs continue to carry you forward before you stop to check the traffic light, you crash against Megumi’s back. 

“—gah!”  

“Hey!” he goes, “It hasn’t turned green yet! Be careful!” 

He pulls you forward by the hand until you’re by his right, and squeezes your hand. “...you should stay next to me instead of staying behind so that you can still see.” 

“You’re not blocking me, though?” 

“...but it’s still better if you’re walking next to me instead.” He turns his head away from where you can still see his face. He looks like a sea urchin. 

“Okay.” 

Hand in hand, the two of you cross the road right when the light changes from red to green. You don’t let go of his hand, even when you’re turning to the left, or on a crossing again, or when you’re standing right in front of the door. 

You’re sure that if you would ask him why he hasn’t let go of it, he would say that he was doing so deliberately just so you wouldn’t get run over or lost, but you’re also worried that if you did, he would somehow realise that he hadn’t let go of his hand all this time on accident. And you like holding his hand— it’s not like when you’re holding your mother’s, when suddenly her hand grows dead on you and you have to hold her sleeve or her arm instead, or when you used to hold your father’s and it would get unpleasantly sweaty. It’s warm, and even if your palms must be balmy at this point you don’t think either of you mind that in particular. 

A part of you thinks it must be embarrassing for him to be holding a girl’s hand, especially with how being teased for being friends with boys is all too familiar for you. You were your father’s daughter, after all, and at times your father could be insufferable in that way, even over the phone calls you and your mother had recently had over him. For some reason, he’d be fine if you mentioned Tsumiki, but as soon as it was Megumi he’d giggle and talk about you being “so young and already having a boyfriend!” That saddened you more than it was supposed to, sometimes; it was as if he thought you couldn’t have a boy as a friend without wanting to marry him when you were older. 

But you’ll be selfish. You don’t really want to let go, because it’s not like you’ve held a friend since more than a year ago, anyway. You keep his hand in yours and squeeze it every once in a while, feeling the warmth spread across the back of your hand and your fingertips. 

He only lets go of your hand when you begin to bake the cake, and he flips the cookbook to a recipe for strawberry cake. Whenever you come across something in the recipe that you don’t understand, he’s reading it for you straight away. He even knows how to decrease the amount of each ingredient that you use so the cake can come out to be just enough for everyone, and when you’re in awe of how smart he is, he just turns his head away somewhat bashfully and says he’s doing it according to the ratio. You don’t even know what that is. 

At the same time you make your own additions to the recipe based on what you know from your mother— a little more vanilla extract, slightly less icing sugar so that it doesn’t end up too sweet when paired with the cake. There isn’t any strawberry extract in their house so you make do with just strawberry puree alone. 

The sight of him wearing oven mitts and holding the cake mould as you’re opening an oven about the size of his torso must almost be comical. You should’ve got parental supervision, but he seems fine, and you are too. Initially you’d offered to be the one placing the cake in the oven, but Megumi insisted on doing it when you tried to open it and immediately turned away after the heat of it rushed right before your face like a cat dumped in water. 

For two eight year olds with limited baking experience, you’d say the cake turned out well, and that it’s amazing how none of you have any burns or have caused any accidents. It’s warm when he takes it out and you leave it out to chill by the time Tsumiki is supposed to be coming back. You feel a bit guilty over leaving her alone, but you try to reign it in and tell yourself that this is a surprise for her, and that it’ll only last for two days: this one and the next. 

When it’s laid out on the table and the scent of it wafts through the air, there’s a satisfied grin on his face. You’re supposed to be taking the icing out of the fridge, know it must have been one that he’d shown on accident, because it’s there for just that one second, but the fact that it was there at all, even if he thinks that you probably won’t be able to see it, is something you’d never imagine. 

And his smile, that grin— it looked like one of those smiles that spread to the people around them like the scent of fresh flowers in a new vase. That smile was a bouquet of flowers 

With a spatula, the two of you take turns slathering the icing around the now less warm cake. It smells so sweet and tasty that you feel you won’t be able to sleep tonight from how excited you are for the celebration tomorrow. 

“Yay!” you say, clapping your hands when it’s all done, “We’re done!” 

“Now we can just put it in a container in the fridge so that she won’t find it,” he says, “We should put the tray back, though. We usually don’t keep ours in the oven.” 

Maybe it’s because you’re sleepy from how much time you’ve spent solely on baking in the last two hours, or maybe it’s because you’re absent-minded as usual, but your first response is to grab the still scalding hot tray from the oven. 

You burn the tip of your finger before he can react and stop you. 

“Ow!” you wince. 

“You burned your hand?” he rushes to pull you— he pulls you a lot, it seems- to the sink and runs your finger through lukewarm water before blowing it and chiding you. “Be careful!” he scolds, “Even if you can’t help it sometimes you need to think before you do things. Don’t act recklessly like that!”

“Sorry,” you say. It didn’t hurt that bad, though. What feels worse is how worried he is about this despite how aloof he typically seems. “I’m okay, though. It’s just a small burn.” 

“It’s still a burn,” he shoots back. 

“…sorry.” 

He keeps the oven open to release the heat from it, and places the cake in the container. 

“You know, Megumi,” you start, “You’re really amazing.” 

He pauses for a while, but continues to place it in the container. You make a mental note to buy candles or get any leftovers from home if your mother allows it. 

“At first I thought you were scary, but after getting to know you for a while you’re a really nice person. You teach me even if I’m probably really annoying or a bother sometimes, and on the street just now you let me hold your hand even if it must have been really embarrassing for you. And even when we were baking, when you did that number to number thing to tell how much of everything you needed— you’re really smart, you know! And every time you’re with me, and even with other people, you’re really caring without saying it. So even if you seem scary or bad-tempered you’re actually really nice,” you smile, “You’re really good! Every time you’re there I think: ‘Megumi’s really cool!’ So I hope you can be my friend forever!” 

“…thanks.” 

He whispers something else that fails to fall on your ears. 

“Hm? What’d you say?” 

“Nothing.” 

After Tsumiki arrives back, the three of you spend the evening watching TV together. Fortunately, summer’s waves of rain haven’t started coming in yet, so the satellite wasn’t messed up and the three of you got to watch them interrupted, huddled together on the sofa. 

Your mother smiles that night when you tell her you were spending time with your friends, but grimaces once you tell her that it was just you and Megumi for a while. When she and you are on the phone with your father, she frowns even more. 

You recount the details to him: the strawberry cake, the cartoons on the TV, the cosy compact couch they have in their house. 

“So it was just you and Megumi alone? Aw, you’re too young for dating, sweetie, you should be doing those things your daddy before you go around doing them boys! And with just him, too!” you think that’s supposed to be a joke, but you feel offended regardless despite not knowing why. It could be because you don’t like his teasing, or because you can make friends without the intent of marrying them, or because he’s insinuating that you’d rather watch TV and bake cakes with some boyfriend than with your own flesh and blood— you probably would prefer doing that with Megumi instead of him, though. Less annoying and way more fun. 

“No, no, no! We were just baking a cake for Tsumiki!” 

“Oh, leave her alone, darling,” your mother says as if sighing knowingly, but the frown on her face indicates otherwise, “She’s just a child, still, nothing will happen. Let our baby make some friends, won’t you?” 

You don’t understand why they’re saying anything they’re saying, but you shrug it off and continue to talk to your father anyway. 

Thankfully, the burn on your hand has disappeared, though. You’re surprised it went away so speedily. 

—

10-6-2010

Her birthday goes like this: there are decorations dangling from the ceiling of their house and a party hat on her head (courtesy of their benefactor and his “work friends”), while their benefactor has a party horn squeezed tightly between his lips and a digital camera in his hands. He’s invited some of his friends, too: a lady with brown hair, concerningly dark eyebrows and a mole by her right eye, and a tall, muscular man with blonde hair and a white suit donned who seems just as annoyed with the white-haired man as Megumi always is. 

They’re singing her happy birthday, and she’s over the moon. When they get to “...happy birthday, dear Tsumiki…—”  the grin she has on her face is something for the ages: you’ve never seen anyone look happier than she is right now. The candles flicker as she claps their hands, dancing along to the cacophony of voices singing even one of the simplest songs unsynchronised and out of tune, dancing along with it just because she seems to be on cloud nine. 

It’s dark outside, the yawn you let out gets you bleary-eyed and you’re quite sure all six of your voices combined sounds awful, but everything feels so unimaginably warm. 

It’s beautiful. The sight in front of you is pure joy. 

“Make a wish, Tsumiki!” you tell her before she blows out the candles, and a faint line of smoke dissipates through the air right after the candles go out and everyone’s clapping. 

The tenth of June, 2010, Tsumiki’s ninth birthday is a great day, and one of the happiest days of your life. It stays that way forever. 

— 

30-6-2015 

Your phone whines in your pocket like a crying baby. There’s a book shop you want to head to, and you’ve decided that after that you’re going to let the bed mattress cradle you to sleep as you’ll flip through some pages of that new shoujo manga you bought the other day. You’ve decided that’s a swell plan for the day: you’ll mostly be free today, after all. But you rush to pick up the phone, even though the ring had made your nerves spin giddily and switch courses from calmness to anticipation. 

The screen displays an unknown contact. 

Although your mother was always adamant on her stance on what you should do with unknown contacts buzzing your phone, you pick it up. You can only hope, yet the mere image of that “unknown contact” icon on the screen fills you with joy. 

“Hello?” a voice calls from the line. Despite everything, these things will always belong to her and her only— that voice, that smile, that beautiful kindness. 

“Tsumiki!” 

“[Name]!”  

Missing loved ones from far away works in mysterious ways— people know they miss them, but often people haven’t a clue about what of them they missed or why they would have missed them so much for those things. And you were no exception to this, because you never realised how lovely her voice was or just how much you missed it. 

You miss Megumi’s voice, too— or perhaps his tone when he spoke to you. Even if it sounded rough around the edges sometimes, really it was as gentle as he was. You’re not sure if it’s changed, though, or if he’s grown a foot or two (though the latter would make him out to be really tall). The last time you saw him in person, he was slightly scrawny and around the same height you were, and that was four years ago when you were nine. Now he’s thirteen, and you’ve seen the thirteen-year-olds in your school and on the island. Everyone’s growing in one way or another. Even you. 

Would he be taller now, towering over you, perhaps? Would he have grown out of how he was before, a body composed of long, skinny joints and bones? You think he’d be tall. You think he’d have a nice voice. And maybe, just maybe, if he was a little softer now, you’d have a crush on someone you thought you’d long got over. 

“Oh my god— I haven’t heard your voice in ages!” 

“Me neither! Never realised how much I missed talking to you in person. Well, I guess this brings us one step closer.” 

You nod over the phone. The line seems to be lagging behind a little. “Mhm”

“—Oh, it’s [Name]! Want to talk to her—?”

“Ah! Is… is Megumi there, too?” You hope he is, you genuinely do.”

“I’m sorry, but he isn’t…” 

You guess it must have been someone else talking to her, then. 

But— if it weren’t someone else, why would he not want to talk to you? Of course, you have to believe that he wouldn’t, but what if he wanted to avoid you?

Had you done anything wrong, said anything wrong in your letters and emails? 

If you’d seen him again, would you do the same? Because it’s silly, really, how he was technically your ‘first love’ before you realised it, but you admitted nothing, acted on nothing, trying to make fragile proof or something to stick it to your father in the way eight-year-old you thought you could. You’d probably do the same now. Perhaps because of your age or your immaturity, you’re overly prideful in that sense, because telling people you love them is like cutting the skin off an onion— it’s okay, though, you’re only thirteen. That happened years ago and you should probably just move on; you know you can. You don’t have to act on anything and you’ll keep things that way. 

(You should probably stop being over in your head like this.) 

At least now you know he isn’t a bad father, never was; he was just a man in a world where they don’t know girls can live without a constant desire for marriage or romance encroaching upon their conscience. And even for a man, he isn’t so bad to his daughter, you think. Now, you know how to draw conclusions like that. 

You don’t really know anything. You don’t really know anything at all. So you shove it aside, that overthinking, and talk to your friend like a normal thirteen-year-old. 

And he probably doesn’t care about you anymore, either. (But if he did, what caused him to stop? He was so caring so was it just you?—)

It’s okay, you can live without him anyway. 

“That aside, how is everything?”  

—

23-11-2010

“Megumi, I think we should exchange books,” you suggest as the two of you make the daily walk to the classroom. You catch up to him now, legs meeting his pace, not something he has to stop and turn behind to glance at before turning his head forward again. “My mummy said it could help. She said it’s good if we read more books from other genres.” (You feel like patting yourself on the back for knowing how to use a word like ‘genres’.) 

“We like completely different books,” he says, “You’d get bored really quickly with mine.” 

“I mean, if it’s something interesting, I won’t.” And even if you didn’t know the kanji in them, you’d just ask him. “...when have I ever found the stuff you read boring?” you add, to prove a point. 

“Yesterday,” he states, “You picked my book up, flipped one page over, then slid it to me over the table surface.” 

“But that was because I couldn’t read it!” you retort childishly, “If I can’t read it now, I’ll search it up, or I’ll ask you. If you don’t mind.” 

“Fine,” he acquiesces.

“And just so you know, the teacher said I was getting better at reading kanji, and I do think that the stuff you read is nice sometimes.” 

“So, what book are you giving me?” he asks, trying to force the library door open on his own. You add your own weight to it as usual and soon the two of you are walking to the same corner you always do. In spite of the school library’s relatively small size, it was a treasure trove of fantasy and reality alike. Students at the high school nearby would go there just to study, and the sight of them hunched over the tables while snoring was one you witnessed every day. 

“The same one I finished reading yesterday,” you reply. That book became a favourite of yours. It entailed  a young girl learning that she was actually a witch, and one of the adventures that followed that, namely one with a wizard who she’d fallen in love with. Fortunately, your mother didn’t know of the story— if your father was in the house and saw you reading it, he’d tease you endlessly. “I’ll return it first, though. Then you can borrow it again. What about you? What’ll you give me?” 

“A book about dogs.” 

“I should have expected that.” 

—

12-12-2015 

“Are you that excited for Christmas, sweetie?” your father asks as you hang ornaments on the tree. He’d assigned that task to you this year, saying neither he or your mother could bend their backs and legs so much anymore. And he was correct: they seemed to become weaker and more brittle with each year. Eye bags and wrinkles piled under his eyes like stacks of paper to the point that he had to quit doing work so often, and the number of times your mother had to go to the hospital in six months had gone from one to five. They’d started to talk about dying even if they were far from it in your eyes. They’d just need some medicine and a trip to the doctor— they’d be alright in the end like always. Right? 

“Mhm!” you answer jubilantly, “I think talking to Tsumiki again did me good, heh.” 

“I’m glad,” he smiles, walking over to you, “Need any help?” 

“No, I’ll be okay— you should go and rest,” you advise him. 

He shakes his head, “I’ll be okay if it’s just for a while, you know that for me it usually isn’t that bad. I can still do things like this as long as I’m not tired.” 

“Daddy, your eye bags make you look like a panda.” 

“Wow, okay,” he says, sarcastically, “Can’t believe my baby girl doesn’t love me anymore.” 

You drop one of them by accident and it falls pathetically, the glitter on it spreading across the floor. “Wait, sorry, let me get that real quick—”

Although you rush to tell him not to, he bends down to retrieve it, and as he gets up he winces and has to support his back with once-strong hands. He’s withering away, slipping like dust blown away from his old table back in your grandparents’ house. 

You’re scrambling to help him up, to scrunch your brows in worry and ask if he’s okay, but because you forget to move your hand away, your elbow smacks against his head. 

“—Ow!” 

“Ack! Daddy, sorry, Daddy, are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. Are you okay, sweetie?” 

You feel yourself twist in guilt. How could you have ever felt annoyed by this man in the past? 

—

22-12-2015

You don’t know what brings you to do it. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s his birthday and you’ve only been able to wish him via asking Tsumiki to send him your regards, or because you’re feeling sentimental and remembering Christmas five years ago in Tokyo, but you write a letter addressed to Fushiguro Megumi on a chilly Tuesday that you don’t have the intent to send. Or maybe you just don’t want to yet. 

Dear Fushiguro Megumi, 

I don’t really know why I’m writing this to you. Maybe I’m desperate for some kind of romance so I’m writing this to turn my thirteen year old self into a shoujo manga protagonist (I feel like you’d cringe at that, sorry). 

But I’ll write it anyway. I really liked you but I didn’t really notice it— well, more like I didn’t want to admit it. My dad was being a little annoying about it and that was probably young me’s way of giving him this big middle finger but I won’t really go into it. He’s pretty okay about all of this now, and these days I can bear with him a little better too. (Hopefully that’s how things are for you and your benefactor, too— he always seemed more like a father anyway, even if he was always there. Would that be too presumptuous of me to say?)

Still. I used to really, really like you. I don’t know if I still would if I met you again, but hey. We should try it, meeting each other another time. I really want to see you again. 

I still think you were really cool. I bet you’d still be so now. Taller, too. (More handsome if you’re fine with me saying that, but maybe that could just be attributed to being part and parcel of one’s physical growth? Truly, I don’t quite know.) 

I know you probably never felt the same, but I thought I should just let you know. YOLO, am I right? I’m, like, living life to the fullest with no regrets right now. 

I know how much of a burden I was, how annoying I must have been. But I guess because of that I know how caring you can be. So I’ll always be thinking, ‘Megumi is really, really cool!’ when I’m reminded of you. 

I don’t know why you don’t want to talk to me anymore— maybe you’ve given up on me, and I get that. Whatever it is, though, I know it would be valid, even if sometimes the fact we stopped talking in the first place makes me feel a little hurt. Because I know it’s my fault too, since I was too scared then to talk to you. 

So let’s just talk again, I guess. Let’s just exchange contacts and chat on the phone and talk about books. I’ve been reading a lot of books about dogs and I’ve so much to tell you. Nothing else has to happen or change; we can act like there was never a barrier between the two of us in the first place. I really miss you. 

Let’s just be friends again. 

Please? 

—

28-12-2015

“We’re not going to be here forever, you know,” your mother says as if she’s about to drop dead at any moment. She’s not and you can’t bring yourself to fathom it. So you won’t. 

Your mother is amazing— she cooked for you, comforted you, tried her best to raise you properly and lovingly even if she hadn’t been herself. She made sure you never slept hungry and tried her best to make you think you were the most beautiful girl in the world no matter what others said, even if in the end she couldn’t. She held your hand even if in the end you stopped clinging to hers as you grew. She did the chores even if her body was falling apart and deteriorating like yellow paper. 

You don’t think you could ever handle having to do that even if it was for your own children. You don’t think you could ever be her. 

It had always been a bit of a curse that your mother had you a little late. She said you were supposed to have an older sibling once, one that she couldn’t carry to term. So that’s why you were born, and born a bit later in their lives; that’s why you were their cherished baby girl. 

So you try, you’ve been trying, to be of use. To be the medicine that ameliorates their headaches and backaches and joint pains. You help out with the chores even if you seldom talk to your mother these days; you listen as your father regales you about (mostly fake) stories from his youth if it helps him feel better. Because if not for you, your mother would have less wrinkles on her face; if not for you, your father would be less hellbent on working to provide for his family. 

“…mhm.” 

“I think that you should know something, though. I just… I don’t want to die, darling, but I think I will. So I feel like I should tell you this,” your mother begins, “Honey, let’s… let’s tell her about it.” 

There’s something eerily calm in the depressing air your father casts over himself as your mother says this. 

“Okay,” your father agrees. 

Your mother starts first, “Do you remember seeing that weird sunglasses-wearing, white-haired man?” 

“Oh. The… the benefactor? What about him?” 

“Well, for starters, he’s not just some weird guy. That man’s name is Gojo Satoru,” she states, “He’s a jujutsu sorcerer, like me.” 

“Oh… okay, but… um. What? I thought you were a doctor. Are you two like Harry Potter…?” 

“No, we’re— um, do you remember seeing that dog?” 

“The one with the red markings?” 

“Yes. The thing is, normal people can’t see things like that dog. But people like you, your mother and I can,” your father explains. 

“So we have superpowers, or something?” 

Your mother smiles and she looks younger, happier. “Something like that. There’s something called cursed energy and most people have it. It’s formed from negative emotions, and the people who have more than the average person can see cursed spirits— the creatures manifested from leaked out and fermented cursed energy, who jujutsu sorcerers basically try to get rid of before they cause normal people who can’t see them any harm. —Oh, goodness, I feel like an encyclopaedia.” 

“So the dog was a… ‘cursed spirit’?” you wonder, “It sounds like we’re in a shounen manga.” 

“No, the dog was a shikigami.” 

“Wait— those things are real?” 

“But it was your friend Megumi's shikigami, specifically. Some jujutsu sorcerers can summon simple shikigami. Those were ones generated from his cursed technique, though,” your father clarifies, “Most jujutsu sorcerers have cursed techniques, which is when they channel cursed energy into their own ‘powers’. People who don’t have cursed techniques like your mother—” 

“You’re going like a bullet train. My brain’s getting pulverised. Please slow down,” you say, “So he has a cursed technique, and mummy doesn’t have one. Do I have one?” 

“That’s what we were worried about,” he starts, “When you were born, neither of us wanted you to get into that life. So we moved to the countryside, specifically places with little to no cursed spirits. Then when you got older we figured we should just check if you could see them in general, but nothing happened except for when you saw that dog. We think you’re a window, though. Someone who isn’t a jujutsu sorcerer, with no technique but the ability to see curses anyway.” 

“But you think I do, now?” 

“No. We just wanted you to know about all this. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you.” 

“No, no, it’s fine— nothing happened because of it. I just never knew, but I guess I do now. So you were a jujutsu sorcerer?” 

“He was,” your mother answers, “Technically, he’s already quit due to health complications. But your father’s been saving a lot, and it’s not like jujutsu sorcerers have a meagre pay…” 

“We’re rich?”  

“I mean… the stronger ones are loaded, but we still have enough money to last us for a while without working,” your father says, “But I have a cursed technique and so I was a sorcerer last time, so I’d always be working away from home before I took the shinkansen back. The year you were in Tokyo, I was working with a team of other sorcerers to eliminate groups of curses spread all over Japan. Then when we found out you could see them, we just decided to go back to the countryside. But now we know we can’t keep you out of the city forever— we know how much you love it, and we love our girl. So we needed to tell you about this.” 

Your mother sighs, “We’re sorry again that we never told you any of this. We just wanted to keep you safe.” 

“Okay. It’s okay, you don’t have to apologise. I mean, I don’t really want to die either, even if it means saving people and things like that. There’s probably other ways to save people. Plus I’m probably a window like what you and daddy said.” 

“Thank goodness,” your father smiles, “I’ve lived through it and… well, Daddy doesn’t want that either.” 

“Neither do I,” your mother says. 

You don’t want to be a jujutsu sorcerer. The thought of people walking into that world, of children being born into it, of people like your father, kind people walking to death every day. 

You think it must be the ones in power— they don’t seem to care; how could they if they’d just let fates like that befall your father? 

And Megumi, Megumi— Megumi, the guy you haven’t talked to in years, walked into it. He sought to protect you first; told you there were monsters and warned you to be careful. 

Just how much of a burden were you then? 

That’s the first thought that crosses your mind. Because there’s never been a time you weren’t a burden, not to your friends and never to your family, and thinking that Fushiguro Megumi would care anymore, for you, was beyond reality. 

—

20-12-2015

Your father’s cursed technique is called cell manipulation. 

“It’s a pain to use, but I’d say it’s always been quite powerful,” he explains on one of the days he’s teaching you about the jujutsu world, “Like the name says, I can control cells. But I have to imagine things really vividly, down to a cellular level, and put lots of cursed energy into picturing how exactly you want the cells to shift and change.” 

“So… just the cells? Can you do anything more than that?” 

“Just the cells,” he says, “At least, that’s what I think. But I suppose that makes it liable to entities who have cells that can go against my cursed technique, or can control their own bodies at a subcellular level. Who knows, really…” There’s a hint of sadness underneath his tone. 

“D’you think you’ll ever use it again, then?” 

“Maybe. But I’m definitely not planning to,” he tells you, saying it with conviction that’s stark against that soft, weary voice he has so often nowadays, “I don’t want you to use it either. I’ve never wanted you to have it. If you did, everyone would be telling you to walk into death willingly, every single day. Everyone would ask you to be useful. I’ve already told you so many times that I don’t want that for you. I can still do some simple things with minimal effort, though. Want me to show you?” 

You don’t understand why he’d have make himself “useful”— he’s always been, he’s your father after all. He doesn’t have to do anything else, doesn’t have to prove anything to add meaning or worth to his existence. Truthfully the one who has to be useful is you; you have to be a better daughter, a more helpful one; you have to be a better friend and a better person. 

You smile, “Okay. But just a little.” 

He holds out his hand, displaying his palm. It’s slightly wrinkled, littered with old calluses like mildew on leaves that you never knew the true stories behind. Sights such as these remind you of his age, who he’s speeding to fifty before he may even see you reach your twenties.  “You see how my hand’s like this, right?” 

You nod your head. 

“So, what I can do is imagine—” he starts, closing his eyes, “And this happens.” There’s a rift that’s forming slowly in his hands like the land giving way to sprouting volcanoes, before scarlet blood is pouring out of his hand. 

“Gah! No, no, it’s okay, you don’t have to show me any more—!” 

The wound closes up and he opens his eyes once more. “See? Good as new,” he grins, “It’s much harder when it’s not used against humans, though. You don’t always know the cell structure of other cursed spirits, so they have to be studied like Pokemon. And if those cursed spirits aren’t the same,” he goes, immediately turning grim again, “You’ll have to use it on yourself. That means that every time you use it, one mistake could cost your entire life.”  

You can’t imagine it: that for years when you were living carefreely, thinking your father was off at a hospital or a clinic, spending his time examining tongues with popsicles or holding stethoscopes to chests and stomachs— he was, in truth, risking his life; about to be the cause of his death at any moment. And for what? For money? To save others’ lives? For you? 

The notion itself is terrifying. 

“Then I think we’re the same,” you say, “Because I don’t want you using that either.” 

—

1-4-2016 

The last time you and Megumi uttered a single word to each other was five years ago. 

You haven’t talked to Megumi in a long time, but you call Tsumiki whenever either of you are available. That about sums things up. But every once in a while you and Tsumiki— just Tsumiki— hold your phones next to your heads as you chat and gossip about your days and the people and events in them, crossing your legs as you’re sitting on the bed or doing chores as you secure the phone between your shoulder and ear. 

Last year you’d learned a few things: school eats away at your life like a parasitic fungus, you’re someone who can see monsters that rarely even live where you do anyway, and that even if you’ve finally the maturity to admit that you may have loved someone, you won’t act on anything if you’re sure what you’ll face is either rejection or anything but reciprocation. 

At least you can still live your life. At least your parents are still here, thank goodness. 

“Tsumiki, I’m serious. ” 

“But I really think you should! You can’t just tell me that and expect me not to react like this!” 

“Honestly, Tsumiki…” you start, “I haven’t talked to Megumi in years. I can’t just. Ask him to talk to me again, you know.” 

“Still, you said you liked him! Megumi! My little brother! And he said he wouldn’t mind seeing you again, too!” 

“I don’t know, I just. I felt silly so I thought of telling you. If you told him now it wouldn’t change anything. And I think he’s avoiding me. I think he’s been avoiding me for a while.” 

“I know, but… sometimes when he does this to other people, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to talk to them. He’s just… what’s the word, emotionally constipated? He’s like that.” 

She sounds so excited over the phone. 

“I’ll just pass that old letter to him and nothing will happen. Then I’ll live my life peacefully and I probably won’t ever see him again.” 

“...I honestly think that if you did that he’d just try to find you again.” 

Yeah, right, you think to yourself.

Chapter Text

30-11-2010

“When’s Megumi’s birthday, actually?” you ask one day after finishing the last of your homework off at their place. 

“Oh! December 22nd,” Tsumiki states. Megumi’s scrubbing a plate in the kitchen. “Are you planning to give him anything?” 

“I’ll see what I can,” you reply, “But I just wanted to know. What do you usually do for your birthdays, though?” 

“Hmm,” Tsumiki pauses, “We usually only have Mr Gojo and some of his friends over— oh, hi, Megumi!” 

“Yay, you’re back!” 

“We were just talking about your birthday,” you inform him. “…you know, I’ve been meaning to ask something, actually. I never really see you guys’ parents, so, um… are they busy? Are they out of the country for work, or something?” 

“Oh— no, our parents left.” 

Left? Like, abandoned?

“Oh— oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! I thought they just had work or something and could never come back earlier— I never even thought—!” 

“—They’re probably having fun or dying in a ditch somewhere, though,” Megumi interrupts, “It’s not a problem to either of us. It’s not like we knew them that well either. I can’t even remember them,” he explains. 

“Oh…” you trail off, turning to face the table. If they’d really gone away when the two were so young, Tsumiki, the older sister, must have tried to be the ‘adult’, right? That sounds difficult. And you’ve heard that children are like plants, and plants need to have enough space to grow— you can recall that fact from your science classes. So if they’d grown so close to each other with no one else save that weird benefactor guy, would they have been able to grow properly? It must have felt suffocating for both of them, right? Maybe they didn’t realise it if they’d been so comfortable with and used to what they’d been having their whole lives— only each other? 

Or maybe you’re thinking ahead of yourself and in reality they were okay. It’s not like they wouldn’t be either way, but maybe the benefactor spent more time with them growing up, and they had more friends before you than you think— you know that Tsumiki does, even if Megumi doesn’t. 

“Megumi, you shouldn’t curse people by talking about them dying like that.” 

“So what? It’s the truth.” 

“Hey, don’t argue…” you start. 

“Hm—? Sorry, [Name]! It’s our own issue— don’t worry about it,” she says, her smile a little forced, the remnants of her frown still left on her face, “Right, Megumi?” Oh, she’s angry. Oh no. 

“I’ll never understand why you’re like this,” he says, heading to his room. 

“Hey— why’re you leaving?” He walks out anyway. 

“Tsumiki, why’s he leaving?” She frowns again. 

“I’m sorry, [Name],” she says, “Megumi just thinks that you shouldn’t be nice to people.” 

“Huh? Nice in what way?” 

“No, it’s just… when people do bad things, I think we should forgive them. We shouldn’t punish them instead. We have to be kind because everyone has a reason for what they do, so we should just be kind to whoever we see.” 

“…uh-huh. I guess. But my mummy says that sometimes if you do that too much life gets harder.” 

“It gets harder if you think it does. Megumi thinks like that too, calling me a hypocrite when I tell him to forgive people and things like that,” she says, “…you know what I think, [Name]?” 

“I think that you’re a kind person. I think that everyone and anyone can be kind in any way. It’s just that we have to think we’re kind and everything comes easy. I think that kind of life is the best. So…” she grins, and it’s light and happy again, but you see the sagacity in her eyes, and maybe how tired yet satisfied she may be on her lower eyelids. “Don’t give up on trying to be a good person, [Name]. Or maybe just being a kind one, because I think you’d be amazing at that.” 

“Oh…” you say. If your eyes could, they would have stars in them. Nobody’s told you you could be amazing at something, much less good. You’re quiet and nobody listens to you. Every parent-teacher-meeting always ends with the conclusion that you’re quite an alright student, but even more so a reticent girl. For years your parents have been telling you to speak up or to be more confident and the only people you’ve been able to speak easily to are Tsumiki and Megumi. The two of them are the only ones who have ever said much beyond your timid demeanour. 

You may forget this in the future, but you swear you’ll try your very best to remember it and be like Tsumiki. Because she’s going places; she’s got a promising future and good ideals she seems she’ll stick to until she reaches the grave, because she’s the type to change the trajectory of others’ lives even now at the tender, juvenile age of nine. It’s strange how she doesn’t know that, how she must think that she and Megumi are close friends and that the impact she’s had on you is far less than that; it’s strange how you can meet other people at any time and if it’s the right person, no matter what, your life will be affected. It’s strange that there is such a thing as fate. 

It’s 2010 and you think this year is one you want to keep lasting forever. 

—

27-6-2016

It happens on one summer evening. 

Everything seems like it’s empty; from the streets and their dusty white concrete turning grey as they’re drenched with water, to the rain that news outlets report to be more saturated with acid as the years go by, to the houses and trees that around this time are either deafeningly loud with either the quiet, the sound of cicadas or the temporarily never-ending downpour. 

But for a while, on that morning, the place where you’re settled in— for now— is the rain’s dominion, and you’re just a feeble, powerless human at the hands of nature’s relentlessness. 

So you stay under the convenience store awning, hiding in the shade from the rain after running an errand. The last time you’d got drenched in this type of weather— about two weeks ago— you’d got ill, and it only caused your parents more problems, as your mother chided you. Being sick in the summer wasn’t that bearable for you either— no, it was something hellish. Sometimes you could handle being sick in the winter with a runny nose or getting mild colds in the spring, but being sick during summer time was the worst. You’d be struggling to breathe through mucus-filled lungs and you wouldn’t be able to swallow anything without triggering a terrible ache in your phlegm-filled throat due to post-nasal drip. You’d be feeling like ridding yourself of anything resting in your insides, from toxins to food; you wouldn’t be eating or ingesting anything except water and the constant sensation of feeling faint weighing you down would seem like it were about to kill you prematurely as the sweat from a high fever made you feel immeasurably weak, like a helpless child trapped in the confines of your own body. 

“Are you okay?” the cashier by the counter— not the one who’s usually there, though, so you presume that this one’s a replacement— asks as you’re lost in your own thoughts, “I can give you an umbrella. For free.” 

You’d insist on paying if you had any cash, but your now empty wallet reminds you of the fact that you’re all out. You have a tiny quibble with the kind lady before she finally gives in, and you’re off on your way back home. 

Even upon further inspection as you exit the store, she still seems like a run-off-the-mill cashier. She seems to be in her early 20s, some college student back for the summer part-timing at the local convenience store for extra cash, maybe— with a sort of wistful yet coltish smile and a mole by the side of her right eye. 

“You know, you really shouldn’t be so insistent on not doing things if those things’ll do you good,” she tells you, “I mean— I know that sounds kinda mean, and that in asian cultures like ours we naturally say stuff that deprecates ourselves, but I really do think that you should, um… how do I say it?” she ponders aloud, “Aha! —Yes, you should just look out for yourself and let people help you. It does everybody a little better. And, you know, you’ll be able to live life without regrets, because there won’t really be an opportunity cost for letting people help you, and they’ll like helping you too. I mean, who doesn’t like helping others? Wait, you get what I mean, right?”

“...it sounded like you were rambling,” you tell her, then step back, “Um. Sorry.” 

“No, no! It’s fine! Like, um, you and I are kinda similar in that regard, I guess? We’re both awkward and we’re strangers but I just thought that the advice would do you some good, you know?” 

“Ah— I get it, sorry,” you repeat, “It’s just that… I’m not used to that, maybe? I don’t want to be a burden on others.” Not anymore.  

She purses her pink-glossed lips. “It’ll be hard to live like that, you know. If you live like that you won’t know who you are.” 

It’s strange to hear that from a literal stranger. What’s even stranger is how deep the conversation is. Wasn’t this the time to make small talk? You didn’t talk to strangers very often, especially those in stores and all. At least not for this long. 

“I… uh. I’ll see— I guess…” you mutter. The conversation dies there. You really aren’t suited for things like that. You can only find it easy to communicate and speak in that way when it’s with Tsumiki or your parents. Otherwise, you’d be stuttering and muttering your way through valleys of words that you don’t know if you should use, people demanding you speak up, or people commenting on how awkward you are, even if they mean so endearingly. You don’t know the source of the problem, really— maybe it was puberty and the onslaught of new, different people you had to talk to every time you moved? Maybe it is that. But this is your predicament: you used to be able to talk to people and over the years that just went away. 

And it’s especially bad with people your age— the last time you’d been able to talk to someone your age in a normal, non-cloddish manner, was probably when you were eight. 

Oh.  

When you exit the shop, the sky’s been dipped in the sunset and it looks like a mix of purple and pink hues have been laid onto it like watercolour paint on fresh paper. The cashier waves you goodbye anyway, claiming that she hopes you’ll come back soon— you hope she doesn’t hate you now, else you’d avoid this convenience store like the plague for the next few months. The plastic bag rustles and crinkles as its contents bump against your knees. 

The air is still thick with petrichor and the breaths you take feel light and fresh, brushing against the inner walls of your lungs as you breathe in and out. There are water residuals left on the sidewalk in patches. 

Suddenly it changes— and you don’t notice this until after it happens. The air grows heavy and everything around you feels volatile, like their constituents will be separated from each other at any moment, turned into a mangled mass of jostling particles; your ears feel as if they’re so intensely covered to the point that you find it difficult to catch a breath; you can’t bring your lungs to continue moving after that hitched breath you made once you felt it. There’s something in the air, something disgusting and thick and suffocating. It fills you with ominousness. It fills you with a feeling of sickness, of suffering, of shame and fear and sadness, and it’s lurking somewhere, somewhere in the dark. 

Cursed energy.  

You remember your father talking about it, mentioning how it felt in passing. 

Oh no. 

“Help!” a voice erupts— it’s the same  voice from the cashier, except this time it isn’t pleasant, it’s frantic, no— downright terrified. 

If there is anything you’d consider yourself it isn’t someone who saved others. 

Beyond the geographical sense of the word, you were the embodiment of stasis; something that didn’t touch others at all and made no effort to do so. You’d have no effect on any others’ life and for a long time you’d accepted you’d live a life amounting to nothing. You knew that and walked into life thinking you’d just keep doing nothing until you died for some nondescript reason. 

So you didn’t really care about your future, and you abstained from thinking of the morality behind your actions because what was there to judge, anyway? You just had to follow what everyone else did, and none of your actions were so monumental to change anything. Being guilty over doing too little or doing nothing at all wouldn’t change anything; you didn’t have the power to change it and you didn’t see the point of a Sisyphean life like such. Even if humanity would have tugged at your shoulder to do something and be removed from that state of stasis, you were sure everyone felt the same and the amalgamation of this was society’s indifference— after all, what was humanity, kindness, against society’s apathy, its enemy; what was humanity when placed against what it had built itself into? 

Thus for all your fourteen years of life you did nothing at all to change the trajectory of anything. It would be no use doing and no use trying. Nothing would come out of it in the end. 

As long as you could be useful to your parents, or at least the people around you, you didn’t have to care about being good or bad or kind or evil. 

You’d lived like that for a long time. You’re not the type to save people, not the type to help those you know nothing of. 

“I think that you’re a kind person. I think that everyone and anyone can be kind in any way. It’s just that we have to think we’re kind and everything comes easy. I think that kind of life is the best. So… don’t  give up on trying to be a good person, [Name]. Or maybe just being a kind one, because I think you’d be amazing at that.” 

You look down at your clenched fists, at her hair tie and its cherry-red hue. 

She did say you’d be good at it. 

It’s strange to think of your best friend now, but damn it, you really want to be like her now. You need to. 

Else you wouldn’t be able to live; you have the power to help people, right? And you’re probably one of the only people on this island with the ability to do so. At the very least you’ve got some cursed energy, and you’ve always been able to heal from injuries really quickly. You’ve seen enough, from simple shikigami to veils and simple domains cast by your father. 

So there may be a chance, a one in a million chance. And you’re willing to take it. If you don’t take it now and find that in the future you could have helped someone who would have gotten injured or worse— it’s now of all times that you think you wouldn’t be able to ever forgive yourself for such a thing. 

You can’t change the directions of others’ lives. At least not if you keep thinking like that.  

You grind your teeth and turn back, leaving the bags on the sidewalk. You’ll get them later. This is a ridiculous idea and you’re doing it anyway and your mind is screaming at your frozen legs to move and keep running, idiot, keep fucking moving because you’ve got to save someone you may just be able to save. Someone you don’t know, who may just be able to help. She said that you shouldn’t deny things that can help you, after all. And she has to be helped, right? So you’re going to jump in and you won’t deny yourself from saving yourself from a life of guilt. And you’re going to be useful, too. You’re going to help. 

You really have to do this and all of a sudden you think you may be crying. But you run forward anyway. You’re going to move away from that state of stasis; you’re going to change and shift and move; finally, it’s liberating and frightening and feels like living as you step into the store. 

Your lungs are burning. 

The curse looms over, a deformed, monstrous thing with its eyes and hands drowning in the mud-like substance it consists of. 

You’re going to make this work. You’ve seen your own cells once or twice before in science classes and all, you remember how your father had the old microscope he used to use for work, and brought it out for you to look at what made you. You’re your father’s daughter so you’ll make this work, your promise yourself— and you think of those cells, you conjure that image of them in your head and focus on them shifting, changing to make something new. You force them to multiply by the millions in a tenth of a minute, then you cut them off from your body. You make a tiny blister and goodness you can’t imagine you can actually do it but you’ve got to digress from that and worry about the college student cashier first, and how she’s trembling at the sight before her. 

There’s a bruise on her arm, and so you’ve got to examine the situation: she’s holding it to her chest so you can imagine she’s only been wounded on the skin and hasn’t been scratched or anything. You imagine her cells— they mustn’t look too different from yours— and heal them back up, the blotch of a bruise disappearing as if wiped over by a stain remover. “Calm down!” you shout at her, and you really don’t mean to, but adrenaline and anxiety and the whole situation are getting your heart pounding unlike ever before. 

“Wait— don’t touch that thing!” she shouts, “You’ll end up getting bruised by the hands!”

So what next? —Cursed energy alone can kill other curses if there’s enough of it, right? And your mother told you about how some people imbue things with cursed energy. 

Then you run to the curse slapping it with as much force as you can muster, and it’s arms outstretch to snatch you and force you all around, hitting you abrasives against the shelves of the buns you bought earlier, scraping your skin against the surface of the counter’s edge or nearly smashing your shoulder against the wall, but you keep your hand on any part of it no matter what. You surge your cursed energy, splitting part of it to heal your wounds and the other part of it to overload it with cursed energy. The more intense you get, the harder it hits. But you can’t give up— you’re going to commit to it and stick to something; you’re going to do something that’ll amount to another thing for once. The sight of the cashier hiding under the counter, hunched and praying is enough for you to keep going. She doesn’t deserve that. 

You load it with all the cursed energy you can manage as a rookie— you don’t think this is as much as a rookie has, though, so you probably have a lot and you promise you’re coming out of this thing alive. For once you’re going to swear you’ll keep living this intensely. 

Eventually it fizzles out, its energy, and you just keep overloading it with cursed energy. You’ve still got a lot left. That’s good. Extremely so. 

It bursts all over the convenience store, the ways it was made of. It’s going to be hassle to clean. You fall on the ground face flat and heal yourself. There’s a nosebleed, you think, from such a large amount of cursed energy. You’re panting heavier than you’ve ever done in your from any race or PE class. 

But you’ve discovered that you are the type to help others. You’ve discovered that you can change others’ lives if you want to. 

And it’s really frightening, but you’re happy. You don’t have to be a jujutsu sorcerer— you know too little of curses’ organic matter to be able to do this without making it alive yourself— but you’re going to devote your life to helping others. 

Who knows? Maybe you’ll be a doctor in that world, a nurse, or something. You won’t have to be too involved in its inner workings; you won’t be on the front lines. Still, you’ll help and you’ll be useful. You’ll help and your life will be a good one to live, hopefully. 

Shakily, she moves up. You’re shaking too, gooseflesh and cold sweat and temperatures going wild in and on your body. 

“A-are you okay?” she asks. 

“Oh— uhm, yeah!” you say, rubbing the blood off your philtrum. You’ll have to have a really long shower once you get back. Maybe you’ll draw a bath or something. “Sorry, I… uh— I should have asked you to go outside or something. Could you not tell anyone about this? If you’re injured anywhere I’ll try my best to patch you up as long as you don’t tell anyone about this.” 

“I— okay… god, you’re just a kid,” she goes, “What happened back there, actually?” 

“Have you ever seen stuff like that before? Like that monster?” 

“…no.” 

“Oh, I see. Well, don’t worry about it, because there are people who take care of stuff like that. You seeing it was just a one-time thing. It probably won’t ever happen again!” you say, holding your thumb up. “Promise not to tell anyone, okay?” 

“Alright. Just… you okay? Want me to help you with anything? I mean, it’s pretty late now.” 

“I’ll be okay. But I think I’ve got to go home now. Could you let me see any injuries you had got just now, first?” 

—

28-6-2016

You only arrive back at midnight. The weather’s fully put a stop to its torrents and your parents are worried sick. You’re so tired you could faint— fighting the curse took more out of your mental energy than you thought it would, and you have a splitting headache as the result of it. 

When they see you and sense the cursed energy, you explain whatever happened. Once you’re done your father shudders, and your mother stands up. 

“Whatever it is, I’m not letting you be a jujutsu sorcerer,” she states resolutely, “I’m never going to let you be one.” 

—

27-12-2016

The date you and Megumi have agreed on (with the help of Tsumiki as a sort of middleman) is about a week after his fourteenth birthday. 

Your parents told you to be careful— it’s a long trip to and from Tokyo, and you’re going all alone. 

This is the travel plan: fly from Kagoshima to Tokyo, stay at Megumi and Tsumiki’s for a while, and ultimately find the courage to hand him the letter before you leave. Maybe you’ll see if he still cares for you while you’re at it. 

To be honest you don’t completely feel like going there anymore— you’ll always love Tokyo, it’s just that things will be painfully awkward between you and Megumi. So you remind yourself of Tsumiki, and that you’re mostly doing this for her. Any of the three of you can be the glue holding the other two together at any given moment, and now it’s Tsumiki playing that role. 

Friends will always be above boys, anyway. So you’re doing this for Tsumiki and not him or yourself. 

When you’re finally at the airport, Tsumiki greets you with a hug and Megumi in tow. You’ve her old hair tie on your wrist— it’s come in handy multiple times since then. They both look so different now: Tsumiki’s still tall, but her hair has grown longer, more luscious and she looks so pretty you understand why she had received so many anonymous confession letters on Valentine’s Day this year. Megumi’s taller too, and though it’s slightly embarrassing the first thing you think of when you see him is how handsome he looks, at least as far as boys your age go. The viridian of his eyes is a lush summer day in a capsule, a contrast to his jet black hair spiking in all directions and his eyelashes— and those, too, those eyelashes, goodness— they look like they were woven by silk or taken off a doll: they’re so unbelievably long and curly and pretty. Your face is as hot as an oven that’s about to bake up a whole cake and let it expand and rise. They’re the kind of people you see on television, each so beautiful like the other and you almost feel as if you’re intruding; you can’t imagine how out of place you must look with them from the eyes and viewpoints of other people. 

“Tsumiki!” you grin as you’re still kept in her arms, “Long time no see!” 

“[Name]! Finally! Oh, you look so pretty now!” 

“Haha, really? I was thinking the same about you, though. I’m so happy to see you, seriously!” 

“Me too!” 

You step back and pull away. 

“Hi, Megumi,” you say. You’re nervous, but you can’t deny you’re happy. You smile as you look at him— the two of you are no longer the same height anymore. You tug at the straps of your bag, feeling the weight of you pulling the straps down on your shoulder.  “…it’s nice to see you again.” 

“…nice to see you again, too.” 

Why’d he have to stop talking to you? Why’d he have to avoid you? “How’s… um, how’s everything?” 

A glimpse from your peripheral vision shows Tsumiki with sparks in her eyes. She really was so excited— and maybe a little too hopeful, because you don’t think anything will happen at all. The incident from June makes you feel like you should try to hope for something, though. But you probably won’t be completing this trip with a new boyfriend kissing your neck or something. 

“It’s been okay,” he answers. 

“…it’s the same for me.” 

“That’s good to know.” 

You take the train back with them, breathing in how crowded Tokyo is once again. When you’d first arrived six years ago you felt like a country bumpkin, the masses of people turned into one giant entity never once fathomed by your eight year old mind. Now you’re fourteen, and the lights with their neon sparks, the dark concrete bathed in streetlights when the sun sets, the moon hanging overhead over a multifaceted maze of buildings— it feels a bit like coming home, even if you only called it home for a little less than twelve months of a life spanning some number roughly around five thousand, one hundred and ten days. 

You really love Tokyo. But more than that you love the people you met in it during what feels like a lifetime ago. 

The cold air that you breathe in as the three of you walk and take the turn to their house fills your lungs, settling into them like they never left. 

“—And you remember that old maths teacher?” Tsumiki laughs, “ ‘You children have to harness your mental prowess!’ ” she quotes, holding two fingers on each hand up in the air. 

“Oh my god,” you say, playfully rolling your eyes, “I was so sick of him last time— bet he’d feel old as hell now if he saw us all grown up like this.” 

“We saw him last week,” Megumi adds, “That old geezer expected college-level intelligence from bunches of feral eight and nine year old kids.” 

“I mean, you were a smart kid, Megumi,” you recall, “Tsumiki too. But that guy, seriously…”

“Hey! You were a smart kid too, [Name]! But was there anyone who didn’t hate him last time?” 

“Never, probably,” you agree, “He was so infuriating. Ugh— Oh! We’re here! I haven’t been here in so long, oh my goodness…” 

Megumi works the key in and opens the door. You inhale the scent of their house, a mosaic of memories and old book pages. Places like these deserve to remain treasured forever. 

The three of you step in. Smiley Tsumiki, frowny Megumi and you. This is the home that will never leave you no matter what. This is what you’d call home even if you’re not in Tokyo, or away from them, because it felt like a constant for a year and that was enough to feel like you went to it at least five times a week for less than a full year.  

It feels good to be home. It feels better to call it that after years of not feeling as if you really ever had one at all. 

—

28-12-2016

You can’t sleep. 

They’ve helped you unpack all your things, you’re clad in pyjamas and have had a thorough shower, and the white blanket on the futon is warm on the inside and cold on the outside— perfect for sleeping comfortably. But you can’t get a wink of sleep. 

Since you’d first discovered that you could, in fact, use cell manipulation, your nights had always been like this. 

To use it properly with your own organic matter, cell manipulation requires cooperation with your brain and your stomach— the source of cursed energy. Imagining the cells enough and applying cursed energy to them required your brain to overload itself with both cursed energy and information, and adding commands to that, making yourself do even the slightest bit of actions with your cells— felt like leaving your brain in the microwave. The fact that your gut— for your cursed energy— and your brain— for command and control— had to work together added more of a headache on top of that. Headaches and nosebleeds and your brain being unable to shut down became what you were used to. 

Did you keep doing it anyway? Yes— you still had the intention of helping people with it, after all. You held on to the hope that you could be a doctor or a nurse for jujutsu sorcerers or something, not an actual sorcerer in that world itself. You assumed your mother would be fine with that at least. You’d be satisfied with something like that as well, even at the cost of your sleep and health. You were still young, and the only two people who could do anything like this were you and your over fifty year old father. And you didn’t want him doing that at all for any longer. 

Clang–!  

The water bottle on the bedside table falls to the carpeted floor with a bang against the wood under it— you rush to pick it up with as little sound as you can manage. 

Stealthily, you step out of bed. If your memory serves you right, the kettle should be on top of the drawer next to the oven. 

You’ll drink some hot water or tea and lull yourself to a peaceful night eventually, you decide. 

Then there’s a knock on the door. It’s light— so light that it would be inaudible had you stayed on the bed instead of moving nearer to the door, and so soft even the lightest of sleepers wouldn’t hear it. So whoever this is, they must know that you’re awake. You’re sure you wouldn’t have caught it at all and for a second you wonder whether there really was someone knocking the door after all. Tsumiki seems to be fast asleep, though— you can hear her muffled snoring from the other side of the wall. Thank goodness she’s a heavy sleeper. You’re not too sure about how Megumi fares in that sense. 

You turn the cold metal knob and open the door. 

In the dim light the front of his body’s barely visible, its glow only tracing the outline of his left shoulder from the back. 

“Can’t sleep?” you ask, keeping your voice as soft as you can to prevent cracking your voice once you’ve started speaking. 

“I heard something,” Megumi answers, “Did you fall?” 

“It was just my water bottle. Did I wake you up? Sorry.” 

“No, don’t worry about that.” 

“Why’re you still awake?” 

He places his hand on the door frame, voice lower than earlier that night. “Why are you? It’s way past midnight,” he adds, “...I couldn’t fall asleep either, to be honest…” 

“Insomnia, huh?” you go, “This happens to me all the time, too.” 

“No, it only happens once in a while,” he remarks, “Usually I sleep pretty well.” 

“Oh. You wanna come inside? We can, like, talk, or something. We can catch up.” 

“Sure.” 

You guide him over to the edge of the bed, and he shuts the door before he sits down beside you. There is no way you can think to describe this other than saying that it’s strange, really: the boy you had a crush on six years ago, who was one of your closest friends, has grown more than thirty centimetres, and the aura surrounding the two of you is more awkward than any conversation you’ve ever had in your life. Neither of you question why the light isn’t turned on, and neither of you head to the bedside table to flip the light switch anyway, so the scene in their guest room is of two fourteen year old— about to be fifteen year olds in a little over three days, though— kids in the dark either reminiscing over memories or trying to catch up despite having changed so much. 

“So how’s life?” you start. 

“Nothing much happens at all, honestly. Wait, [Name]—” When he says your name it’s like your chest makes one full leap. “—I think I should let you know, six years ago, the dog you saw—” 

“I already know about all that,” you tell him, “My parents told me. …hey, wanna see something I can show you with my own cursed technique?” 

“...okay.” 

You hold your hand out. 

“It may be hard to see it in the dark, but…” 

He turns the light on for you before you finish and you thank him. It must have been silly to try and show it to him when everything was engulfed in the night despite the fact that you were closer to the switch. You lean back as he outstretches his arm to do it. 

“See?” You hold your hand up, palm displayed and facing him, before closing your eyes and imagine your heaps of skin cells and red blood cells. You’re bound to have a headache by tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it. At least there’s something you can show him, something new you can let him know of. This was ‘catching up’, anyway. 

“[Name]!” He whispers, but the urgency in his voice is clear. You close the wound up immediately, speeding through a healing process that would have taken days to be completed in the span of a few seconds. Tomorrow you’re going to end up having a nosebleed, too. 

“Are you alright?” he goes, “Your nose is bleeding.” 

“Is it?” you reply, smiling, “Don’t worry. It’s just that I’m not that used to it yet. I guess if I trained my body even more, it would be able to handle it better.” 

His hand strays to yours, most likely out of worry. You pull it back. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“Sorry if I made you worry.” 

“...I don’t think you should strain yourself,” he begins. It’s like how you and your father speak to each other— how funny. “If your own cursed technique does that to your body, it’s better if you don’t use it at all.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you say, “I’m not going to use it in fights or anything, either.” 

“You won’t become a jujutsu sorcerer?” 

“No,” you explain, “I mean, my dad was one and he quit a while ago, but I know it’ll be hard to hold on and do so much with this during fights. I may just be like, backup, or a doctor or nurse, or something. You?” 

“I think it’s pointless to save others.” 

Wow, cringey much. Reminds you of yourself six months ago. 

You don’t press it any further. 

“But… about doctors and all, there are people like that. Only one, to be more specific.” 

“Oh, well then— what's her name? I’d love to meet her.” 

“Ieiri Shoko. Want me to introduce her to you?” 

—

29-12-2016  

He does try to take you to visit her the next day. You think the reason why he’s doing this is to avoid catching up, or at least actually talking about something beyond a superficial level. You think that if that’s the truth behind this then you must be at fault too because you let him take you there with no hesitation whatsoever. Like adding opaque white tape over a fully painted canvas. 

But he fails because of the man over the phone. It’s probably that Gojo guy, that benefactor. Now that you know how strong he is in terms of sorcery, you guess that since he’s taking care of Megumi, Megumi’s probably a massive deal too. 

“No, I’m just asking if she can visit right now— no, get your head out of the gutter, damn it!” 

He hangs up. “I’m seriously going to punch him,” he states, frowning. So it’s definitely Gojo, then. You remember him being really insufferable by Megumi’s standards. “She’s busy, by the way. …sorry about that.” 

“Calm down, it’ll be alright,” you say, “We didn’t have to. Let’s just go around the city like tourists or something. I think that’s better anyway.” 

Tsumiki says she can come along with you, but she’ll have to leave at the stop right before Ueno for something important— a sudden appointment with someone, she says— before heading back and reconvening with you and Megumi. The three of you ride the Yamanote Line, but at the stop right before Ueno—your first chosen destination for this trip— Tsumiki has to leave, as she’d said. She apologises profusely. You know she isn’t slick.  

You take your phone, texting her. 

[Name]

Tsumiki

You ain’t slick

Why

Seriously omfg

[Tsumiki]

Sorry, I would have joined, just wanted to test the waters hehehehe… (>‿◠)✌

I mean you two seem ok

But let me know if anything bad happens okayyy??? 

You two seem pretty happy with each other though… also, what happened last night? 

If you’re up to any hanky panky, don’t do it under our roof (ㆆ_ㆆ)!!

[Name]

Literally so done with you right now -_-

But thanks I guess, I’ll see if we can catch up

AAAAAAHHHHH it’s gonna end up being so awkward I swear

[Tsumiki]

Good luck!! Love you bestieeee

Ttyl okay?? Gimme all the details  

“Who’re you texting?” he whispers. 

“Just a friend,” you say, as they announce that the train is in Ueno. 

The day in Ueno Park goes quite smoothly, really— but there’s still little progress made and the letter seems to be having its screams more drowned out the more you tug on your bag. 

“It’s pretty cold,” you comment as the two of you walk around, witnessing everyone else walking around with their huddled-up bundles of clothes and coats on, “Next time, if it’s not too crowded, we should, um… we should visit during autumn or spring. Together.” 

“Tsumiki and I can come here anytime. It just depends on you,” he says, a little rougher than you think he intends, “Wait— no, I mean, your timing—” 

You giggle slightly. So you’re not the only one who’s gotten more awkward since last time. Now he doesn’t seem the type to be, though— he seems more like those ‘cool’ guys in shoujo mangas; those bad boys who the girls end up changing, or something. Kinda cringey. But the fact that he’s avoiding eye contact and turning his head away evasively so that you don’t see him because of such a little slip-up in his phrasing is really, really cute. At least that’s what you think. It’s not like any other people would think the same, probably because of that frown or the fact that his voice doesn’t seem any flustered at all. But you think that’s okay. That makes it so that there’s more for you to appreciate, maybe. “It’s fine,” you reassure him. 

“...I brought a camera, by the way,” he says, digging for it in his pocket. The camera itself seems like one from the 2000s— it’s the small type with the wrist strap, and the buttons on the side and all. “It’s… old, though.” 

“Oh! That looks nice!” you comment. It really does. Your bag’s strap— the damn thing— slips off your shoulder again and you’ve got to put it back securely in place. Your shoulder hurts and you regret bringing so much with you. 

“Want me to hold your bag for you…?” 

“No, no, it’s okay,” you say, “It’s just that it goes off my shoulder sometimes and it can be pretty heavy. I packed too much stuff in it, heh.” 

“Then I’ll carry it. Give it here.” 

You end up handing him the bag. At least he doesn’t mind how heavy it is, nor does he complain about what you must be packing, or anything. It’s better than being forced to give your parents your things only for them to tell you to pack lighter ones. 

“It’s good that we avoided the crowd, but now there aren’t any leaves or flowers…” you start. You hope it doesn’t sound like complaining— that would be awfully rude. “Normally, people would be having picnics here, right?”

“We can still take pictures, though. Wait, can you— can you stand in front of me, here?” he asks, his steps coming to a halt next to a small garden. 

“Okay.” 

He brings the camera to his eye. “Smile,” he says. 

You’ve quite an awkward-looking smile, you think. It’s always bothered you slightly whenever your parents wanted to take pictures of you, but you smile anyway in the picture— you give him your brightest grin. It’s not like either of you will keep it anyway, and you are happy: gratingly awkward or not, you’re still with an old friend. 

“Ah, delete that,” you tell him when he shows the picture to you. The backdrop is pretty, though. “You should take a picture of the background. I look so bad in it.” 

“It’s a nice picture,” he argues, “You look… nice.” 

You shift your line of sight to look at him, unsure if it’s out of incredulousness, or the fact that the whole situation seems to be a little silly, or the fact that he’s looking down at the picture with a gaze that warms your heart a bit. Those eyelids and lashes and green green pupils will be the death of you, you’re sure. You feel you could drown in them at any second. “…thanks.” 

He looks back at you. 

“I think you look nice too, Megumi.”  

It’s really, really cold, but you feel your face heating up. For once in your life it doesn’t feel like something you should be shy of. 

—

30-12-2016

“Could you show me the dog again?” you ask him. He’s on the bed again. Different day, same situation. “Why did it suddenly pop out all those years ago anyway?” 

“It was an accident,” he explains, “You know how my Ten Shadows technique comes from the shadows, right? Wait, I should rephrase that—”

“Oh… I mean, don’t worry, you don’t sound rude or anything. I just wanted to see the dog. I mean, I like dogs! I still read books or articles about them every now and then.” 

“There are actually two.” 

“Two?” you go, wide-eyed and excited. 

He summons them out of the ground, one dark with the same red markings, and the other the exact same dog as the one you saw six years ago. He does it effortlessly— there’s no pain involved, no trade-off for getting to show someone his abilities. It’s not like you and your father’s, with your headaches and nosebleeds and vertigo every time you use it even if it’s for something simple like opening up a wound and closing it, or creating tiny blisters. How terribly inconvenient it was for you, and how easy it was for Megumi to use it so quickly and painlessly. You were slightly jealous of him for it. 

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” you say, petting the white one. It cuddles up to you. The one with dark, fluffy fur does the same and you’ve got each palm on each dog’s head. 

You turn your head back to face him. “Thank you, Megumi.” 

“...it’s nothing.” 

What a classic Megumi-like thing to say. 

—

15-4-2017 

Freshly fifteen years old, you know one thing. The friends you meet at this age are probably the best you’ll ever have. 

You’re still training your cursed technique from time to time if only for leisure or any emergencies since your mother’s absolutely determined to keep you from being one. But you’re in a new place again— your parents have chosen to move back to Sendai— where they lived and got married before you came along, and everything considered things aren’t as bad as when you had to leave to and from Tokyo. 

It all started with the class’s seating arrangement. You sat down after one of the classes, preparing yourself for a year where you had to search through the whole school for friends or spend it alone as you watched everyone else fall into their groups from the previous year like dozens of tiny puzzle pieces clicking into place again. 

The clique in front of you is all looking at this one guy with unkempt hair as pink as cherry blossoms, or MyMelody’s pink ribbon. He’s got a boyish grin on his face that honestly makes him out to be a pretty nice guy. 

“Hey!” a guy greets, his hand up as he’s smiling at you, “My name’s Itadori Yuuji. What’s yours?” 

He’s kind of tall, is a really smiley guy, and seems like he’d be pretty popular. He reminds you of a friendly puppy. Or one of those really, really cute seals people make videos of in aquariums. 

You tell him your name. “You… uh, you seem pretty popular, Itadori.” 

He pauses and turns his head up like he’s thinking. “Well… now that you mention it, I guess so,” he states, hand scratching the back of his neck, “They’re pretty cool, though. Don’t worry!”

“Oh…” 

“Anyway, where ya from?” 

“I–uh. I mean, my parents move a lot,” you say, “So I guess you could say I don’t know where I’m from, myself? Sendai’s my parents’ hometown, though. And they wanted to be back for a while. So I transferred here.” 

“Cool! So you’ve got to see a lot of stuff?” 

“Uh. Kind of?” 

He drags a seat from behind him before facing you. The way he sits is comfortable; it’s almost funny— you’re so awkward, so rigid like a frozen statue, and he’s actively trying to melt it, but the ice is still cold and barely broken. Poor Itadori, you think, He’s talking to someone who doesn’t know who to talk properly. He’s going to get bored any minute but he’s still going to talk. 

“Like, um…” you think, “Oh! I went to the Tanegashima space centre a while back.” 

“Woah!” he goes, with excitement in his eyes like fireworks sparkles, “Wish I could go to space one day. Maybe it’ll be like something in Passengers.”

It’s only the space centre, though? Not space itself, you think. But you guess that’s okay— something, something, men are perfect when they’re a little dumb. You don’t know that much about idols. “I haven’t seen it yet, but uh, sounds nice, I guess? And you don’t look like the type to watch sci-fi movies… but maybe I’ll watch it one of these days. I don’t watch a lot of movies, though.” 

“I mean, it’s got Jennifer Lawrence in it,” he says, “She’s my favourite actress!” 

That makes a lot of sense. “…really? I’ve only seen her in clips from the Hunger Games a few times. I mean, I heard she’s had other pretty good movies, though, like… what was it called… Silver Linings something? I don’t know, uhm.” 

“Oh, Silver Linings Playbook?” he says, excitement dazzling in his eyes again, “Man, you haven’t lived if you haven’t seen them. I’ll drag you along with me sometime to watch it!” 

“Ah,” you go, unsure of what to say, “Um… nice! Thanks!” 

Over the course of the next few months you learn a few things about Itadori Yuuji. He loves horror movies and Jennifer Lawrence with a passion, is a sterling athlete and freakishly good at sports, and has a smile that makes people turn to face him like sunflowers to bright summer sunlight. And he knows you too— knows that you mildly loathe all genres of nonfiction save for books about animals (especially dogs), that you prefer when things are busy even if you may enjoy the quiet, and that the two of you are people who really, really ought to just take a train to Tokyo and have kaiten sushi together one day. 

Also, you can admit that you have some degree of a crush on him— him and that damned smile. Seriously, how could anyone not? You watch him sometimes during PE, eyeing the way he moves, and that guy can move, alright: he swerves so naturally it makes you swoon, jumps up and down with might and energy, can carry people around like they’re boxes of tissues. He’s swift but his movements aren’t frenetic; they’re controlled and he demonstrates such mastery over his body that no one who sees him wouldn’t be amazed. And he’s a nice guy— your parents have met him at least twice by chance, and they love him. Your father talks about how he’s a nice, handsome boy, and your mother mentions how he’d be an ideal son-in-law. 

Poor Itadori, you think to yourself whenever they say it, giggling, Maybe they’ll let up soon enough, and they’ll realise that you’re just a really good friend.  

You’re still not going to act on your feelings, though. You never will; you’re never going to act on anything. So you’ll fade away like a spectator, only trying to talk to him because guess what? You like it, you like talking to him and spending time with him even if you know he doesn’t like you back and sees you as just a friend. He’s still a fun guy and he always will be. 

In a way it feels almost liberating, like a breath of fresh air from what happened a year ago: lighthearted crushes like these are a quintessential element of the teenage girl experience, and even if you’d always fit the bill for an ordinary teenage girl, another part of that would probably be not feeling like a normal teenage girl at all. So having this and not being hurt, having this and having fun— is great. Maybe if you get over him and start crushing on someone else, you’ll get to try having a boyfriend by the end of your last year in junior high. Sounds pretty neat if you do say so yourself. Having a partner sounds interesting. 

“Itadori. Um… they’re going to release a new Jennifer Lawrence movie,” you say, standing behind him as the other friends around him stare at you. You aren’t too close to them, but hey— he was right. Some of them were pretty okay, cool people. 

“Ah, yeah! I’m watching that too!” 

“Oh, great! I mean, it’s right up your alley, right?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “Wanna watch it together?” You blush and he continues, “I can bring the other guys too.” He gestures to the boys behind him with his thumb. You don’t know them very well— hell, they probably don’t know your name much less like you— but that’s okay. Itadori is a great guy to spend time with and whether it’s scream-singing karaoke in a language you can’t speak at his house, joking and horsing around while his grandfather frowns on the dining table, or learning how to cook meatballs he says are easy to make— you’re guaranteed to have fun with him no matter what. 

“Sure.” 

So: now you have a new guy you’re crushing on, because the last one took so long for you to get over, and you’re not sure if you’re completely over the last one, but you know you’re not going to talk to him that much anymore. And this new guy’s sweet, a hundred times better, and even if this all-in-one perfect guy doesn’t like you back, you’ll say it again: you think Itadori is awfully fun and nothing can change that. 

Life is going pretty okay, you think. Life is becoming something you’re getting the hang of. Maybe, just maybe. 

—

2-1-2017

“Guess I’m going back, now…” you sigh, zipping your luggage bag up. It’s a cold day outside— each time you press your fingers against a window, or even touch a door knob or any cold metal, it freezes you up. It’s just inconvenient, for now— if you could, you could even use cell manipulation to keep yourself warm, but that would just be too much effort wasted on too little of a cold winter day in early January. 

New Year’s had just been a trip to the local shrine with them— this time Tsumiki had to come too, so she didn’t sabotage you and leave the two of you alone— and the days have gone by relatively peacefully. When your parents call you up they’re always relieved to just see you sitting on the bed or seated on their dining table eating meals with the two of them. 

“You’ve still a few hours left here, don’t worry,” Tsumiki says, “Let’s make the most of it!” 

Despite how awkward things were, you’d say you enjoyed being with Megumi and Tsumiki the past few days— mainly Megumi, though, because Tsumiki’s been conveniently leaving anytime you and Megumi are about to go anywhere together. 

“Has anything interesting happened lately? Any action?” she asks. 

“Pft— no, not really. Haven’t even given him the letter…” 

“Aw…” she starts, “It’s alright if you don’t want to force yourself or anything, but I really think it would do him good to read it and that it’d do you even better if you passed it to him. He cares about you more than you think.” 

“Uh-huh, that’s good to know,” you say, “At the very least, we’re friends, still. I’ll get over him eventually— I mean, I think I already have, since I’m not praying for him to be my boyfriend or something.” 

“Oh…” she goes, “Well, whatever it is, I’m supporting you!” she smiles, patting you lightly on the head. 

“Thanks.” 

She leaves for something quick before Megumi arrives back, which you think does him good because he comes back with enough bruises and patches on his face to completely drive Tsumiki up the wall. 

“Woah— you okay?” You rush to him. “What happened?” 

He groans. He reminds you of a stray dog sometimes, really. Even more so now than before. 

“S-sit down,” you say. He follows your instructions. “I’ll try to heal you, don’t worry.” 

Since you discovered you had your cursed technique, you’ve only used it to heal others besides yourself once when you helped rid the cashier from the store of her bruises. It’s been half a year since then, and you’re still getting used to using it on yourself. Still, you let him sit on the sofa anyway. 

“You probably shouldn’t. I can handle this on my own. If you do this to yourself then you’ll be over-exerting your body.” 

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,” you chuckle, “Let me take care of you. And if I get a nosebleed or a headache, you can take care of me too. Heheh. That’s how things like this work, right? We take care of each other. So I can heal your wounds for you and you can take care of me if I get any of my cursed technique’s side-effects.” 

You place your hand on his face for your cursed energy to get to him— you’d be able to do it without touching him, but the more the better— and you feel how his breath hitches when you do so. His skin is cold, and so very smooth, like the soft cotton blankets they have in their house. Slowly, you visualise his cells changing, shifting, until his skin looks pristine and good as new. 

“…and…there.” 

Then your nose bleeds. “Ah— hate it when this happens, honestly.” 

“See? I told you not to strain yourself.” He gets up and places a tissue to your nose. “Lean your head back. Please.” 

You follow his instructions as he did yours. “So what happened?” you ask, only able to view either his face or the ceiling. “How’d you get injured?” 

“Nothing, just… I… got into a fight.” 

“Wh— a fight? That’s dangerous!” you frown, “What happened in the first place? Someone picked on you?” 

“No, they were just picking on someone else. People like that shouldn’t be able to trample on others.”

“So what are you, the police?” you argue, “You shouldn’t hurt people, nor should you let them hurt you. It’s bad for you, you know?” 

“The basis of all kinds of human interaction isn’t being kind,” he claims, “It’s avoiding violating someone’s dignity, and I despise the people who ignore this rule just to make themselves feel powerful.” 

And that pisses you off a little. Because for all his sister’s kindness and forgiving spirit, her brother cares less for being able to forgive others than for reading books until one AM in the morning or something along those lines. 

The weather becomes that little bit colder and you go against him. 

“Well, yeah— I hate bullies too. It’s just… ugh, why’d you have to get yourself hurt over this? It really isn’t good to have injuries. Who’s to say anything life-threatening won’t happen? It’s not like you’re invincible.” 

“I could say the same to you.” 

“Oh, shut the fuck up, seriously,” you retort, “Do you fight often or something? You know, no matter how many times you come out unscathed, it’s not like you’ll even be alive the next. What if these bullies aren’t the worst and there are some gangsters or something who kill you one day?” 

“In my school?” he goes. 

“Uh-huh— and you seriously sound kinda self-righteous, too. I mean, who gives you the right to judge? Just don’t be an asshole and you’ll be fine, and it’s not like being an asshole to the assholes is gonna do anything.” 

“No, I just can’t handle people who step all over others.” 

“Me neither, but why can’t you just be nice?” you go, “I don’t know, what do boys do? Talk to each other, make friends or something. Forgive each other. Just be nice. That’s what I think the basis of human interaction is. It’s helping people when you can, and stuff. That’s what the basis of life is, even.” 

“You sound like Tsumiki.” 

“Oh, well. I’d rather take that as a compliment even if it wasn’t intended to be by her own brother. I seriously used to think you were better than that, honestly. That sounds so emo— ‘Oh, the world isn’t inherently kind and so we should be tolerable to each other at best and horrible to the ones who aren’t tolerable at worst.’ What a joke.” 

“Seriously?” he frowns, not raising his voice, but definitely angered, “You’re worse, really. You and Tsumiki and that hypocritical sense of forgiveness. It’s probably because you read too many fiction books last time.” 

“I can’t believe I’m taking that from an antisocial guy who reads boring-ass non-fiction all the time and beats middle school bullies up to act high and mighty over them. You’re giving me secondhand embarrassment. You should be out with people our age buying sodas from vending machines or something— jeez, you’re just a fucking kid. Just be nice and save people if you have the power to— especially if you can do it without having to do things at your own expense. That’s the easiest way to do things in life. And who says you aren’t a hypocrite too? You think you’re some kind of judge in court or something—?”

“—You have cell manipulation, right? So use your brain! I’ve already told you that it’s pointless to save people. Good people who are too merciful to bad people are just as disgusting as bad people too prideful over themselves.” 

“Ew— good and bad? What happened to just living life? Just live it, seriously, it’s not like everything can be split into two categories like that. You just sound so— ugh — stop being so immature—!” 

“Megumi!” Tsumiki says when she opens the door. “[Name]! What happened? Did the two of you fight? Why were you fighting? What—!” 

“No, no! Just bickering over something small,” you tell her, “I had a nose bleed all of a sudden.” 

“Tch. Something small?” Megumi scoffs. 

“Stop fighting, the two of you,” Tsumiki orders, her voice firm yet still soft and sweet. 

The next few hours move painfully quietly. 

—

3-1-2017

“I’m really sorry it had to be at midnight like this,” you say. 

“No, no, it’s fine!” Tsumiki grins, “We wanted to come, anyway. We still have to give you a proper send-off.” 

You breathe in. “…okay. I’ll visit again, I promise. Maybe next year, but at a better time, okay?” 

“Alright, alright. Well— you’ve got to go now,” Tsumiki says, hugging you. You hear her sniffling even though you can’t see her face. 

“Okay. Bye, Megumi. Bye, Tsumiki.” 

“Bye, [Name]! Take care of your health, okay? We should stick together no matter what, the three of us.” 

You’re still a little angry at Megumi. You haven’t passed him the letter. 

You’ll live. You hope you can, at least. You’re better off not ending up with or confessing to a guy who thinks like he does. 

It’s for Tsumiki, you tell yourself. And it grounds you. 

“…I will.” 

“…bye,” Megumi says, avoiding eye contact. 

And as you get on the train and they’re waving you off, you should have taken a picture, or a video, or something. Something to keep that moment in place. There’s Tsumiki— smiley Tsumiki— with her signature warm grin and the faintest of tears in her eyes, with her hand raised up to wave at you. Then Megumi— frowny Megumi— older and taller and angry at you. 

You really should have kept things there, or apologised to her again for anything and everything, apologised to both of them for any trouble you’ve caused them, or thanked them a trillion times over, but you didn’t. 

And you regret this forever. Because this is the last time you see Fushiguro Tsumiki, the girl who changed the trajectory of your life.

Chapter Text

12-2-2017

Out of everything you wouldn’t have expected this. 

It could have been her telling you about how Valentine’s Day is coming up, complaining about how that one teacher’s been giving her class quizzes every lesson, or gossipping about frivolous things like the drama happening among the girls in her grade. 

But you don’t expect the phone call to go like this. 

“Hello?” you ask into the phone, “Tsumiki?” 

“Hello,” the voice over the phone says. This one is older, more masculine, and you know whose it is. 

It’s Gojo Satoru’s. 

“Ah, Mr… Mr Gojo? Is Tsumiki home?” 

There’s a long pause after that, the silence like paint filling in the gaps of a puzzle when the pieces are lost. 

“…not now,” he says, his tone low and heavy, “Sorry, kid. You should…. you can call on another day, okay?” 

“I… okay. Thank you. Could you help me tell her that her friend [Name] wants to call her? She hasn’t been talking to me anywhere since, um… the start of the year, I think?” 

“Yeah,” he goes, voice aching to the point it makes your heart twinge, “I’ll let her know. Thanks.” 

Then he hangs up. It sounded as if he was holding the phone with all the weight in the world, and had his voice drenched in all the pain in it. 

And you don’t know why. 

-16-2-2017-

It happens once more, and you’re convinced that every time you see them after a while Tsumiki and Megumi slip away completely from your grasp. Tsumiki hasn’t called in months— again, hasn’t responded to nor read any of your text messages and doesn’t even wish you a good morning when you start the week anymore. She always used to do that. You’re sure they would have a reason— you’re definitely sure— but why would they have to go missing on you right after you left? 

And you didn’t even want to speak to Megumi at first. Though the two of you had shared your contacts during your trip in Tokyo and agreed to catch up every so often, you struggled to face him. Perhaps it was childish pride— your wish to have been right and to have him apologise to you, apologise to his sister, too; your wish for him to call you up admitting he was wrong. 

You suppose you wouldn’t mind if he never did, though— you just didn’t want to apologise to him. You didn’t want to lose or give in, not when your life has revolved so much around these two, not when this is the only time you can control things. Your relationship with them is a journey on a swaying boat, and each time they move it you feel you’re about to fall into the water and drown from them turning it over. This is the only way you can do it to them, do it to him in particular, because you’d let only Tsumiki prove you wrong. You’d let both of them do anything to you— at this point you have because no matter how much they promise to call you back, to listen to your voicemails, to meet you again, you’re the one arranging plans to move to Tokyo; you’re the one calling them for what feels like over and over and sitting with your phone pressed to your ear for an eternity only to hear nothing. You moved all over the country, so why did it feel like you were the only one stuck in place as they moved forward from you? 

At this point it’s even hindering you from making any new friends. You choose so much to linger on these two, on two people you met at the age of eight and only knew for a year before you decided to devote yourself to them, that you miss the chance to speak to anyone else your age who could be a lifelong companion no matter where you moved. 

Yet at the same time you can’t handle not saying sorry— if there’s one thing that’s festered in you for years it’s the guilt that’s accumulated from being who you are. Guilt from being a burden, guilt for not having been a better daughter or an easier child to raise, guilt for not apologising after scolding someone over something that never really mattered. What you fought over: in the end, it didn’t matter, right? 

Still, you’d rather be immature than lose control the first time you’ve had it; you’d rather be immature than apologise for something you refuse to say is your fault even if your greater conscience tells you to apologise either way. 

Your thoughts are scribbles on paper, and you can’t decide, really; you can’t make a stand on what you really want: an apology, to apologise, to be proven right, to be able to talk again, to completely refrain from talking to him at all for the rest of your life— 

This really shouldn’t be that big of a deal. So maybe it’s because Valentine’s Day has just passed and you’re lonely and he’s the only one you’ve ever had feelings for, or because this is the compromise you can come up with the part of yourself that wants control and the part of yourself that thinks the world is better off with you being less of a weight on someone’s back. 

Anyway, you phone Megumi up. 

Slowly, you key his number in— you swore not to forget it when he gave it to you last year, when for a few days you had rebuilt your friendship with him through awkward conversations and beating around the bush, only for it to crumble and come crashing down. 

You press the phone to your ear. Its screen feels cold as the side of it grazes the skin on your chin. It vibrates and rings, its hum like a bee’s buzz, as you wait for the reply. 

“This is Fushiguro speaking. If you’re hearing this, I can’t be on the phone right now, so just leave a voicemail message—”

You’ve never felt more hurt after feeling his voice reach your ears. 

-20-2-2017-

You try again. The beep seems to mock you as you put your phone down and collapse against the mattress. 

All of it, the frustration, the melancholic nights spent dialling numbers over and over again, the emptiness that greets you after like an old friend who knows you all too well— 

— it has all happened before. It’s happening again and all you can do is watch as it does, forbidding yourself from interfering with what you’ve claimed is now a relapse of the distancing that you had no control over two years ago.  

—

10-3-2017

“We may be moving back to Sendai for a while, since we’ve got to settle some things with our old house there,” your father states— you know that you’re guaranteed to be spending your last year of junior high there, though, since it’s less than a month until the next school year— “Are you okay with that?” 

“Yeah, sure.” You don’t have the number of any of your classmates at school, and you don’t really care to ask anymore. “Want me to help with anything?” 

—

4-5-2017

Anticipation for the summer vacation breaks into your school calendar. The summer of 2017 is the first one you’ve had while having a friend close to you besides Megumi and Tsumiki, with Yuuji and you heading off for arcade games every Tuesday, laughing about goodness knows what in between classes and sending each other videos of old vines on Youtube before Vine died at the start of the year. It’s like doing every little thing that you used to do with Tsumiki, and Megumi, sometimes, too— time spent after or during school, time spent laughing and giggling over the phone, time spent over snacks that keep you so full you don’t even want to eat your next meal— the same, but different. 

With a skip in your step, you head to class. Yuuji’s in there, and hey— it’s a Thursday, so today you’re especially excited. 

That’s what’s been happening to you recently: excitement. Colour. Before meeting him it felt as if things were bleak, dull, grey like piles of dust. Yet you suppose becoming his friend has brought that colour back to you, because now you look forward to days instead of dreading them, all for the sake of him. How romantic. 

“So? Which girl in our class do you like, Itadori?”  

“I don’t like any of them.” 

“Yeah, but if you had to pick one!” 

The other boys don’t even mention you. It does make sense. At this point you may just seem to be someone desperate for his attention: of all the people in your class, you talk only to him, mostly because you’d struggle talking to any other girls, even more so any other boys. They were all intimidating at times: the baseball pitcher who dragged Itadori near his table every now and then, the pretty girls always willing to lend you bobby pins and hair ties with the best makeup you’ve seen and rolled-up skirts you feel you could never replicate and look good in, the smart student council leaders sitting at the front of the classroom completing their homework during lunch periods. Even if what would meet you while talking to them was not ridicule, it would be, at the very least, an uncomfortable silence frozen in the air from your awkwardness. 

And hearing all this kills you because you know it would never be you. You wonder why it does— liking him was fun. It was supposed to be something you dallied in for your own sake, because doing what a girl your age should do instead of rotting in your room comforted you. 

Yet your feelings were fickle, you supposed, because what was a source of joy slowly became a slightly painful twinge in your chest that you ignored each time you waited for him to tell you anything that could have indicated any feelings towards you. It was over from the start: you knew you’d never be the type of person he’d like; your handwriting wasn’t pretty, you were an inelegant klutz, weren’t gentle or caring or anything like that, just awkward. Tsumiki could, though, you think. Tsumiki had a natural grace, and a soothing charm that followed her like the scent of eucalyptus from her shampoo and conditioner. If it were Tsumiki, anyone could fall for her— any boy or any girl, anyone. But it’s you, and you find yourself wallowing in self-pity as you hear him say it before noticing one of the girls— Ozawa Yuko, you think— standing in front of you. 

You don’t know her well enough to say anything about her. Still, you know that she’s a good few inches shorter than Yuuji is, and that whenever you walk past her you can vaguely pick up the scent of camellia shampoo. 

That’s the type that people— boys, at least— like. Graceful girls with elegance emanating from them, radiant and warm and friendly, even if they may be shy. You know how some other students have spoken about Ozawa, mocking her for things she couldn’t control. And it was stupid as hell: you guys were teenagers, there’d be no need for her to want to lose weight now — she still had so much time to grow and losing weight would stunt it, plus she would be adorable either way, too. 

In the few months you’ve known him you know Yuuji isn’t like that. There are boys your age, with their boisterous laughs and common cruelty, and then there’s Yuuji. He’s never said a wrong word about anyone; he likes Jennifer Lawrence and tall girls with big asses but he’s like others in the sense that he loves people who are kind, sweet— someone like Ozawa. 

So when you see Ozawa waiting by the door, about to listen in with a light blush on her face, you know you don’t even need to hear his answer. 

[Name]

Yuuji

Sorry

Is it ok if we don’t go today

I think I’ve to stay home and study

[Yuuji]

aw ok its all good

good luck studying man

[Name]

Thanks

You should have fun with the other boys

 And walk home with them

Sounds kinda gay ngl but eh

[Yuuji]

nah not the same when i’m not walking bakc with u

It hurts a bit as you walk home on your own, but you don’t cry. 

Now it’s time to be useful. 

The next day, you talk to Itadori as usual. Nothing changes. 

But then during lunchtime you head to where Ozawa sits— today she’s in the classroom for a change, and she’s all alone, and you should’ve tried your best to prevent that so that others wouldn’t be like you. If Itadori was the one to be sitting by your desk, you’ll be like that for her whenever you see her. 

“Um, Ozawa,” you mumble, tapping her shoulder. 

She looks up. “Ah… hm?” 

“...good luck!” you say, holding your thumb up as support, “I’ll cheer you on…! If you ever want to talk to him, I’ll help you, okay?” 

You run away before things get too awkward, but a connection established is a connection regardless, and you’ve won for today. 

—

1-12-2017

Your parents seem on-edge these days, your mother stressed and tired as she always is, your father worried about nothing you seem to know. 

One night your mother places her chopsticks on the rim of her plate. The way she does it is in defeat— silently, firmly so as to show that she wasn’t quite done, that she could still hold them with all her strength in defiance. You only see her that way after your parents fight: that frown, the passively violent, deafeningly soundless aura from her actions. Because it was always your father who “won”. You didn’t have a place to judge— your parents were a sterling team together; even if they fought things would be resolved and you’d have no say in the matter. It was only theirs and if they treated their arguments like fights they brought war weapons to, they would agree that you had neither the life experience to stop them nor the wisdom to solve their problems. You couldn’t handle it either: their fighting and how it froze the air solid, the way it could erupt into them shouting at the tip of their throats so long as they were in their bedroom, because they knew you wouldn’t hear. And so beyond words your father always won their arguments, each of them treating the other like an enemy on the battlefield. 

Your mother turns to you. 

“Your father has to go to Tokyo on the 24th,” she states, “They need him back for something.” 

“Jujutsu sorcerer stuff?” 

“I won’t take long,” your father smiles, as if he had not hurt your mother’s feelings to get her to give up, “And I’m not going to be involved in the actual fighting like last time.” 

“Then why do you have to go?” 

“It’s something really important.” 

You frown. 

He sighs. “There’s going to be an attack on the 24th,” he says, “Something planned by a man named Geto Suguru, a curse user with an extremely powerful cursed technique. I’ll just help with healing anyone’s injuries,” he explains, “…you know, I actually wanted to bring you there and see how things work in real time, since it seems you’ve been interested in your cursed technique lately, but someone didn’t want you to do it.” 

“Don’t bring me into this again,” your mother spits at him. 

“I already told you it wouldn’t involve any of us getting hurt,” he retorts, “If I bring her there I won’t even let her use her cursed technique, I just want her to see how Dr Ieiri and I do it—” 

“Ah!” you go, “Dr Ieiri Shoko, right? Megu— ah, I heard about her last time, from… someone.” 

“From Megumi?” your mother says, “Darling, don’t think about those two anymore, it’s better if you don’t get involved with that or that world at all—” 

“Anyway,” your father interjects, “Do you want to try it, sweetheart? And if it all goes well with most of Tokyo still being intact and us having some extra time left, I can see if Dr Ieiri is able to teach you about reverse cursed technique—” 

“I told you, she’s not going anywhere near all of this—” 

“You and I both want the same thing. It’s not like I want her to be a jujutsu sorcerer, I’m just looking out for my daughter’s interests in healing and recovering things—” 

“Wait!” you interrupt them, “I— let me think about it, actually. Could you let me think about it, please? And I promise I won’t do anything near the battlefield, I swear. I mean— I just thought, um, that since they’re going to do some, like—- actual stuff, I guess?— that I wanted to see how it works. I still don’t want to fight. I just want to see if I could help, you know, and it would be good if I could see how Daddy and Dr Ieiri do it so that I can learn from it and stuff and in the future I can make myself useful to other people and all so please don’t fight—” 

“You’re rambling,” your mother states, her hands on her lap. Ultimate defeat. Absolute resignation from it all. 

You almost want to cry at the sight of it. 

“Of course,” your father replies, “Give it some good thought, okay, darling?” 

—

8-2-2018

Time moves like tennis balls against rackets. Yuuji will always be a great friend, you’ve decided, even if he doesn’t like you back. Besides, now, things are back to being fun: you’re going to crush on more people and have fun and see if one day someone confesses to you, and maybe by next Wednesday— the fourteenth— your sweet sixteenth Valentine’s Day will be the first one not spent alone.  

Sighing, you close your book again after a long day. There’s pencil lead stuck to the side of your pinky finger as you stack everything together and straighten it against the table so that everything in your bag gets inside all neat and even. 

“Man, [Name], you always keep everything so neat,” Yuuji comments, “I just stuff everything in my bag. Surprised I haven’t lost all my stuff yet.” 

“That’s why all your stuff comes out crumpled,” you say, “Your notebooks come out like they came out a rat’s nest— no offence.” 

“None taken,” he replies, bending down dramatically, “Seriously, [Name], you’re a really good student! Smart, too.” 

“You sure?” you ask, standing up with the straps of your bag slung against your shoulders, the two of you exiting the classroom, “I fell asleep during class and only woke up when she gave us those questions. I’m gonna have to check the textbook to finish it up tonight…” 

“Still smart to me, honestly,” he states, “I’m a pretty dumb guy.” 

You hit him playfully on the shoulder, and he jerks forward for a second before coming back up again. “Nah, be confident! You’re, like, good at sports and English and stuff. I can’t do any sports to save my life.” 

“Well it’s not like I can do maths for shit, honestly.” He slumps down. 

Then— “Ah, wait, Yuji, sorry— I’ve to go to the bathroom for a second to check something—!” 

“Huh? Check what? Wait, uh— want me to hold your bag for you?” 

“Sure—” your pads are in there— “Wait, nononono no — I’ll be fine, don’t worry, just something quick, hold on. You go without me first, ‘kay? I’ll meet you at the famima we always go to.” 

It turns out to not be a false alarm, and the thing comes early by a few days. You’re lucky you at least have some of your emergency supplies with you so that you can still have a fun day with Yuuji as long as you don’t drink too much green tea or coffee. A little should be fine, though, right? 

Still, you could always cell-manipulate your way out of unexpected situations like these. You just choose not to— it’s not worth the trouble of headaches or nosebleeds. Who’d want to willingly bleed from the top and the bottom at once, really? 

You check your appearance in the mirror afterward, and everything looks okay— your hair is normal despite school air’s penchant for ruining it, your uniform looks alright even though your skirt pocket may look a little weird later once you put your phone in it, and your face is the same as earlier today, so… well. You don’t know what that says about whether your face looks good or not right now, but you guess this is alright. 

[Yuuji]

yo

you okay?
what happened

who spends ten hole minutes pissing

[Name]

*whole***

Sighs incredibly loudly

Itadori Yuuji. 

What the fuck did you think I was doing

It was my period

Came early :(

[Yuuji]

OHHH SHIT

SORRY…

thought u had a stomach ache or smth

everything okay? 

i can like buy more pads or smth for you

[Name]

Mhm yeah I’m okay

It’s okay I’ve got enough at home anyway

If ur buying drinks could you not get me any kind of tea

Or coffee

Like nothing with caffeine in it

[Yuuji]

yes queen o7

i can go back and bring it up to u yknow

[Name]

Nah

I’m fine

[Yuuji]

ok i bought u a sandwich nd a seasonal drink thing

no coffee or tea 

[Name]

aw thx man

coming soon, otw rn

Though it’s a bit far away, the sight that greets you as you finally arrive shocks you immediately. He’s got a little blood on his face— that’s already way too much then you can handle being on his face. It couldn’t be from anything like acne or a popped pimple; the guy’s got clear skin for days and though there’s nothing but a tiny scratch by the side of his cheek you’re running over to him. 

But this is what’s worse: high school students, about three of them, lying on the floor, passed out like animal carcasses. There’s another one standing, with straight light-coloured hair and enough fear on his face to seem as if he’d just witnessed a war. 

And Yuuji’s expression, which is clear as day even with the distance between you: eyes uncharacteristically cold, face distorted away from his usual boyish grin, aura radiating off of him, lacerating through his usual self like a wolf’s claws through raw, cold meat in the tundra. 

“…what about you?” Yuuji says to the guy with light hair. 

You run. 

“Yuuji!”

“Huh?” He notices you. “[Name]?” 

“Yuuji— what happened to you?” 

“No, just—” He’s back to normal. “Saw some of them picking on someone, so I started beating them up.” 

“What— seriously? You could’ve, like, called the police or something, you idiot!” 

“But it wasn’t in school, so I didn’t know what to do… plus, we’re in different schools and all…” 

“W-well if you call the police, their punishment would have been worse, right?” you sigh, “Alright, what happened to the one getting picked on? Are they okay?” 

“He ran away,” he shakes his head. 

Poor guy.

“…and this one, the one standing up here?’ you ask, “Is he okay? He looks pretty traumatised.” 

“I’m right here, you know!” the standing guy answers. So besides standing in silence, he can talk after all. 

“Oh, this one?” Yuuji points, again not acknowledging him. He was just standing there, stunned like a deer in headlights, instead of lying on the ground. “Just seemed like peer pressure or something. He didn’t hurt the guy.”

“Ah… what’s your name, guy?” 

“…Rin Amai,” 

“You okay?” 

“…yeah, just, I guess, surprised? I mean, by the pink-haired guy’s strength and all. You guys are middle schoolers, right? That means he’s crazy strong.” 

“His name is Itadori,” you sigh, “Yeah. He’s a strong guy like that. He stands up for good things.” 

Yuuji chuckles, scratching the back of his neck, “Aw, thanks, man!” 

“Well, now that they’re knocked out, I can kind of say I didn’t like them that much to begin with…” Rin remarks. 

“Ah, I get that. Nobody likes people like them. When you can, stand up for others next time, okay?” you advise him, “Got any injuries?” 

“No, just a scratch here and there. I’ll be fine. Thanks, you two.” 

“No worries.” 

“Still wanna go to the arcade?” Yuuji asks. 

The two of you say your goodbyes to Rin, who offers to wait with the knocked-out students after that— you’ll probably only ever see him once or twice after this. Yuuji offers to take your bag but you deny him, and the two of you stroll to the arcade. 

This has happened before, really, and there’s some kind of anticipatory grief sticking to you as you ruminate over what he’d done. It’s like you’re waiting for things to worsen: either you tell him that he shouldn’t have beat students up even if it was for the sake of others, or you don’t and make decisions conflicting with your own moral code. The last time you’d seen someone get back from a fight, your relationship with them ended up severed, whether due to your commitment to your own ideals or not. 

You debate on asking him not to do the same next time, not to get hurt and not to hurt people who pick on others, and—  

—the arcade is closed. 

“Aaaahhh! Seriously? Sorry, [Name]. Forgot they said they’d be closed today. Last week one of the employees told me they’d have to settle some issues or something.” 

Of course he’d befriend the employees. It still surprises you that every now and then he’s so kind it hurts. 

“No, it’s fine,” you reassure him, “You know, I don’t really feel up to it today either. Still kinda shaken.” 

“Don’t worry about that, honestly! I’m fine, and they’re fine too.”  

“Will they be, though? Have you gotten any injuries?” 

“Don’t think so. I’ll be okay anyway, though, ‘cause I’ve got a high pain tolerance— ow!”  

“‘High pain tolerance,’ huh?” you sigh, “Is it a strain? Are you okay?” 

He winces, “I don’t know if it’s a strain or a sprain,” he answers, “But it’s on my ankle, and it hurts a lot.” 

“Can you walk?” 

“Yeah, but— it hurts…” 

You rest his arm on top of your back, taking hold of his shoulder, guiding him on the way back to his home. 

His grandfather— a man with grey hair yet enough energy to wake up at 6am before exercising and going on walks every morning— nods after you explain the situation to him, and lets you stay with Yuuji for now due to your worrying. 

The first thing to do with a sprain or a strain is to rest the injured area. 

“It’s strange that you got it on your ankle of all places,” you say, outstretching his leg for him, “Were you walking funny or anything?” 

“Nope.” 

“Maybe you’ve been overusing it, then,” you theorise, “Okay. No running and all for a few days, okay? Or just, until it feels better.” 

“Huh? But I’m in the track and field club…” 

“Spend some time with the occult club or something,” you tell him, “You can just tell the student council president or the track and field club president that it hurts, so you’ve got to go to the occult club to still be able to support your other interests and stuff as you recuperate.” 

“Nah, they’d call bullshit.” 

“Pft. You don’t know if you don’t try,” you joke. “Wait a second, let me go get some ice.” 

He lies down, his arms resting by his stomach. “You know, [Name]…” he starts, his voice louder for you to hear. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m happy you’re my friend.” 

If you were a dog, you’d be wagging your tail and kicking your feet up into the air, so happy that your smile is uncontrollable— and the last time it had been that way was more than a few years ago. 

His voice stays as loud but you hear it better, clearer, as you move up the stairs with the ice pack. “I mean, I thought I was a pretty lonely guy, and sometimes I still do. Like— I mean, you’re a lonely girl too sometimes, I think.” 

You sit down beside him, probably a little too plaintive in your actions than you intended. “…yeah. Guess people could tell…” 

“But, hey. I met you and we get to do all sorts of cool and dumbass shit together. So I’m happy I met you and that we became friends, you know? I’m happy you’re even here. So now we’re both a little less lonely, and the world has two new people who are a little less than lonely.” 

It’s warm despite it being winter— you hope his hoodie and his student jacket are enough to keep him from freezing. Every time you enter his house, you wonder how he must have lived as a child. You imagine a smaller-sized Yuuji,  with wild pink hair and a tired grandfather, living in this house with its wooden tiles and untorn paper calendars from the year 2000, in his endearingly tardy room and boyish clothing choices. The thought of it melts your heart, almost. 

“Yeah. I’m happy you’re in my life, too, Yuuji,” you beam, “I’m happy you said hi to me that day, because I probably wouldn’t have made any friends. Like, I thought every time we moved somewhere we’d move again to somewhere else, so I kind of gave up. I didn’t want to get attached. Because there would always be something happening after, like us moving and eventually I thought every day was a chore, because I had this kind of… how do I say it— this kind of ‘I’ll escape one day’ mentality, like I didn’t move forward to each day anymore. But being friends with you brought that back to me, kinda.” 

“Really?” he says as you wrap the ice pack in a towel and press it to his ankle, turning his head to meet yours, “Makes me pretty glad. Thanks, man.” 

“I’m glad too.” 

“You’re a great nurse,” he grins at you, before leaning his head back against his bed. 

It feels good. The praise feels good. 

Now you really don’t know what to do with him. Or what to do with how you feel about him.

For a moment you consider this: pressing your hand to his ankle, healing it immediately, placing your hands on his ankle and healing it with your cursed technique. But even so you’d have to explain the whole of jujutsu society to him, and that was meant to be a well-kept secret anyway. Yuuji wouldn’t be the type to do well as a jujutsu sorcerer— he’d save everyone, care for everyone, not because judging who would be right or wrong to save was often convoluted or unsolvable, but because he was a good person. If he failed to help people in dire need, whether it was his fault or not, he would be so guilty he wouldn’t live. You supposed a part of you was like that, too: driven by fear of potential guilt, yet you were driven even more by a need to be useful. If at the end of the day you could help, even if you couldn’t offer someone salvation, you’d accept it— that certain things were out of your control. There would be no point in lingering over not being able to change things you couldn’t change, and your experience in Tokyo last month was part of that. It was what changed almost everything. And you swore you’d never let Yuuji go through anything that would change him, that would take that pure love for the world from him. His name is fitting: his humanity is unwavering, a soldier fighting a losing battle, Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill and living through his suffering, the indomitable human spirit against the cruel indifference of the world and the universe. 

You’ll tell him one day, you decide. 

For now, though, you’ll have to make yourself useful another way: by using the knowledge you have to be at his aid. That’s how you’ll like it anyway. 

“Thanks, Yuuji,” you whisper. 

Yuuji dozes off. You sit next to him as if he’s a patient at a hospital, watching his breath rise and fall. A part of you wants the moment to stretch out into perpetuity, his steady snoring lulling even you to sleep. It’s creepy as hell. And knowing that you could have all of this: seeing him like this, going to the arcade every Thursday, minding each others’ health; all of it without it leading to him liking you the same way you do him— 

—it still hurts. But it’s getting easier to handle it. You’ll deny that it still hurts for as long as you can, staving it off until it really does go away. So you’ll keep silent, no one beside you knowing of your feelings, trying your best to be utilised and useful. You’ll take it to the grave, you’re sure. You’ll continue to be by the sidelines, a helper for convenience and someone to serve, someone to be used.

Chapter Text

22-12-2017

Sometimes they’re all you can think about. 

You’d taken up your father’s offer about a month after he’d announced it, hugging your mother and promising her that you wouldn’t get hurt. She gave in, swallowed her words as if she was taking the baby girl she’d spent hours in labour with and sending her to war. 

It’s Megumi’s birthday today, and you’re awake just thinking about it. You ponder over whether you should see him, whether that would change anything. 

Tsumiki’s red hair tie sits on your desk like a treasure to watch over. You wear it every once in a while when you want to feel special— pretty, maybe, even if you may look a bit like a child. Either way, it’s your lucky charm, and you’re always wearing it or keeping it near where you are. 

You promised you’d be mature— that you’d be vulnerable and lay yourself bare, shredding your feelings off of you and fleshing them out, distancing yourself from the jejune cowardice you’d had. Somebody had to do it first, and if he didn’t want to, you’d be the one to do so. This was the most rational thing to do— if he didn’t want to listen to you either way, if he’d remain someone who hadn’t apologised to you, you wouldn’t need that type of person in your life any longer. 

And Tsumiki. You wonder if she’s okay, how she’s doing: is she sleeping well? Eating well? Enjoying her life? Smiling? Doing well in the student council? 

That fight ruined everything, and it was so horribly immature. 

If only you hadn’t said anything. If only you’d been softer, gentler like Tsumiki. But no, you shouldn’t have to recompense for Megumi’s lack of understanding. That was maturity. Right? 

Still, he shouldn’t have had to do the same for you. Both of you were so stupid. 

You clench your fists on your bed, your arm obscuring your vision as if blindfolding yourself and escaping from everything, whether it be from embarrassment or your adolescence-addled proclivity for overthinking interactions from a year ago or— whatever the hell it is, you don’t like it at all, and it’s complicated and jumbled and makes you want to cry, shout, curl into yourself and just go to sleep at the same time. 

It’s 12 am and you feel really, really stupid. You feel like scolding yourself for everything. 

Now you’ve made up your mind another time. Every time you think of him you’re back to square one, you think, and then you’ll resort back to the same conclusion: you won’t give him the satisfaction despite knowing how utterly stupid it is the way you’re going around things. 

When you go to Tokyo you’re not going to see Fushiguro Megumi. Even if that includes his sister. 

You just have to get over it. 

—

23-12-2017

It’s strange being in Tokyo without it having to do with Tsumiki and Megumi. 

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” you ask your father as you’re waiting for the train. The December air is cold, nipping at your nose and cheeks. You sniffle, your skin feeling a little numb. The last Christmas you had in Tokyo was half a lifetime ago and it still shocks you. That eight year old girl never really left your body, her remnants hidden in you like a ghost in a mansion. “...what if she gets sick or something? What if she needs help but she can’t make any emergency calls to anyone because her phone’s too far from her?” 

“Your mother will be just fine,” he says, and you feel so small in comparison to your father again because you can’t really tell what he’s feeling, can’t really tell what the expression on his face is supposed to mean— worlds away from you, too grown for you to fathom the multitudes of his feelings and life experiences while he can looks down and see you, witness how green you are and understand everything as if he’d lived that life itself, because he did, once. “And it was my decision to ask you. So whatever happens, it’s my fault and not yours. Don’t be worried.” 

He’s stressed now and it only makes you worry even more now. When he’s stressed he grows irritable, and no one is spared. 

“Okay.” 

—

24-12-2017 

Dr Ieiri Shoko is an interesting person. You recognise her from before— the pretty woman with the mole near her eye, present at Tsumiki’s birthday party all those years ago, with a penchant for smoking cigarettes and brown hair that had been short at that time. Her dark eye circles vaguely remind you of crescent moons in the midnight sky or crevices in the ground. 

The room where she works; her clinic, maybe, or where she’s confined to most of the time— is part of Jujutsu High. Their school compound itself had almost shocked you, the torii gates leading to it almost unending and all the buildings’ exteriors like an old city drowning with tin a teeming forest mixed with a subtle modernity. 

This room, you think, is one of the most miserable you’ve been in— the air stale with the pungence of rotting flesh, the lights garish and hostile, devoid of all colour except for blue: the sterile blue of the nitrile gloves, the dark blue of the shirt she wears under her lab coat and the pale shade of blue of her box of masks on her desk. 

“I never expected that Jujutsu High would be so big,” you remark as the three of you are getting ready for the battle and preparing other medical supplies, “It’s like a city.” 

By now, the sun would have already started to set, the force of time having opened the gateway to night. This room would have been one away from time, then; an entity separate from time’s laws in its unchangingness. 

“The school is our headquarters, after all,” she says, puffing out the smoke from her cigarette. It diffuses into the air and you try to hold in your breath before nearly choking, “You think they’ll start coming in anytime soon?” 

“Ieiri! I told you not to smoke in front of my daughter,” your father barges in, dragging someone behind him. The boy has a black uniform much like your father’s, except his is littered with slashes, his face bruised and bloody. 

You step forward. Dr Ieiri stops you. “It’s fine,” she whispers, “Let me.” 

“Sorry, old man,” she says, “Just felt nostalgic all of a sudden.” 

“Whether you smoke or not, I don’t care. But that’s my daughter!” 

“No, it’s fine—” you start, “I really don’t mind—” 

“Just help the student get on the examination table,” she states. 

Your father hauls him up on the table. He’s whimpering, holding some of his bruises, and wincing each time he touches it again by accident. 

The doctor eases her way to him. “Watch,” she orders, and you see the cursed energy in her hand manifest before holding it over him, and seeing how he heals instantly. 

“Woah.” 

“See?” she starts, “That’s reverse cursed technique.” 

“I— is it painless?”—it’s seamless, his healing process, and there’s not an ounce of pain on Dr Ieiri’s face— “How—” you scramble to turn back and look up at her, “How do I learn it?” 

She turns to your father. “You didn’t teach her about it?” 

“It’s not like I can do it,” he argues, a little wound up and a little angry, probably because of the stress, “The most I could tell her was what it was. At the rate she’s going with her cursed technique progress, I thought that if she got into something she could struggle with, like reverse cursed technique, she’d have trouble with it and would end up spending even more time on all of this. The wife doesn’t want her learning too much about all of this anyway.” 

“Ah, yeah, that sounds like her,” Shoko chuckles, “So— she’s learning everything quickly, huh?” 

“No— he’s just exaggerating.” 

“She likes to downplay her abilities.” 

“No I don’t,” you say. 

Your father raises his voice a little, “I thought we talked about this, [Name]—”

Dr Ieiri stops the two of you. “Hey, cut it out. I was about to teach her more about reverse cursed technique— you basically said she’s got potential, right?” Then she turns to the previously injured sorcerer. “Sorry about those two.” 

“Ah— so sorry about my daughter.” 

“...Sorry…” you bow. 

“You know what? You two bring her outside, I’ll have to check something here for a while. In private,” Dr Ieiri orders. 

When the sorcerer reassures you that she’ll be alright and promises to cause less trouble in the future, the two of you wave her off. 

“Why’d you have to be so self-deprecating?” your father turns to you. 

“I’m not being self-deprecating,” you argue, “It’s the truth. And it’s not like you are the same, so you don’t really have any right to judge.” 

“Okay, now— since when did you get so rebellious?” your father asks, frowning, “You used to be so sweet and obedient. Now it’s like you hate your parents.” 

“Wh— rebellious? No, I— god, it’s like the two of you say you hate me every time I disagree with something you say. Why can’t you just listen to me for a second—” 

His voice gets that bit lower and that bit louder, and now you’re a mouse before a cat, that chill running down your spine, even though you’ll try your best to shout back, “We just say these things because we know better. We have more life experience than you do. You know, if other people unlike Ieiri were to see us fighting like that they could take advantage of it.” 

“You’re starting to sound like her,” you retort. 

“Don’t talk about your mother like that.” 

“Why not? That’s how you talk about her. Makes no difference. And I can form my own opinions. I’m fifteen—”  

“Your mother and I are husband and wife. And you’re a child. Fifteen’s barely close to fifty,” he chides, “But I guess if you think you know everything, then that’s fine. You think you’re so grown-up now, so I guess you can form your own opinions like that.” 

“God, you sound immature—” 

“And you sound like and ungrateful child! You think this stuff doesn’t exist, that the world’s kind and we’re just miserable idiots making these things up to turn our kid into a miserable adult? These things happen. Nobody told these things to your mother and I, so if we tell you this you should appreciate it, right? But I don’t know what the problem is with you. You’re like her but worse. You say you’ll do these things but you don’t do them. You say you’ll be mature but you don’t end up that way. If we say you shouldn’t do something because it gets you hurt, whether in the heart or in the brain, you do it anyway like a fool. It all gets screwed up somewhere, you know, like your neural pathways don’t connect or something. In the end you don’t appreciate us at all, you think we’re out to get you, you think that you know everything under the sun and when we tell you things you’ll need when we’re off dying in a home for the elderly somewhere, you don’t listen to a single word from us—” 

“Well that’s because you don’t listen to me!” you sniffle. The tears will pour out soon and your lips are trembling because he’s actually right to a degree as much as you’d like to deny it. 

You hate this. You hate this so much. You hate your father’s words, how much they sound like your mother’s yet how much he uses them against her, you hate the heat on your face about to be caked with blotchy tears, you hate how much everything is out of your control and how hectic everything’s been. You just want to lock yourself in your room, curl into yourself on the mattress, and blindfold yourself with your arm or stare blankly at the garish ceiling light. 

“Stop crying, would you? Why’d you have to be so emotional? You really are like her, because you cry from everything. Makes no goddamn sense, honestly…” 

Well, you’re just like him, too. 

You just walk back. 

“Woah. Something happen?” Dr Ieiri questions, discarding a cigarette right after she sees you. 

Her eyes are puffy and a little swollen, you notice. But you’re not sure if they may be from tears like yours, or from a constant deprivation of sleep. Probably a combination of the two. Maybe. 

“Nothing happened, Ieiri,” he says, ‘It’s just that my daughter thinks she’s the smartest person in the world despite not using her brain at all. It’s fucking shocking how she thinks she knows better than her own parents do.” 

You should interrupt him, you want to, to just shut him up. You don’t and you’re seething with anger while each time you feel your nails digging into your palm you’re closer to crying than you have in the past eleven or twelve months. 

“Leave the family drama out of this,” she sighs, “There’ll probably be more people coming here. Get ready. You go out and get them first, you old man.” 

You don’t give your father a goodbye. You don’t want to give him the give in and lose the fight, even if any time he leaves you here may be the last time you see each other. 

He leaves the room, not saying a word to you either. 

Immature motherfucker. Literally. 

“Great. Now that that’s over with, I can finally talk to you,” she continues, rather casually. You know she probably has a clue that other people would skirt around the situation, that she should have more decorum towards such an issue or incident or something. Yet at the same time you can also confirm she’s the type who doesn’t really care. “Should’ve said this before he came back with that first girl. Now we’ve got to be extra fast.” 

“Huh?”

“I may need you as an apprentice, basically.” 

“Huh.”  

She reasons with you, “I’m not going to live forever, and I’m probably going to need another person who can heal people. You know who did what my job is now before I even came out of the womb?” 

“No?” 

“It was your dad— bet he never told you about that, huh? Bet you’ve never heard it from your mother, either. Said he was traumatised and all that. But it’s just a part of his past he doesn’t like talking about often.” 

“Oh… things must’ve been really bad, then… must be an explanation for why he’s like that as a person, huh…” 

She chuckles, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they were. Still, I’ve heard that you like practising with your cursed technique although it hurts sometimes, but seeing as you’ve been learning things quickly from the way you only discovered your capabilities two years ago…” she continues, “Well, I mean, you seem like a good kid, too. A real hardworking, caring kid. Just a good, kind kid who I can leave this to. But not the type who’d be destroyed by the lack of those things in society. Our world needs people like that, I think. And right now more than ever. So, I thought you could give reversed cursed technique a shot, but I knew that if either your father or mother were here they’d shoot the idea down immediately. You’re their baby girl no matter what they say or no matter how they raised you could have screwed you up a little. They still love you even if they’re not perfect.” 

And you end up crying. Full-on bawling for reasons you’d be too childishly embarrassed to disclose. 

“Woah— there, there. You’ll be just fine, okay? But hey, give it a shot. I really think you could do well. But then you’d probably need the medical licence and all if you followed my path— I mean, back then, I guess in your dad’s time they were fine with him doing these things technically illegally, because there were less patients back then and less sorcerers got killed on the daily since the cures were weaker…” 

“No, no—” you sniffle, rubbing your eyes, “I mean, yes? I want— I want to be a doctor, actually. I’ve wanted to do something like that in the jujutsu world for a while. I just hadn’t gotten the chance to meet you.” 

“Great,” she twirls a strand of her hair, “Let’s start.” 

—

You can’t do it. 

You keep to your promises— you refrain from using cell manipulation, you don’t go anywhere near the fight— you just stand by and wait for when either of them will ask for something before you run and get it like some gopher. There’s a slight acridity to this: though it hadn’t been your full intent, you suppose that it would have been good to prove your mother wrong in some way, that you could do everything without hurting yourself (even though you definitely would, but if you could handle it and take it all, what would be going wrong, right?). But you refrain from doing it even if there’s nothing stopping you from disobeying her, because beyond still being frustrated with your father who keeps track of everything related to your progress with it— or just trying to prove something for him, something that says you’re not that much of a child anymore, that you’re a person stuck in a body yet to finish growing (to a certain degree, there’s veritable reason behind his words, but you’re just too childish and prideful to admit it and “forgive” him that easily)— there’s a part of you that still wants to listen to your mother every once in a while. Because maybe if you do, then everything will be alright. It’s easier to reduce yourself to a child again sometimes, you suppose. And sometimes you want things easier. 

Still, there’s a part of you that can’t help but feel useless right now. Cell manipulation is useful and versatile; it can kill just as much as it can heal, and it can heal just as much as the most injury-prone people can get injured. To help other people, you want to be able to help even at your own expense: to be used properly and utilised efficiently. So, if people can get injured, you’ll be doing as much as you can by using it to its full potential. 

As much as you want to help, though, a part of you thinks that even if they were to allow you to use cell manipulation, you would deny their offer anyway. 

You aren’t able to help with anything, and you’re not learning anything that you didn’t know before about cell manipulation. Even if this was supposed to be your chance to prove something and make some breakthrough. Something like that. 

“Want me to help with anything else?” 

“Nothing. Just watch.” 

You’d been watching by the sidelines for five hours. 

“If you’re bored, you could always leave,” your father states, cold and acerbic. 

“No— oh my god, stop. Stop assuming everything. Why do you have to be so emotional?” 

Dr Ieiri tilts her head up from the examining table and the arm of a student writhing in pain. “If the two of you fight again, I’m kicking both of you out. But [Name], I think you should watch. I mean, if you ever get tired or bored, though, you can walk through the campus yourself for a while. I think it should be fine. And you can meet some of the first-years right now, too. You’d probably like them a lot.” 

“Are you sure, doctor?” 

“Yeah, yeah— I don’t mind.” 

“Oh, so you’ll listen to a stranger instead of your father—”

“One more time,” Dr Ieiri repeats. 

“—And it’s over for today.” 

You leave the room, your blood boiling. It takes what modicum of anger control you have left to not slam the door in your father’s face. 

—

The hallways in the school seem normal, and the classrooms do, too, aside from the heady smell of wood and old books (scrolls?) rich and heady in the air due to everything from the floors to the walls having been made traditional style. It’s pleasant. The classrooms seem normal as well despite only having about three desks and chairs neatly stacked up together, with blackboards and alabaster chalk right beside them per room. There probably wouldn’t be much light: there aren’t any attached to the ceiling, so the only ways that sunlight could enter may be through the windows, which now have the orange sunset spilling through them like river water. It reminds you of something quietly forlorn, something that would be lonely and dark in the night, something that’s been abandoned. Still, there is life here— you can tell that from the occasional drawings on some of the boards, with the only dust on them being that of chalk and nothing else, and you suppose that’s the effect of having such little students in a high school so vastly large and indispensable to Jujutsu society. 

It seems as if Jujutsu High is a place of ghosts. But rather happy, comfortable ones, maybe. Content ones who went out satisfied and stayed because they decided the world during their lifetimes that the world was something they rather liked. 

As you’re exploring and about to head to one of the other classrooms, you meet someone—  a bespectacled girl, with dark green hair tied up in a ponytail and bangs swept to the side of her forehead, right next to her honey-hued eyes and precisely sharp, piercing eyelashes. You think that she’s awfully pretty. 

“Huh? Who’re you?” she goes, her voice loud and deep and bold, “You a new transfer student or something?” 

“No— uh, my father’s a sorcerer and he took me here, so now I’m walking around. He’s assisting the doctor in her room right now and they told me to go outside and see everything.” 

“Oh. Then are you gonna be a student here?” 

“Probably not? I don’t think I’m going anywhere. But I may visit? I don’t really know. I’m actually still in junior high, anyway.” You utter your name in a brief second, telling her she can just use your first name. 

“I’m Maki.” 

“Nice to meet you, Maki,” you smile. She smiles back like an older sister. 

“So, why’d he even bring you along if you’re not gonna go here?” 

“Oh. Well, uh, I’ve got a cursed technique that my father has too and he brought me here to kind of, um— learn about more stuff since I like using my cursed technique. But I don’t think I’ll become a sorcerer. Maybe a doctor, or something…” 

“So that’s why you were with that sleep-deprived woman,” she says, heading to lean against the walls’ windows before you do the same. 

You don’t know what to do next, but she seems pretty nice and there’s comfort in the fact that she’s a total stranger you probably won’t ever see again all that much. “Maki, can I ask you for some advice?” 

She quirks a brow. “Hm? Sure.” 

“…I’ve had a lot of things on my mind recently. And I’m at the point of my life where, I guess— my emotions are going wild and I’m arguing with my parents and all. But the most important thing right now, I think, is that I can’t get over somebody I knew. He was my old friend, but… not anymore.

“I used to be really close to him and his sister when we were kids before I moved away from Tokyo, but now we don’t ever talk since they never pick up the phone and I’ve given up on trying. Ah— saying it loud really makes me miss them. But we used to be close, and about a year ago when I went back to where they lived, he and I got into a… heated argument. Now we don’t talk anymore, and I’m not sure if he’s like that because of what I did, but his sister doesn’t either. And now, I don’t know what to do, because— I didn’t really have any friends before I met them, and even now I only have one other friend in my life besides them. So I’m a little lost,” you sniffle, though it feels like a weight has been lifted off of you and you can rest your stiff shoulders, “They were really important to me and I don’t know how to talk to them again, just to like, apologise and set things right, maybe—” 

“—What’s stopping you from just talking to them? You said that they weren’t replying, but you could always just send, like, a voicemail or a letter or an email. It honestly just seems like you’re too scared of just apologising. Just say it straight, out loud. There’s no need to go around it. At least you’ll be saying it, and you can put all that stuff to rest in your head. Then if they don’t ever say anything back, fuck them!” she grins crookedly, her teeth like the serrated zigzags on a special knife, wide and bright like the summer sun. Pure, well-meant advice. 

A part of what she says is what you’ve been thinking, really, but she’s right when she says it. Perhaps you just needed to hear it from a complete stranger. 

“I think you’re right, Maki,” you smile, “I’ll do it when I’m ready.” 

“Come on, there’s no time for when you’ll be ready for these sorts of things. You just have to… sort of push yourself. If you don’t, how long are you planning to wait? You’ll never be ‘ready’ enough.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Maki.” 

“You’re welcome,” she says, the slightly cocky tone of her voice a perfect match with her smile. “Anyway, I’ve got to look for someone. I’ll see you around.” 

“Oh— well, thank you, Maki. I’ll see you around too.” 

She eases past you, an air of confidence in her, her back straight and chest protruding. “And [Name]? One more thing. 

“Good luck.” 

“Thanks.” 

—

25-12-2017

“Before you leave, here’s my phone number,” Dr Ieiri says. She snatches a cigarette out of her mouth and a pen from her pocket, and soon she palms the used cigarette, placing it on your hand. It’s burned on one end and has the stain of her lipstick on the other. 

When you leave it’s the first time you’ve stepped on that train without turning back and glancing at the platform. There’s nothing left to see, anyway. You hold your wrist as if holding the hair tie close to your heart, clinging to something with nothing left. 

—

26-12-2017  

The day the two of you come back, there’s an emptiness in the way your mother speaks, her eyes swollen and her skin dull. 

“How was the trip?” she asks as she’s cooking dinner. She doesn’t turn to face you. 

“It was good.” 

“I’m glad to know.” 

You walk over to her. “Are you upset?” 

No reply. 

“Mummy, I didn’t do anything. I just watched them work. Nothing bad happened to me, nothing bad will ever happen to me, I promise, I— Mummy?” 

Her knife slices through the vegetables like a machine in a factory. She transfers them into a bowl and mixes them in with beaten eggs. 

“I won’t become a Jujutsu sorcerer, I promise.” 

“I don’t want you doing anything related to that at all,” she mutters. 

“...you know I can’t do that. I’ve told you that I can’t.” 

“Then I’ll only stop this when you promise me to not to use it or get into that world and get yourself hurt again.” 

You reel back. “Mummy, if you’re going to be like that, then I’m not going to listen to you. I’m still going to do it and you can’t stop me.” 

“So that means you’ll be the one keeping me like this forever.” 

“...I guess it does.” 

“Is this how you’re repaying me for everything? For years I clothed you and fed you and— I had friends before I had you but I barely see them now, because my life and time has become something I only control based on the lives of you and your father. You think I wanted that?” she turns to you, “You think I wanted a life where I was either cooking or cleaning or caring for a daughter who brought sickness and harm onto herself and caused trouble for everyone?” 

It’s not like you even care what happens to you. It’s not like they have to care about whatever happens to you. If you get sick or get injured or die, then so what? You don’t matter nearly enough compared to the people you could help if you didn’t. “You can’t say that right now. I’ve been trying to repay you for what you’ve done, but— it doesn’t mean that I have to go back on my own commitments. I’m my own person—” 

“I’m not saying you aren’t. But you’re also my daughter. You should be listening to me, still, since you’re only— what— fifteen?” 

“Daddy said the same thing— why can’t the two of you just listen to me? It wasn’t like this in the past. Even when I was little you listened to me.” 

“We’re not the ones who’ve changed, [Name]. It was all you.” 

“You’re infuriating. I can’t stand you. The both of you.” 

“Of course, you’d be the one saying that.” 

—

28-2-2018

Your mother gets admitted to the hospital at the end of February. 

“It’s cancer,” your father says. 

Now you can no longer recall a time when you laughed and smiled alongside your parents. It must have just been that long of a time since then, you suppose. 

You’re crying as you see her sleeping figure— you see what you used to be terrified of, your mother, your dearest mother, slipping away from you with weak limbs and eyes in that hospital bed. The last time she was in one it had been the day you were born and that only makes you sob even more, until your eyes feel as if they’re bleeding, and all you can feel tugging at your chest is regret, but not quite that either. Regret that you never made the effort to spend time with her, to get her to understand you— you were the child, but since your parents had not been able to quell whatever they’d faced in the past, you were supposed to be the one reaching out to them and helping them heal from that since the start of it all. It was supposed to be your responsibility— one that you kept denying, one that you failed to do, one that you hadn’t been useful for even though that had been all you wanted to be in life. 

Your father and you barely exchange words after that. 

—

17-6-2018  

You ended up choosing to go to the same school as Yuuji even though there’d been ‘better’ schools willing to take you in. He told you the two of you could stick together like before despite being in different schools, yet you insisted on staying by his side. 

Partly for a different reason, though. The first time you’d stepped foot in the school there was an aura of cursed energy thick in the air, a nauseating sensation that almost suffocated you like fabric over your mouth and nose. You decided you’d stay there and prevent anything wrong from happening. This year would be a year of clear-cut decisions and surety, you’d told yourself. You would have to be decisive this time instead of overthinking things in your bed late at night anymore. 

“Staying with the literature club today?” he asks, “You know, you’re always welcome to the occult club next time.” 

“Yeah, but I like the literature club, anyway. Enjoy yourself there, okay?” you swat him playfully on the back, “Bye.” 

“Bye!” 

The literature club provides a respite, you suppose, from the stress in your life— not like you’re dealing with that stressful of a life, but everything else seems muddled up when you’re at home or with Yuuji, as much as you enjoy your time with him. There, it’s quiet and civil and professional. You barely know the names of anyone there, and even though literature includes discussing different viewpoints and— in theory— getting to know each other, you’re grateful for the group leader’s incompetency in leadership, and that it just becomes one long reading session for everyone after he’s given up on starting conversations and productive discussions with his fellow club members. 

“...it seems like you’re reading another classic today. Do you like classics?” he asks you. 

“Uh… yes?” you whisper back, “And books on biology and dogs, I guess.” Sometimes it hurts to say the latter when you’re reminded of what it means. 

“So… what other classics do you like to read, [Name]?” 

Why’s he using your first name? You barely know him. 

“Uhm…” You turn back to what’s behind you. Despite how far it is, you can notice it— that pink hair, that yellow hoodie. It seems as if one of the PE teachers is there, and a crowd has formed around them. “Oh… wait! Look! There’s something going down there! I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go down and see it, it seems like they’re doing, um—” You turn back again, your feet ready to speed away and run off— “—They’re doing the shot put! I’m sorry, I’ve to see! I think my friend’s there.” 

By the time you’re down, you’re panting and looking onwards, wedging yourself into the jostling crowd of people. 

The ball probably beat the world record. You’re not sure, though. 

You cheer along with everyone else. Yuuji is wonderful. So wonderful, and pure, and kind and strong and good— 

It’s like that ache is pricking at your chest again.

You’ll live, though. Eventually. Eventually all of this will have been over with. 

He walks over to Sasaki and Iguchi, relaxed and confident in his posture as always. “Hey, [Name]!” he shouts, waving at you. 

You head over to the three. 

“Left early today?” 

“Yeah.” 

There it is, that aura again— but it feels a bit stronger now. 

You’ll check later. 

“You’d do well on a sports team, Itadori,” Sasaki comments, her hand on her waist, “Don’t force yourself to stay in our occult club.” 

“Huh? Really? But even though you love scary stuff, without me you could never go to haunted places!” 

“But we like being scared,” she pouts. 

“School rules say that I have to be in some club,” he says, slightly cocking his head to the side, “And I could never keep this up.” With his thumb he points at the awed students behind him taking pictures of his shot with stars in their eyes. 

For a moment, you turn behind, and there he is.  

Fushiguro Megumi. 

The person who you supposed was the first you ever loved. The person who became one of your closest friends. The person who argued with and abandoned you. 

He stops in his tracks. 

“Sorry, guys, I’ve got to excuse myself for a bit,” you tell them, speeding over your words a little. 

“Oh, no— don’t worry about it!” Sasaki says. 

You dash as fast as you can— which would probably have got you a measly 10th place in a race with twelve year old kids, but still— grabbing his wrist like a pickpocket swiping someone’s credit card or wallet, before pulling him over to the side of the crowd where there are less people.

You’re seething, almost, or at least you’d like to be. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask. 

“You’re asking me that? What are you doing here? Can’t you feel the cursed energy here?” 

“Yeah— no shit, Sherlock! That’s why I enrolled myself into this school! But you— called you so many times, you never picked up, and now you’re showing up at my school like this, frowning like some kind of anime-bad-boy-with-daddy-issues cosplayer in casual clothing— do you know how frustrating it is to try to keep whatever ‘relationship’ we all have left?” 

He sighs. 

“Oh, you’re sighing? God, you’re insufferable— you know, there are so many things I have to say to you right now and I will make you fucking listen, Megumi—” 

“Okay, I’m sorry. Just listen. Too many things happened and since you’re here I think I may need your help.” 

You let out a large, nearly over-exaggerated exhale. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” 

Itadori runs past you. “Bye, [Name]! I’m gonna go see grandpa!” 

“Bye! Stay safe!” you tell him. 

And now you feel it— the surge of cursed energy from just Yuuji. 

“His backpack! It’s in his backpack!” you whisper, “He’s in the occult club, the cursed object is probably in his backpack!” 

He turns back. 

“...you’re still holding my wrist, by the way.” 

“Tt– oh, shut up, it’s not like you can’t handle it,” you say, pausing, then taking it back and retracting your hand. “Sorry. I’ll take it off if it makes you uncomfortable, ah… I’m just… very frustrated and confused. Everything’s been muddled up recently, just because a lot has happened in the past year, uhm… sorry. I should probably stop exploding on everyone like this.” 

“It’s fine. …everything’s fine,” he says, pulling your hand back hesitantly. His eyes stay away from you evasively. Acting innocent, as if he isn’t doing anything at all. 

“[Name], do you want him to stay alive?” 

“I— yeah, of course? And he’s my best friend, so… of course.” 

“Then at least we know what we have to do now.” 

“I guess we do.” 

“Whatever it is, we’ll talk about it later,” he promises, “I… have a lot to say to you too.” 

“Okay.” 

You lead him, pulling him forward by the wrist to the hospital as the sun begins to set. 

The year of 2010. Two children still in smaller worlds, watching shows and reading books and eating cake. Sticky summer days with cold water splashed at each other, a spring spent with his sister and braiding each others’ hair, an autumn with dog books and stepping on rustling, crunching leaves, a winter with fried chicken and bunched up coats and warming each others’ fingers. 

Nostalgia. 

You want him to take you back to those days.

Years ago, in a city you no longer live in, he’d done the same. He’d held you by the wrist, pulled you gently as the two of you walked to his home. 

Chapter Text

17-6-2018 

The two of you walk down the lane. It’s midnight. There’s a loitering silence in the air, no words exchanged between you and him, and it twists your heart in brief moments of hurt when you’re not trying to keep your mind occupied with other things. Your legs move subconsciously without you caring to think of them, the route to the hospital ingrained in your mind as if intrinsically there. 

At some point, you think your hand with its sweat and its grip is going to leave imprints like a marring on his skin, but it’s of your own selfishness that you choose to hold onto it anyway. 

There’s a million things you could say to him right now, things you’ll forcefully push to the very back of your throat, things you’ll keep under lock and key in a mangled mix of quiet anticipation and sombre anxieties. Right now you’re holding his wrist and that’s enough for you, to have him walking behind you if not beside, to be two people near each other— not together— in silence since any conversation is not an option; any conversation could lead to the last spark needed to be fanned into the flame for it to erupt bigger and brighter than ever before. 

If you asked about Tsumiki right now, or why either of them never bothered to speak to you since 2016, it could break you apart, of that you’re sure. And even without words it threatens to do so to you like a chandelier of melting wax candles hanging above you being suspended precariously from the ceiling or light lightning soon to be thrown down mercilessly from the sky. 

“The turning to Sendai Hospital is on the right.” 

“I know the routes better,” you let out, and rather disappointingly it sounds brasher and more derogatory aloud instead of the unobtrusive tone you were aiming for— you hope it doesn’t hurt him but then wonder why you still even cared that much about how he felt about what you said or did anyway, “I got myself accustomed to taking the one on the left that leads you through. Quick shortcut and all.” 

You’re not looking back, but the light pull of his hand from the hold of your wrist seems to suggest his slight reeling back in a small sense of surprise and an equal amount of shock, as if suddenly remembering the fact you were your own person, that you had your own autonomy as one, because somehow everyone thought you weren’t. 

It’s strange to look back at how you were before: meek, timid. Too shy to speak up. Too innocent to be angered by anything. Always dreaming, mind bleary as if on a cloud in blurred skies, hiding behind the backs of others like a petrified forest critter. 

And now you’re this— this person who frowns and disagrees and retorts at every little thing, and as much as you have to, as much as it was nearly inevitable the way you turned out, all you can think you share with the person you were when you first met Megumi and Tsumiki was your need to be useful— and even that has been exacerbated by how you’ve grown, how you’ve become this person you grew into. And a part of you— no, just you as a whole— doesn’t like yourself at all. 

Your father was right. That little girl was hopeful, obedient, kind, caring— you don’t know why even then you were dissatisfied with the way you were, or why your dissatisfaction would matter because at that time you’d cared so little about everything besides caring for people and having fun with the pair of siblings that you were so rarely bothered by it, that it was still just a slight whisper from the back of your head that could be shushed or tuned out with library visits and nights in front of the TV and the glow of old cartoons. Your father was right and this is proved even more by the fact that the whole situation just infuriates you on the surface, and just makes you feel like an empty, hollow shell left behind when you reach deeper into yourself. 

That little girl had potential, potential to be useful but kind, obedient and close to the people who raised her even if it meant abandoning her own ideals. But you’d been so devoted to them, you think, that she was killed and destroyed in the world she grew up in, and now there’s a space for her that’s left vacant due to the way she wasted away. You miss her, the girl you once were, you miss being her, how easy and lighthearted everything was and how all of you felt so content in every sense of the word. But you don’t want her back. Now that’s just what makes you miserable sometimes. 

Self-reflection just made you feel revolted by yourself. You keep your eyes on the road. 

“It’s here,” you state, pointing at the building in front of you. 

Sendai General Hospital is an institution made out of bare concrete. Its walls are yellowed and close in on its wards like a prison, coloured using old paint that hasn’t been repainted over and is as pallid-looking as the skin of the people sitting on the beds it is inhabited by. Just being in it feels like a hit to the body and the brain and the senses, too. There are old-fashioned tiles on its floors, their pale beige hue muted yet the blinding shine on them harshly mopped clean. Inside it reeks of an imminent presence of sickness or death or illnesses and conditions never to be able to be defeated and sterile sanitisers. Looking at the latex-blue curtains in it feels like a blindfold unwantedly, forcefully pulled over both your vision and your ears. 

“You and that Itadori seem close.” 

“We are,” you say, then you add, not really knowing why, “He’s my best friend.” Maybe you’re trying to make him jealous, rile him up a bit. But even then you wouldn’t want him to be riled up, nor would you be satisfied if he were to keep silent. Maybe you just wanted to hurt him, to hurt him back or something, if only for something small, even if you’d already resolved not to do so. 

You’ll make sure not to do that again, though. 

Instead he does something else, takes another route instead. “Then it seems you visit his grandfather often.” 

“Uh-huh,” you nod as the two of you enter the hospital, and you have to blink a few times as always in order to adjust yourself to the light and how it reflects off the detachedly clean floor. “My mother’s here, too.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry— is she alright?” 

“She’s okay, I… think. She… she got sick a while back and stays here now,” you explain, “Let’s not talk about that…—I mean, I… don’t really want to.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to keep saying that.” It just makes people feel worse. 

He doesn’t push further and you suppose that’s okay. Your chest hurts a bit, like phantom pain on a wound that’s still there. There’s not really a way to explain it but almost everything makes you feel that way these days. Everything makes you feel horrible to some degree. Maybe it’s being a girl, maybe it’s being a teenager, but it’s not quite either, you guess. 

“He won’t be here for a while,” you say, “He’s either still in the room where his grandfather is or he’s buying flowers for him.” 

“Then I’ll just contact them and let them know the whole situation first.” 

Who’s ‘them’?  

“Okay.” You turn your back on him, “—wait.” 

“What?” 

“Do you have any emergency contact or something? Like, a trusted adult who could help you with any of this? In case things go really bad?” 

“...why would you need one?” he questions. 

You roll your eyes, “Just give it to me, damn it… if there’s anything I have nowadays, it’s probably foresight for stuff like this. For emergencies.” 

He gives you the number, albeit a bit begrudgingly. Why’d he have to be so pissy about anything and everything?  

“Okay, thanks. I’m going to visit my mother now.” 

—

The air and the colour from it seems distant as always, the ward she was basically imprisoned in smelling of the indistinguishable mix of sanitiser and sickness. There her body chains her to her bed, and there is little she can do besides rely on and weakly cling to the nurses who assist her, a frail shadow of what she once was. 

“Hi, Mummy.” 

She turns to you, and your chest constricts. Her hair, once much longer, the type that you dreamed to have as it billowed in the wind, the type that invited you caressively to bury yourself in and take in that heady scent of roses that emanated from it— that hair is now replaced with a cloth wrapped around her head. Radiation. Chemotherapy. 

The wrinkles on her face make the difference between her now and her years ago all the more stark. Every visit you come back here, you’ve forced yourself to be acclimated to this new reality, one where she isn’t waiting at home no matter how tedious the fights get or how exhausting it was eating with someone who remained silent, someone who chose to continue suffering if it meant she could hurt and turn her daughter to guilt (as if that would change anything). At least she was there.  

Cancer is a terminal illness, especially the type your mother is facing— regardless of how much chemotherapy she would struggle through and how much you didn’t want to acknowledge a truth so plain and conspicuously bare, she would be confined to this bed until her final days, her illness like gyves tying her limbs and forcing her earthbound; the bed a cage she could never be liberated from. 

Sometimes she made it a point to you that she didn’t want to liberate herself from it anyway, and you’d never been so depressed yet irked by anything else. (You’d regret everything— not spending time with her, not appreciating her nearly enough— except for your decision to be involved in the Jujutsu world, if not as a sorcerer then as a doctor. That was, and is— your ultimatum. Your end all be all of this whole situation.” 

“Hello. Where’s that Itadori boy?” 

“Not here today, he’s still with his grandfather— maybe later.” You swing your bag over your shoulder, rummaging through it a while before pulling it out. “I’ve something for you, by the way.” 

“Oh! These,” she exclaims, and she smiles faintly, bits of colour rushing back to her face like watercolour dots on moistened paper. “I used to make them for you, sometimes. They used to be your favourite when you were really little.” 

“I know,” you explain, “That’s why I made them. I don’t like them anymore, but… I can’t remember your favourite food or if I ever asked, and I know you don’t like the food they give you here as much as… I don’t know. Your own cooking, I guess.” 

“It’s not my favourite,” she states, matter-of-factly, bluntly, “But thank you for the effort. My favourite will always be my own mother’s cooking.” 

Silence. 

“Now that I look back at everything, there are so many things I regret. Things I should have done but never did out of fear; things I should not have done and never apologised for out of pride. I’d like it if you could be different. Your grandmother went out the same way. At least, even if you had the same illnesses as we did, which I hope the genes for which have been curbed by your father’s— at least you would not leave the world with regret,” she looks down at her hands, staring down at them solemnly like a shadow, an excluded figure. “But it was a good life.” 

“...then maybe you can tell me more. While you— while we still have time. What was your childhood like? What was your mother like?” It feels strange, imposturous, maybe— to be referring to someone basically a stranger as “grandmother”, to name someone so far away from you so intimate, even if the only generation between you, tying the two of you together, was your mother’s. If you had a daughter it would be the same for her, most likely. There’s a part of you that would find honour in becoming your mother once you’d grown, but there’s a part of you that would think being such would accost you horribly, for all time. 

She sighs, “I’ll tell you later. There would be so much to say, like compressing all my words into one tiny paper. The stories have weight in them the same way letters and words in handwriting can be firm and large. But if I were to start,” she begins, “I’ll say that I was born as the daughter of two very powerful sorcerers. Now, I know how much this would sound like some nonsense spouted by your mother, but I think you should listen anyway. 

“My parents loved each other a lot, but my mother had come from an obscure clan whose name I can’t remember, but who had high hopes in them having a child with a powerful cursed technique as their last resort, since, if I recall correctly, there had been a crisis within the clan for it to keep surviving. 

“I still remember when they found out I had no cursed technique and how terrified they were. In me I had a bit more than the relatively normal amount of cursed energy most people have, and so I was expected to have techniques as powerful as they did. They loved me and treated me preciously, like a fragile object, so long as I was quiet and demure— and I guess to some extent I still was and still am today. They wondered what they could do to run from the clan, as if they didn’t have enough power when they were supposed to protect me despite my father’s bullheaded industry and my mother’s patience-formed strength. They lacked grit to grapple against them, and only in this did they lack it, I think; only against my mother’s family did they not have the ability to resolve things whether peacefully or violently. And eventually they just gave up and thought they would just… surrender me over when I entered my adolescent years. I was their daughter. I… suppose they didn’t love me enough. I know it sounds awful— thinking that they should have always protected me, through and through—” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“—when it could have been the clan itself that would have been mostly to blame.” 

“But they were still supposed to protect you! They were your parents—” 

“Why else do you think I am the way I am? I may be a shy and scatterbrained or a horrible woman with a muddled sense of morality or what I think should and should not happen when in reality it’s just what I want to happen, but this is why I’m so resolute, and so stubborn. This is why I love you so fiercely. All mothers are like that to some degree, even if my own would never let me bear witness to it.” You haven’t told her you love her too in years. 

“But then when I was an adult I met your father, who was a bit like a country bumpkin, but a formidable sorcerer and a kind, honest person, and I couldn’t help but fall in love with the person he was both inside and out. And for the next few years we struggled to have a child until I found out I was pregnant with you,” she continues, “Even though by that time I was well into my late thirties, we were overjoyed and decided to keep you.” 

Suddenly you wish there had been more time before things were ruined. Time for you to know her better, the beginning of your existence. You would have begged her for old photos, stories, mementos of her and your father. 

“And now the clan’s faded into obscurity, finally. The younger members left and the older ones passed away peacefully. Happy story, right?” 

“...yeah.” It all ended well, but you don’t know if you can say the same for your mother’s. At least, you hope, when she goes away, it can be swift and peaceful like the way her relatives did. 

Then suddenly there’s a buzz in your pocket. An inconvenient one, out of the blue. 

“You should go get that first,” she says. 

“...okay.” 

You lift it up to your face and feel like crushing the damn thing. Old number. Stupid number. Number you haven’t called in months because you’d given up on that bastard— oh. The two of you were working together now. 

You turn away from your mother, creeping to the edge of the room. “What’s wrong?” 

“I just talked to him, but I think it would be easier if you came back and was there with him too since you know him better than I do. And he… doesn’t seem like the brightest. He may think that it’s not important enough to hand over unless you ask him to or something.” 

You muffle your voice with your hand and whisper, “Hey, you shut up, you know nothing about him. He’s way smarter than people give him credit for. But I’m— I’m with my mother right now. Wait for a second. Just ask him to wait for me first; he wouldn’t need any of my help for all of this yet. Make a friend or get a life or something.” 

“...fine. But you’ll have to join us later. He’s bound to ask about you.” 

“Then just tell him I’m with my mother!” you snap, still whispering. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Wh— you little— oh, don’t you hang up now—” 

Weird thing is, he probably wasn’t even being so infuriating on purpose. And you wouldn’t have burst out at someone for being that way anyway. It was only because it was him, specifically. 

You’d sworn to put that past you. 

Your immaturity strikes once again. 

“If you have to go now,” your mother says, “You should. Just come back again next time. I can tell you the rest. Thank you again for the food, [Name].” She doesn’t call you ‘darling’ anymore, doesn’t she? Just your name. 

“Okay. Sorry.” 

You swing the bag back over your shoulder, wearing it this time instead of taking it off, easing your way out of the room. 

“It’s okay,” she assures you, “Goodbye. I love you.” 

“...I love you, too,” you say, but it’ll mingle with all the other sounds in the hospital, and it’ll be drowned out like a ship in the middle of nowhere, your voice soft and thoroughly soused by the cacophony of bleak noises like telephone rings and beeps from electrocardiographs outside of her deafeningly quiet hospital room. 

—

“Hi, Yuuji,” you greet them in the dimly lit waiting area, “...and Megumi. Sorry to keep the two of you guys waiting for so long.” 

“Oh, hey; it’s okay!” he goes, although in his voice it seems that there’s been some of his usual energy seeping away from him. “Didn’t know the two of you knew each other until just now or that you were a part of some magic curse society. Are you guys childhood friends who met because of all that cursed stuff or something?” 

“Something like that,” Megumi explains. 

“It’s a long story,” you say, not exactly denying him nor conceding his words anyway. Once again, there’s a trace of anger despite your promise to be untethered to your puerility like this. “Anyway, are you okay, Yuuji? How’s your grandfather?” 

He pauses. “Oh, about that… he just passed away.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Yuuji…” you hold the fabric of his jacket (sometimes it still feels wrong to try and hold his hand— it just makes your heart ache again like a scab being clawed at) and pull him into a brief caress, patting his back as gently as you can manage. 

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine,” he smiles as you pull yourself away, “Grandpa wouldn’t want me to be crying right now anyway. So don’t worry.” 

“Okay, I won’t. But if you’re sad, just know you can always talk to me.” 

He laughs, softer than the boisterous manner he usually does so in, “Yeah, I know.” 

Megumi clears his throat, pointedly trying to make a sound, “Anyway. Itadori Yuuji—” 

“Just call him Itadori. You don’t have to be so uptight.” 

“Nah, [Name], I’m fine—” 

Megumi sighs. “Anyway, we need you to give the cursed object now.” 

“Oh, yeah, that,” you start, “So, Yuuji, do you have the thing that Megumi would have explained to you? The cursed object? We need it for everyone to be safe, and all.” 

“Yeah! Hold on, let me get it. I told you I didn’t have it already, but here’s the box,” he says, tossing it over to Megumi. 

He retrieves the box. It’s ancient and wooden, the craftsmanship behind it elite and adroit, and the paper on it has the words for a buddhist sutra written on it like an inscription. You’ve heard of it before, the kind of curse it was meant to seal, but it definitely couldn’t be— 

He opens the box. 

Holy shit. 

“Where is it?” 

“It’s empty…” Megumi panics, “Wait— hold on!” 

Things are bad— as in, they couldn’t get any worse— not only was the school doomed by the loss of its cursed object, the cursed object was Sukuna Ryomen’s finger itself.  

You blame your inadequacy, your inability to have stopped everything sooner— if not for that nobody would have gotten hurt. If not for that there wouldn’t even be a risk of anything happening anyway. You should’ve tried harder to sense it, and you should’ve focused more on it to keep the student body safe and sound. 

It was your fault. No one else was to blame but your useless self, and even if that were wrong, you’d still have the most to be blamed for. 

Megumi has a hand on Yuuji’s shoulder, keeping the other boy from moving, his breathing erratic and his eyes wide in frantic shock. 

“...well, they were saying, ‘let’s open it up to see what’s inside it tonight’,” Yuuji clarifies, standing a few centimetres away from the door, “Why? Is that bad?” 

Sasaki and Iguchi? 

The air in the hospital feels particularly chilly tonight, gooseflesh terrorising your skin all over, and for all the kinds of reasons that would cause anything like such. 

“It’s way worse than bad,” Megumi declared, fear and grim so thick in his voice they were tangible enough to be cut through with a knife. “Your friends are going to die.” 

“We’ve got to go,” you rush, “Now! Quick!” 

It passes by like a blur, as if you’re in that moment and out of it simultaneously. Your mind has been bombarded with and pressed so thoroughly onto the moment, like tissue on a wet surface, that it seems it’s being blanked out, while your legs continue to run despite your mind nearly forgetting, at this point, why you’re running— as if your legs moving so frantically to help them was something intrinsic, something you didn’t need your mind for. 

Sasaki and Iguchi are in danger. Sasaki and Iguchi are in danger.  

You didn’t know them all too well, really— just through Yuuji, and Yuuji himself wasn’t as close to the two of them, being their junior and all. And although a part of you was doing this just because you could, like the way you did when you first discovered your cursed technique, you knew that another was doing this for Yuuji. If in any way they were hurt or could not survive, he would blame himself to no end. He possessed such a kindness within him, so much that it hit the depths of your soul sometimes; shattered your heart so gently a million times over or heated it in the kindly way mothers heated pans on stoves despite the heat of it being greater than that of blue flame. If anything happened to them, no matter how much or how little he knew of them, he wouldn’t be able to live after that. 

—

The two of them are near the barrier separating the school from the street before you (you struggle with catching up to them— one’s a star athlete and another has been training for much longer than you, you’re sure), the gates tall and enveloped in darkness. You didn’t think much of school except for when it came to your grades and being with Yuuji, thinking of these gates— the ones that you and Yuuji use when you’re running super late— in particular as just a shortcut entrance you paid little attention to, just something treated with indifference as you passed through them whenever you were late. Yet now they echoed denial, refusal, and slim chances— it was unlikely that they’d be alright, especially since this cursed object in particular was the finger of Sukuna Ryomen.  

“Is that the building?” Megumi questions, “Where are they?” 

“Fourth floor— guh!” Yuuji seems to come to an abrupt halt, nearly slamming into what seems to be an invisible wall. A veil.  

“Yuuji!” 

“I’ll handle this,” Megumi declares, hopping onto the metal wires, more directed to Yuuji than you. So even he can tell how selfless Yuuji is, even after only having just met him. 

“I may not know those two that well, but—” Yuuji starts, “But they’re friends! I have to help!” 

“You’re staying here,” Megumi commands, “[Name], if you could— get your father or any sorcerers you know to come here and help.” 

He climbs over the gate. 

He’s going away from you again. Slipping away from your grasp. And now, all you can do is watch. There’s nothing else— nothing else you can do, at all. If you went inside now, you wouldn’t be able to help except— what?— tend to their injuries? Manipulate your own cells into weapons? The former wasn’t possible with how much you’d strained yourself from running so quickly earlier, and the latter was too dangerous: you hadn’t even started with the basics of that yet, on your father’s obstinate insistence that even if he’d let you play doctor he wouldn’t let you manipulate any of the cells in your body into any kind of usable weapon. Any simple wrong move could make things turn south in the most drastically terrifying of ways. If you went in there, you’d just die, and there’d be more casualties, more trouble, more problems caused by you and you alone.  

You can’t even call your father, either. That would always be your last resort— because even if you fought, you still needed him to rest. You didn’t want him overexerting himself by using his cursed technique at all.  

(You were selfish. You didn’t want to lose your father. You didn’t want to have to visit not one but two parents lying sick and tired and grey in matching hospital beds.) 

“Yuuji?” you start, turning to him. “You’re…deathly quiet. Are you okay?” 

His lips quiver slightly, a faint whimpering noise coming out of him. Is he crying? 

“Yuuji, look at me. Are you okay?” you ask, as gently and softly as you can right now, despite your ragged, unsteady, unathletic-addled breaths. You place a hand on his shoulder, slowly rubbing up and down from his shoulder and crook of his neck to his back. “It’s okay. …Megumi’s a good and… capable, strong person and jujutsu sorcerer. He’ll be okay, and they’ll be okay too. Just… just put your trust in him, okay?” 

“I’m sorry, [Name], but I’ve got to go,” he tells you, “You stay here, and call for help or something. I’m sorry, but I’ve just really got to do it!” 

He hugs you, quickly, deftly. And then he crosses the gate, leaving you all alone like Megumi did. You wish he’d hug you longer, that you could take care of him for a little longer— it was your last way to be useful now. 

Still, there’s someone you could call, now that you remember him.

The emergency contact.  

You snatch your phone out, resolute. 

“Hello, Gojo Satoru speaking,” the voice on the other line says. 

You’ve heard it plenty before by accident. 

—

When Gojo and Megumi are back, Yuuji’s in the form of a figure slung over Gojo’s shoulders like he’s been reply entrenched into slumber, his body seemingly limp and his torso completely bare. There’s barely an ounce of movement in him, except for slow exhales and inhales you can see on his chest. Sasaki and Iguchi are both nearly the same, the former covered in bruises and in a deep, panicked haze, and the latter as asleep as Yuuji seemed to be while harbouring injuries he may never recover from. 

The only non-roughed up one here is Gojo, it seems; Megumi has a stream of blood running from the top of his head in rivulets, staining his sweaty, scraped forehead. 

“Wh— you two, what happened? Why are they all asleep? What happened to Yuuji? Are they okay? What—” 

“Calm down, kid,” Gojo says, “They’ll be fine. I mean, there’s a 100% chance that your friend can be executed, but…” 

“Executed?” you almost scream, “What the hell happened? You said things would be okay!” 

“Uh-uh, again, calm down. I mean, we don’t even know when they’re gonna make him kick the bucket! He ate Sukuna’s finger, by the way.” He holds his arms up in faux surrender. 

“Gojo you ignorant slut! Don’t you fucking dare tell me to ‘calm down!’ He ate Sukuna’s finger? Why weren’t you able to stop anything? What’s going to happen to him now? You know what— give him to me!”  

“You know, it’s not like I’m scared of being hunted down by your father if you use your cursed technique— I mean, I’m leagues stronger than him— but the stuff was too strong. It’s not like you’ll be able to get rid of the finger in your little boyfriend.” 

“He’s not her boyfriend!” Megumi interjects.

“Thank you, Megumi!” Your face is going hot like a campfire fanned by the wind. 

“Oh?” Gojo adds, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Anyway, we’re going to get him to a place where we can cover everything with talismans to surround him.” 

They’re going to execute him at Jujutsu High after.  

“I’m coming with you.” 

“You sure?” Gojo asks, “Your father isn’t going to like you travelling so far away without telling him.” 

Megumi shifts, a little sombre. “[Name], you don’t have to.” 

“...I’m doing this for Yuuji, not for you.” 

—

“You okay?” Gojo asks while the three of you are back in the hospital. (You hate this building so much.) Iguchi’s been transferred to a ward, Sasaki having woken up and insisting on staying with him. “I’ve got kikufuku if you want some. You must be really tired since it’s so late, huh?” 

The whole situation is so incredulous you’re unsure of whether you want to burst out laughing or dismember someone. 

“...nothing. Wait, let me see Yuuji again.” 

Everyone is asleep, it seems— all except for you and Gojo. Yuuji’s been knocked out, and Megumi’s stuck in the world of his dreams. 

You can’t sleep. There’s just nothing to put your mind at rest. 

At least if there’s one thing you can do it’s this. 

Gojo picks him up by the sides of his torso (now temporarily clothed with a spare white shirt) like a child with a heavy book. “Woah— he’s pretty heavy for a fifteen year old kid.” 

You lay Yuuji face-up on the line of hospital chairs. There are thin scarlet marks right under his eyes— Sukuna’s eyelids, you’ve been told. 

You should’ve done more to protect him.  

Slowly, reticently, you kneel by the side of the chairs. You press your fingertips onto that pair of thin tiny lines. 

Nothing happens. You can’t picture his cells being able to grow back. It’s as if there’s been a slit on his face and its outline has been replaced with brand-new skin. His cells don’t budge. 

“Why don’t you help Megumi? I bet he’s got plenty of healable injuries.” 

“…I don’t think I’ll be able to help much. I could faint if I try helping him now. It’s better to leave it to Dr Ieiri or something.” 

“Pft,” he scoffs, “Shoko? She’s definitely not going to heal all of him. It’ll just be a waste of her time. You can just help him with the tiny scrapes and bruises first. And I’ll even tell her that you did it. She’s really fond of you, you know.” 

You give him a shy, modest smile. “Thanks, then.”

It’s time to get to work. 

Megumi’s skin is smooth like a baby’s just like the last time you felt it, though the frown on his face, ever-present, is bound to cause wrinkles there in less than a few decades’ time. You place your hands on him, bruised and bloody, watching in your mind and directing his cells as they work. 

Once the smaller injuries have been dealt with, you stop. “I can’t really work on the one on his head, since then you’d get another fainted person to carry around, but he should be fine with some bandages and patching-up there, because I’ve already kind of catalysed the start of that area’s healing process a little. Other than that, he should be completely fine. I’ll give it, say… two weeks or so for it to get better completely.” 

“Good work!” he smiles, the outline of his cheeks visible on his blindfold. 

“By the way, Mr Gojo…” 

“You know, I appreciate the respect you’re giving me now, but just Gojo is fine.” 

“Okay, Gojo. Do you think Yuuji will be okay?” 

“I mean, I’m pretty sure. And I’m going to ask them to suspend his sentence. I’ll just see whether he wants that or not once he wakes up.” 

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure if he even will.”  

Gojo laughs. “Don’t worry. He was really strong, and able to switch between being possessed by Sukuna and being himself at will. We haven't seen that kind of talent in a millennia! I’m sure they’ll listen to me, anyway.” 

“Thank you,” you sigh. Thank goodness. “If you need any type of payment, um… teleport to my house whenever you get inconvenient little cuts like bruises and stuff. I can help.” 

“Nah, reverse cursed technique’s got me covered.” 

“Oh, wait— I forgot about that— um… I can…”

“Just leave it to me! No payment required,” he exclaims, holding both thumbs up. “And for the record, the one who wanted to save Yuuji was actually Megumi.” 

You wouldn’t have imagined that would happen. Megumi— pragmatic, serious, unkind when he needs to be (no matter how kind of a person he actually is— no, was— at heart), different from Tsumiki in so many ways. There was no way he would have been the one vouching for Yuuji, someone he’d only just met, to be spared. 

“Really?” you ask, “I… wouldn’t have thought he was the one who would do it. I thought, maybe, you were just… really kind tonight or something…”

“Well, maybe it was because he saw how much you cared about Itadori and did it for you, or maybe he had met Itadori, liked him, and just wanted to save a good person,” Gojo suspects, “But if there’s one thing for sure it’s that your old friend saved your new one.” 

“...oh.” 

You’ll have to bring it up with him next time— maybe, if he’s still there tomorrow…

“I know you’re mad at him, but a lot has happened,” Gojo states, voice lower, softer like a schoolteacher’s, “Still, I won’t tell you that you have to give him a chance or any of that. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to thank him or anything. I’m sure he did it out of his own volition without expecting anything from you. He knew he probably didn’t deserve to if it were you.” 

You pause. “No, it’s just… I’ll talk to him again the next time I see him. Alone, most likely. And I can figure something out. I think that would be the best way to go around things. Thank you, Gojo.” 

—

18-6-2018  

The aftershocks are still there, although you’ve come out unscathed. 

Last night was a mingled mess, a blur. You’d tried your best to help Iguchi by the time Yuuji was placed in the room of talismans and you could come back to the hospital and visit, but in the end he still needed better help than that. His injuries were too large of scale for how you were at that moment, already tired after healing some of the numbers done on Megumi. 

(You were useless. You couldn’t help anyone. You couldn’t prevent Yuuji from being hit with such soul-striking guilt., couldn’t help Sasaki from being traumatised, couldn’t help Iguchi enough for him to be back at school soon—)  

Sasaki’s injuries were limited to bruises and scrapes, but though you could help her physically, there was nothing you could do to assist her emotionally. 

You stayed with them for a few hours in the ICU and then one of the hospital wards (a floor under your mother’s), your father calling you once the sun had risen. 

“Gojo Satoru told me about everything that happened.” 

“Yeah. I know you’ll scold me, but… not now. I’m sorry, I’m just really tired.” You hang up. 

For all you spoke of wanting to be useful, the night when your powers were needed the most was when you were at your most useless— you couldn’t help them, you couldn’t help attack the cursed spirits, and the only thing you could do was call for an adult’s help like a little, scared and helpless girl. 

You needed to train, and train harder than you had been doing for the past few years. 

There’s a knock on the door, a dot-dot-dot-dot-dot. dot dot. It’s Yuuji, you know it is. How ever could you not? 

Timidly, movements quiet like the room itself, you pull the door knob, seeing him there, relatively unscathed. You sigh in relief, a moment’s respite before you return to the panic you had been living in before since you deserve the respite less than other people do— no, you don’t deserve such a break at all, you’re absolutely sure of that, not after what you pulled, how horribly and utterly useless you were, you’ll remind yourself of that again and again and again — the heart-piercing guilt and the worry and the constant need to care for the people around you, almost like a mother, maybe, but you don’t like that thought as much as you think you should. Maybe if your own mother knew, she’d disagree— maybe she’d tell you that you should be a mother, maybe she’d ignore that you were also a child at certain times— the most convenient ones, probably. When she thinks it good that you, a child, were someone’s caretaker because women should take pride in and appreciate that, she would encourage you to be one; when she thinks it bad that as a caretaker and a so-called ‘adult’ you can have your own autonomy, agency and opinions, then maybe she’d remind you that in her eyes you knew nothing of the world. But maybe, just maybe, there was also a chance that she wouldn’t be like that in any way. 

But you wouldn’t put it past her. 

“Yuuji, are you okay?” There are questions about to spill out of you, tears about to fall like gushing rivers, but you’re just happy he’s alive at this point. 

“Yeah.” His voice is soft. Your chest twinges; it hurts like an awful, intransigent little bruise. “Hi, [Name].” It feels so unignorable, the way it’s filled with such sorrow and worry that it weighs his usually loud and boisterous voice down. 

“I thought that—” you start, lips trembling, “I thought there was a chance I couldn’t lose you. The only thing I could do was—” you sniffle, “Hope that they could delay it or something.” 

“Yeah. I’ll explain it later,” he says, his voice sincere. 

You squeeze the wrist of his sleeve. “Don’t do things like that ever again,” you plead, “Promise me that at least.” 

“I promise.” 

“And keep your promises.”

“I will.” 

“...want to come inside?” 

He walks inside, and you step back to make way for him. 

“Sorry I came so late,” he says to you and Sasaki, who shakes her head in reassurance. “Hello, Sasaki,” he greets, “Is Iguchi okay?” 

They speak for a while— you don’t feel like it’s much of your right to join their conversation, since you did nearly nothing at all when they were most in danger, so you leave them be for a while. It would be better not to bother them right now, anyway. They’ve both been traumatised until it reached beneath their bones within the past twenty-four hours. 

—

When you leave the hospital, Sasaki tells you that she’s going to stay. You tell her to take care, squeezing her hand one final time. 

You let her, patting her on the back. You’ll call them later— she’d given you her contact— just to check on the two of them. 

“Where’s Megumi?” you ask Yuuji. 

“Oh, Fushiguro? I’m not too sure, but that Gojo guy said he’ll be there soon.” 

“Where, though?”

Sheepishly, in peak Yuuji fashion, he scratches the back of his neck. “Actually, another reason why I came here was also because… I mean, I know you and him weren’t close, but I’m going to the place where they’ll keep Grandpa’s ashes, and I think… you know, you could come with me. I… I don’t think I’d be able to do it really well alone, even though he had definitely made it clear he seriously didn’t want me moping around after his death and all. Gojo and Megumi will probably be there, but I thought it would be better if you were there because I know you better than those two, and you’re my friend. So… could you come with me? I know that he never really showed it, but I think he had always liked you a lot. Like, he was happy we were friends and stuff.” 

“...mhm. I’ll always be happy about that,” you tell him, before pulling him into a hug. The guy must need one right now. You’ve never hugged him before. Your heart hurts. 

—

The air is hot and humid with the breath of summer, bundles of mosquitoes bound to be breeding new ones these next few weeks. Up in the sky is the sun, bold and bright, glaring down harshly at the two of you. 

“Before he passed away, Grandpa actually said something. He… kind of cursed me, if I’m being honest,” Yuuji starts. “He said I was a strong kid, so I should help people. And I’m going to do that. So that was why when Gojo asked if I wanted to be executed immediately or just eat all the fingers before dying, I chose the second option. I… I think I want to help people that way.” 

‘You’ve already helped people enough. You helped me,’ you almost tell him. 

You frown, because that’s the only thing you can do right now. You search for words to say the same way you do looking for dog books in libraries chock-full with those of other genres. “I’m… disappointed, I— I know I should be grateful, grateful that you’re still going to be alive and all, but… you’re still going to be in danger, and you’re still going to be executed one day. I mean, again, I know I should be happy you’re going to have more time alive and that I can still see you, but what if things don’t go as planned? What if you lose control of yourself once you reach, like, the fifth finger or something?” 

You’re selfish like that. In a way, you’re just the way your mother is. You should’ve always known— you were her beloved daughter after all, and the people you know would be loved the same way she did you since the day she knew of your existence, and maybe even before that. 

“Don’t worry,” he grins, wide as always. Even in an over-enveloping darkness he still manages to be the light. “I’ll be just fine. I’m a strong kid, after all. And we’ll always be friends!” 

— 

Gojo asks if he and Yuuji can talk in private for a while. You wonder if this was how your mother felt as she had to give the person she loved most away (but you will have to go away, one day), because you can briefly tell what Gojo is going to ask. You wonder if she felt this twice. 

Yuuji can’t stay with you forever. In the same way you can’t remain by your mother and father’s sides for all eternity. 

This won’t be the last time you’re here, you think. For a place of death, it’s quite a bit beautiful how there’s such large masses of grass and plants surrounding it. 

—

Megumi nearly walks past you, his eyes on the old photographs of the deceased all around him. 

“Megumi.” 

He turns around. 

“I just wanted to thank you for wanting to save my friend, even if you may not have wanted to do it for me, specifically… um… I didn’t expect that you’d still be here. Are your injuries okay?” 

“I’m okay,” he answers you. “And also, I…” he hesitates, the first time he’s talked to you for something actually related to the two of you in a long time— nearly two years if you’re counting correctly, but the thoughts in your head are a bit too jumbled to count at the moment. “I didn’t really do it for you, though. It… it was for Tsumiki.” 

“Oh.”

“Wait! I’m sorry, that didn’t… come out right. But I should also apologise for something else. You wouldn’t have been thrown into this world anyway if not for my own demon dogs years ago.” 

“No, no, it wasn’t your fault. And I would have wanted to be in it anyway. There’s not many who can heal other people and all, so I just thought… even if I can’t do as much yet, since I don’t have reversed cursed technique and the drawbacks that come from mine are really bad, I can still help people sometimes if they’re dealing with relatively minor injuries. I can, um… make things easier for people. I can be useful like that. I’d keep to it anyway, because I’m stubborn, but… yeah. It wasn’t your fault, really.” 

“Okay. That’s good to hear.” 

“Yeah. Anyway, I’m happy to know that Tsumiki is okay.” 

Silence again for a while. The air turns a little more sombre, and a lot more awkward. 

“She is. And Itadori seems… like a good person. I think it’s good, that… you were able to find a friend like that.” 

“It was. He’s a really, really good guy.” 

“You love him a lot," Megumi says. 

“I do. He’s a really good friend. If there’s something I’ll always know I know that, at least.” 

“I can see that. It doesn’t seem like he loves you back in the same way, though.” 

“...wow. Way to be blunt, Megumi. And yes, I do know that, too.” 

“Let’s just… change the subject.” 

“You’re the one who introduced it in the first place.” 

“Okay. How… how are you?” 

“I’m good. Wait, I think you should… go back to them. Maybe they’ll need you there right about now. He’s probably going to have to go to Jujutsu High, right?” 

He pauses. “Yeah. I’m sorry, [Name].” 

“No, no. That’s okay. I expected it. It’s just that I’ll miss him a lot,” you tell him, “He took care of me, kind of. You know I’ve always been a bit of an awkward or shy person, but he still approached me since I was new and we ended up hitting off as friends, kind of. We did a lot of stuff together.” 

Sounds pretty familiar, huh.  

“If you want I can make sure he’s safe for you.” 

“...you should be able to do that regardless of whether it’s my wish for you to do so or not…” you state, “But that would help, I guess. And I’m sorry for my attitude towards you for the past few hours or so. Thank you again.” 

“...I’m sorry I never spoke to you for so long, by the way,” he says abruptly. ‘By the way’? Classic Megumi… 

“I could tell you were. It’s… it’s okay. The two of you kind of have a habit of doing that.” 

All your rage, your loneliness, your feelings of abandonment— and this is all you can do. This is all you can say. You can only just let it go, in the end. 

“I’ll explain it all one day.” 

“You don’t have to if it’s hard.” 

He stays. “No, I will. I promise. And I promise I’ll start to talk to you again, as well. I was just… scared of a few things, maybe.” 

“That’s okay.” 

The two of you aren’t quite friends again yet, but it’ll happen soon. Maybe. And even if it doesn’t, you’re finally able to say, with an open, honest heart, that that doesn’t matter as much anymore. 

“I guess this is goodbye again, then.” 

“Not really.” 

“Oh, right— promise to keep in touch, okay? My patience is running thin with you,” you chuckle at that last part, attempting to joke and make things lighter again. 

“Promise.” 

“I’m going to go home now, by the way. Please tell Yuuji that I wish him the best and I’ll visit when I have my own money to visit Tokyo and all.” 

“I will.” 

“And help me say goodbye to him for me,” you add, “Hope that’s not too much for you to do. Sorry for the trouble. It’s just that I’d actually just about cry if I had to do it in real time right in front of him. Be good to him and be good friends, okay? Keep that promise, at the very least. That’s the one thing that I wish for the most.” 

“Bye, Megumi.” You turn back in the direction opposite of his. 

“Wait—!” 

His hand is on your wrist. Now you’re in front of him, like yesterday, and he’s holding your wrist, albeit a bit gentler than the way he used to pull it a whole eight years ago. 

His eyes are cast away from you, slightly avoidantly and in a way that’s a bit abashed. “I’ll miss you, [Name].” 

“It won’t even feel like I’m not there,” you say. Though his grip is slightly tight, he loosens it as soon as you try to slide it up, as if he’d let you be free of it if you want him to. 

You squeeze his hand instead, turning to face him. It feels warm. It feels like there’s blood coursing through you, the sensation more tender and tangible than it’s ever been. 

“Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye, [Name]. I’ll… I’ll call.” 

“Thank you.” 

Now you’re the one slipping away from his grasp. You move your hand away and walk back. The door slides open. 

2010. Springs, summers, autumns, winters. Hands on wrists, a back faced to your eyes, wide with innocence. Warmth and laughter and happiness and love. Days coloured with vibrant hues and time spent with dog books and in libraries. Frowns were greeted with smiles. Hesitance was non-existent. You didn’t feel a need to compensate for your uselessness. You were a child. You didn’t feel useless at all. You just felt this: a constant leaping in your heart, the corners of your mouth twisting up into a juvenile grin, braiding someone’s beautiful brown hair and tying it with a pretty cherry hair tie. 

You want to cry as you walk back home. 

You’re pretty sure you do. 

Chapter Text

19-6-2018

“So you’re really going to let go of them now?” your father asks. 

“...yeah.” 

“That’s good. I’ll miss that Itadori boy, though.” 

You will, too.  

In a way you suppose Megumi and Yuuji are very similar. They’d go well together, be good, fast friends and all that. 

They’re both undoubtedly good people, no matter how they’ve beat people up before and how different their beliefs may be. 

In Megumi’s case, everyone knew how good a person Tsumiki was, her younger brother included. Her kindness and virtue extended itself, inspiring other people around her. But Megumi was a good person, too— polite, patient (most of the time, unless it were Gojo— but who wouldn’t be annoyed by that man, right?), kind in his own way. He cared for you in all sorts of ways in the past, even then you could tell, gentle with animals and objects and your hand. Gentle in his own way. Giving you reminders despite the tiny calumniations sprinkled in (they barely do as much damage as comb bristles can), being sharp because he must have had to, kind because it was in his very nature. Easy on the eyes, tall, deep soothing voice— he ticked all the boxes for that, too. You bet that if things were different, and the two of you had stayed in touch with each other, you’d have fallen deeply in love with it by now. Yet that thought only makes you feel sour now that things hadn’t gone that way at all. 

And Yuuji, too— there was no explanation needed for Yuuji. Even Megumi could tell he was a good person. And at some times he was almost like Tsumiki. You weren’t ever surprised that you’d caught feelings for him, because— who wouldn’t? He was always popular, even if he was ignorant of his own charm around others. But he wasn’t just a good guy with a ripped torso, he was honest, perceptive and smart in conversations. Smarter than he ever credited himself for. Smart in a way you could never be— people with cute faces, nice bodies and good social skills were in a league of their own, practically. You’d thought that for a long time. 

Did either of them ever know how you felt?  

Probably not. Your heart was guarded, intensely so, and you’d never lay your feelings bare and out so easily. You weren’t the type of person to say you loved people as easily as others did, even within your own family. 

This, you presume, is probably an acquired trait, now that you think about it. You were much more different as a child, free with praise and love and unabashed affection as well as appreciation for the people around you. What changed?

(Everything.) 

You miss 2010. You miss Tsumiki the way you miss your mother’s cooking, miss her the way you miss when you wrote emails and letters and text messages to her with multi-coloured pens or your old phone that eventually broke a year after. You miss the conversations the two of you had, miss how you used to be your parents’ little angel. 

And in the end it all comes back to that, doesn’t it? 2010. Nostalgia. Reminiscing on old memories in a way akin to how the elderly do in their youth. That just made you seem more pathetic, because, weren’t you supposed to be making those memories right now, at this time of your life? 

You’re a teenager. You should be going out with friends, and having fun, not rotting at home ruminating on the past, with the only friends you’ve ever had hundreds of kilometres away from you (you weren’t sure if you could even call one of them a ‘friend’ anymore), and your acquaintances not close enough to replace them (how could they ever? How could there ever be a replacement for Yuuji?) 

In a way you feel your life is miserable: awkward, socially-impaired teenage girl with her only friend practically out of her life at this point; nothing special to your name besides a cursed technique that most times does you more harm than good; stuck not being able to completely get over friends she met at eight who left her as quickly as someone can blink their eyes; with the thinking process of a nagging, stubborn mother sometimes, or if not that then a blurry, mingled train of thought that gets delayed or lost when moving from station to station; someone not of use at all. Not miserable, you think to yourself like a slap to the face, pathetic.  

You’re not sure how Tsumiki is now— maybe she has a partner, or better friends than you were, or she’s busy being president of the student council or something (she’d be a sterling leader, of that you’re certain, that girl who you’d always known was bound to go places in the span of her lifetime). 

Hopefully, she’s alright, and doing the best she can in life. That’s all you wish for when it comes to Tsumiki. 

At this point, there’s no point in wishing to join them, or to linger on them and memories of the past. It’s a mosquito in summer heat, which is why, if it stays, you decide, you’ll just suppress and ignore it until it goes away. Even if you didn’t know how long it would take you to get over them— weeks, months, but goodness forbid a whole lifetime or forever— you needed to accept that you’d be like this for nearly the rest of your life: pathetic, lonely— ah, that’s the word that so very perfectly delineates the situation you’re in— and then some. 

So that’s why, when you hear your phone buzzing on your bed like a cicada during a balmy night, you assume it’s someone else. Yuuji must be busy settling in (he’s been texting you, and you took that as a sign that he wouldn’t call), and Megumi must be… —Well. Megumi has made a promise, and it’s not that you don’t believe in him, but it would be better to expect less than what you’d like to in order to evade disappointment. 

Must be someone else. A prank call, or a scammer, or something. Or a telemarketer, but you’d be surprised if telemarketers were calling you and not your father. And you were never one to pick calls up mindlessly anyway, so if it were some stranger out to get you or swindle you, you’d just hang up or check the number. 

If not either a scam or a telemarketer (well you suppose both of those could be scams in certain contexts), though, then you’d suspect it would be either Yuuji (Yuuji’s the one who has been texting you, after all, conversations strewn over checking in with the other over the past few hours or snippets of advice from you telling him not to bother Megumi very much, and to be cautious and keep himself safe) or Gojo— definitely not Megumi, and probably not Gojo either, but still it was more likely that Gojo was calling you instead of Megumi, so you’re considering it— and you can’t really remember Gojo’s number anyway, so what if an unknown number wasn’t a prank call or something—

You wonder if you should just pick it up instead of burying your head in your study notes and overthinking everything. 

But you know it’s definitely not Megumi. 

You check the phone. 

Well, you’ll be damned. 

It’s Fushiguro Megumi. 

You know his number by heart, after all. Keyed it in too many times to forget, and it’s not like he’d have any reason to change it. Not with the way he cares for things, inanimate objects, not with the tenderly quiet, secretly caring, emotionally jaded way he maintains them. 

“Ah… hello?” 

Your heart thumps in your chest and heat flares up in your cheeks with a frenetic speed. 

“Hi,” you blurt out, shakily. You’re sure your voice is quivering, yet your mind feels like it’s barely functioning, almost about to drown in a seven-feet-deep pool, so you can’t really tell. You can’t really hear yourself. 

You don’t know why you feel like this— no, you know exactly why, actually. It’s because you haven’t gotten over him. Your thoughts are scrambled but you know, for sure, that you’re like this because you want to get rid of feelings like these but you can’t. Or because you’ve been saying that to yourself like a mantra, for so long, even though a part of you wants it to stay— out of what, that’s what you don’t know; maybe desperation or nostalgia or an inability to stop dwelling on days long gone. But you know what this is— you’ve seen the movies, read the manga, watched the dramas. It’s romance. Crushes. Something you’re not quite able to call love yet, something you’re too scared to properly name, still, but something you can understand is one-sided nonetheless. 

“…hi. [Name].” 

“Hello…” 

What happens when two estranged childhood friends with a book’s worth of history behind their relationship that happen to be socially awkward teenagers actually have a conversation semi-beyond what keeps them estranged in the first place? 

“Hi— no, wait… how are you?” 

Pot, meet kettle, because you’re going off nothing but the fact that you’re at the very least surprised (the other emotions are too complicated to explain) that he’s speaking to you again, and not just on text, but he’s calling, and he sounds like he’s reading off a script, but the script is in a whole other language, somehow, and the uncertain nervousness in his voice is tangible, even for a deep, low voice like his. 

Script or not, you appreciate the effort, though. 

“I’m good, um… I’m happy you were able to call. It’s been a long time.” 

“That’s good.” 

There’s silence on the other line; time feels like it’s moving achingly slowly. But you’re mildly happy. 

Not happy, maybe, but you definitely feel light, as if you’ve been severed from the heaviness of everything else that has happened lately. This is the first time in years something like this has ever happened. 

“Ah, wait, I forgot to ask! Sorry, um.. how are you?”  

“I’m doing alright, too. Oh, wait, I should apologise. I didn’t tell you— thanks for helping with my injuries the other day. Gojo told me about it after you left. You… you didn’t have to, though. You shouldn’t have risked your health like that.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t mention it. You know why I do this, anyway.” Out of necessity or a need to be useful, you’re not even sure yourself, but he must know, to some degree, right? It seems as if he’d be the one to know the most of this, of you— at least, when matters came to this. “And I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Dr Ieiri probably ended up helping more with the bigger ones once the three of you got back. I mean, she did, right?” 

“…no. She said that she didn’t want to waste her time, so if injuries were more minor like mine, she wouldn’t heal them fully.” 

“...ah.” More minor? Seriously, doctor? You’d normally not question her judgement over matters that she had more expertise in dealing with, but seriously?  

“I’ll be fine, though. Most of the bandages have come off, and all.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” 

You wonder where he is now, on the bed, maybe, or sitting on the floor. You’ve seen the classrooms, but not the dormitories— you hope wherever he is, that it’s comfortable. That he’s okay. 

“We’re going to see a new student soon.” 

“Really? Have you met them before?” 

“No, but Gojo said she’s from the countryside. But we’re meeting her in Harajuku, for some reason.” 

“Oh, Harajuku! I miss it,” you let out a plaintive sigh, “I can’t wait to be back in Tokyo. You know, whatever happens, I still love that city like nothing else. I know how many people hate it, but I love it so much.” And you love it so much in the first place, mostly because of Megumi and Tsumiki. “Maybe she just wants to chase a bit of the sweet city life— I mean, you know how it is when country bumpkins go to the city for the first time… kind of. Or when they love the city— yeah, that’s a better way of saying it. I was like that, kind of.” 

“...if you’re worried about the train ride here and want to travel alone, I could always pay for you. Uh… wait—” 

“Oh, no, no! There’s no need, uhm— thank you anyway, it’s just—” 

“It’s Gojo’s money anyway.” 

“Pft,” you snort. Anything to seep out some of Gojo’s money like gluttonous leeches, right? “Nah, I’ll be fine. I mean, I don’t even think I’ll be able to come back in a few years’ time, and by then I won’t even be relying on my parents’ money for this stuff anymore— I mean, I will still be relying on their money, but I’ll be managing it as my own.” 

He chuckles lightly over the line, the silent way he shows his emotions, the way that goes unnoticed if one is not attentive to it. It feels like he’s whispering directly into your ear, and the heat on your face (which you weren’t even sure was still there until that point). Your heart skips a beat and it completely, absolutely shocks you. “...the offer still stands.” 

Yeah, you can get behind it if he’s like this now. What happened to him, anyway? Puberty hit him like a brick and gave him, like, one more ounce of emotional maturity? 

You shake your head like a character in a piece of crappy romance fanfiction. No way. Not now, at least. Calm down.  

(...you’re just a girl.) 

“Well, no take backs from now on, okay? Even if it’s, like, five years into the future, you’ll still be using Gojo’s credit card to cover for all my travel expenses.” 

He does it again, that low, soft, attractive sound. Makes you want to hit him and hit yourself at the same time, and then kick your feet up in the air giddily, and then throttle yourself, if it were possible, out of sheer embarrassment. “Yeah.” 

You’re having the time of your life. 

“Anyway, how is everything else? Like, are your studies and grades okay? Is the training you do alright to handle?” 

“My grades are pretty okay,” he answers, “Not like Gojo cares, honestly. And the training’s fine, it’s nothing I’m not used to.” 

“Gojo seems like he’d be a good teacher. When he wants to, he can command respect pretty easily, too. I guess he just… chooses not to. But I saw it yesterday, when you and Yuuji were passed out in the hospital.” 

It still strikes a pang of guilt in your chest, your inability to have done anything else besides calling Gojo over for help. 

“...I suppose he does.” 

“Yeah.” 

“How about you? Itadori, he… he can be an idiot sometimes, but he speaks of you really admirably. He talks about how smart you are a lot.” 

The thought of Megumi calling Yuuji an idiot of all things doesn’t feel like it falls short from him, but it still makes you frown— though, you realise that that’s just his way of expressing things, because in a way he’d treated you somewhat the same in the past, even if he hadn’t shown it outright or expressed it very vividly. Classic Megumi.  

“Hey, he’s smarter than people give him credit for, okay? Wait until you see how talented he is at things other than sports and martial arts. You’d be surprised after trying the meatballs he makes. Would be good if you asked him to give you the recipe sometime; I make them, like, once a week, at least.” 

He sighs, “...I will. But the point is, he cares for you a lot.” 

“Yeah, beautiful soul, that guy. Loves people the way curious children love nature.” 

“That would be a fitting way to put it.” 

“How are the dogs?” 

“My shikigami?” 

“Yeah. Do they have names?” 

“The black one is Kuro and the white one is Shiro.” 

“You named them black and white?” 

“Look, I named them when I was barely six years old, and six year olds aren’t exactly the best when it comes to these things…” 

You giggle, “So the name stuck?” 

“Yeah, sort of.” 

Real cute. 

“What about your father? How is he?” 

“He’s okay, but, well. I guess we’re not that close anymore.” 

“...I see.” He probably can’t imagine a version of you who wasn’t immensely close to her parents. You couldn’t then, either. 

“We’ve been talking even less now that my mother’s in the hospital, but at least I get to talk to him before he eats, maybe. I’ve been doing most of the cooking now that my mother isn’t here and my father doesn’t really know how to handle himself in our kitchen without her guidance.” 

“Oh… if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your mother?” 

“Cancer.” 

You can practically hear the gulp he’s taking, the bobbing of his throat— sensitive topic. “I’m… so sorry to hear that.” 

“It’s okay, don’t be,” you reassure him, “I should have told you that day anyway. I was just… exploding at everybody on that night. I should apologise— I’m sorry for how badly I treated you.” 

“No,” he goes, “No, you shouldn’t. I understand why you were like that that night. And it was mostly my fault, too, so…” 

“No, no, I’m serious! Feel free to ask almost anything as long as I have actual answers to your questions and all.” 

“Still… I just wanted to know. Sorry if I caused you any trouble.” 

“No— you didn’t do any of that at all, don’t worry! I’m alright with people asking about this. Ah, anyway… besides Yuuji, do you have any friends?” 

“Itadori and I aren’t friends.” 

“Trust me, if I asked him, I bet he’d beg to differ. Yuuji’s like that with people— soon he’ll be more important to you than you could have ever thought at first.”  

“Whatever you say,” he sort of grunts, “But I don’t have any friends, I think… except you, maybe. What about you?” 

You were honestly expecting him not to consider you a friend at all, and at this point so much has happened that wouldn’t even be that bothered if he no longer thought of you as one but called you anyway out of his commitment to his promises, or as an apology. 

“I’m surprised you can still call me a friend,” you say. Calling people instead of talking to them physically does something to your inhibitions. 

“...should I not?” 

“No, no, I’m happy,” you say over the phone. You’ll forget this conversation tomorrow, at least, when the sun has risen and the night returns back the hold you have over yourself, your composure, to you. You’ll act like this never happened. So you’ll say whatever you want to now, disgorging yourself of years of withheld secrets. “I’m happy that we’re still friends. I think I like that. 

“Yeah?” 

“Um— yeah, it seems like a good place to start,” you grin slightly. “And I, well. I don’t really have any friends beyond Yuuji,” —You’re not even sure if Tsumiki still sees you as a friend— “Even if I may have acquaintances like Sasaki or Iguchi it still feels like Yuuji’s one of the only people I can give that kind of title to, so, um… the more the merrier?” 

“That’s… nice.” 

“...it is, isn’t it?” 

“Thank you.” 

Why? “Okay.” 

The two of you go through the next few seconds in silence, time feeling like it’s blending and bleeding into a mix of years and events. You can hear the light, steady sound of his breathing from the other line. If you could, you’d sleep to it— fuck the phone bill, you’ll be the one paying it in your father’s stead this time if it was for this. 

It’s comforting, and you don’t want to break it— the quiet. If he can hear you now, can hear how you’re breathing through a smile with your chest only slightly moving, you hope it feels the same as the sound of his breathing did for you. You hope it feels just like home. Like a warm pillow in the one place you love the most that you bury your head into when the weather gets especially cold. 

“Fushiguro!” 

Oh dear. 

Wincing at the sound of the creaking door’s shrill shriek as it's opened and then hits the wall, you know exactly who it is— you’d recognise that voice anywhere. 

“Is that Yuuji?” 

“Oi! I told you not to barge into my room like that!” Megumi shouts. 

“Huh? You’re calling someone? Sorry. Wait, is it [Name]?” 

“It’s none of your business.” 

“Hi, Yuuji.” 

“Can I talk to her?” 

“Is it alright if we do, Megumi? Just for a few seconds.” 

“Fine,” he sighs. You can practically hear that eye roll. 

“Yo!” he cheers. 

“Has everything been okay lately?” you ask. 

“Yeah. We’re meeting a new student soon.”

“Ah, yeah. Megumi told me.” 

“—Oh, and my uniform came in! It looks pretty neat.” 

“That’s good. Maybe you can send me a picture once you start wearing it, then.” 

“I will!” 

Things are going better than you thought they would. 

— 

21-6-2018

It’s been a few days now. 

You don’t know Sasaki and Iguchi well enough to call them friends, but the three of you do know each other. You had never decided to change any contacts with them, and considering that they and you were never closer than acquaintances, friends of a friend— you had never really regretted it. But now that Yuuji is gone— and you know he’s not dead, but still— you wonder whether you should have gotten closer to them, just to be less alone once Yuuji left, even if it could not be the way things were with Yuuji. (“I thought I was a pretty lonely guy, and sometimes I still do. Like— I mean, you’re a lonely girl too sometimes, I think,” he had told you as you patched him up.) 

Still, Yuuji and you were two peas in a pod— so they’re bound to ask what happened to him soon enough, especially Iguchi. 

You’ll have to start getting used to spending your Thursdays alone. And then you’d have to start getting used to every other day without him, too. If you went to the arcade or watched movies or sing-screamed the lyrics to English songs you don’t know the Japanese translations of without his presence there, you know how it wouldn’t feel the same. In life it’s not what you do that matters, you’ve come to realise— it’s who you’re doing these things with. That’s what puts meaning to it all and makes all things done in your life worthwhile. 

The two of them pass you by during lunch. 

“[Last Name]? —Oh, hey!” Sasaki says as she turns around. 

You almost scream and run away like a mouse fleeing from the eyes of a vicious house cat, tremors in your voice. “Hello…” 

“Where’s Yuuji, by the way? The occult club’s going to fall apart without him.” 

You pause. “He transferred to another school…” 

“Huh?” she goes, Iguchi almost reeling back in shock. “Transferred? But why? We’ve barely even made it to the middle of the year!” 

“I… I don’t know, it was something really urgent,” 

—

23-6-2018 

Your room is a cluttered mess— lucky as you are that it’s the weekend, the past week has been a rollercoaster that knocked your room’s usual standard of cleanliness off track. Scattered all over your desk were worksheets, notebooks, graph paper pages and foolscap paper, chicken-scratch writing and meticulous notes scribbled all over them to compensate for your absence the day after the incident took place. 

It isn’t the time or the discipline you lack— it’s just that it’s going to be awfully tedious. You’ll have to wipe your desk again, and clean the walls, and sort through all your clothes, too, since you haven’t been folding them in any way that isn’t merely fastidious and nearly careless. So as you get to work, you suppose that calling someone wouldn’t hurt. 

Maybe you could call Megumi. That would be okay. 

For the past few years, you’ve never noticed it. So when you do, it hits you like a bullet train at the fastest of speeds. 

You miss him. Not just in the way you miss 2010, the way you miss the past, the way you miss and mourn the person you used to be. It had been so obvious for Tsumiki, but not for him, and now that you know this it’ll be another quiet revelation— another rediscovery of fragments of yourself concealed by memories. 

You miss him— all of him; you yearned to be his friend again because he was unlike Tsumiki who you knew cherished you as you did her; you miss him regardless of who he is now, because somewhere inside him is the boy who read dog books and brought you to the school library and ran your finger through water when you burned it. Somewhere inside him is the person who offered to hold your bag as he walked with you through a snowy garden, and helped you when your nose bled. 

So it would be okay to call Megumi right now. 

“Fushiguro speaking.” 

“Hi, Megumi. Are you busy?” 

“Not right now.” 

“Want to call?” 

“Fushiguro!” It’s Yuuji. “Wanna go—” 

“I said I’m not going!” 

You chuckle, “Be nice. Were the two of you supposed to go somewhere?” 

“Nothing important. Gojo said he wanted us to ‘bond’ with each other, so he concluded that we could watch a movie. Some kind of gory horror film or something.” 

He’s… actually making an obvious effort not to scold Yuuji that much or call him some insulting, derogatory term this time… wow. 

“Ah, yeah. Yuuji likes his horror movies.” 

“Anyway, anything urgent you wanted to tell me?” 

“No, I’m just… uh—” you laugh nervously, “I’m just a little bored.” Nowadays you’re not really sure what he’d do— scold you, maybe, or roll his eyes so hard that you can hear it over the line, or he may even flash into a quick bit of awkwardness and hesitation through his words. 

Or maybe— and this was the worst of it all, he’d ask why you were calling him, and his bouts of awkwardness would have only been something temporary, soon to be replaced once again by anger and annoyance, the same he gives to everyone else— even if you knew he didn’t always mean it, per se. No more special treatment for you. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, uh… I have to clean, and usually it’s not as much as what I have to do today, so I just thought that since the only other person in the house is my father and we don’t really talk much anymore, we could, um… chat for a while. Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

“Uh-huh, so.” You stand up, leaving your phone on your desk and putting the call on speaker mode. The mountain of papers and books is a wasteland and your desk has been degraded to a landfill— the state of it would make your mother a wailing mess— no, she’d faint instantly as soon as she saw it, becoming worse of a mess than the table itself was. “Anything interesting happened lately?” 

“Not really.” 

“Oh—! Yuuji sent me a picture of his uniform the other day. Was that one special?” 

“Yeah. But they let students make adjustments to the uniform, and he said he hadn’t changed anything, so I think that was Gojo’s doing.” 

“Oh, well, that’s Gojo. It suits him, though, right? Not to sound mean or be presumptuous, but…” you chuckle, “When you wear the uniform, you look so formal. It’s not a bad thing— it’s just that Yuuji’s just always been more casual like that. And the red of the hoodie goes with his hair, too!” 

“I guess so.” 

“I can’t imagine you wearing anything other than the default uniform, though. Not to insult you, I mean, you still look good in the normal uniform, I just— can’t imagine it.” You remark, sorting the materials and books by size and subject. You’ve got to handle some of the drawers, too, now that you’ve started and can’t stop your momentum just yet. You can already feel the dust particles that have gathered on whatever is inside them still, jostling around once you’ve taken them out. 

“If you’re going to say it like that, you can just say it outright.” 

“No, no! I mean that I just can’t imagine you wearing, like, Yuuji’s uniform. Wait, what do the other students’ uniforms look like?” 

“The second years?” 

“Yeah. Did they choose the normal ones?” 

“Inumaki did. They have three boys and one girl, but only two of the boys wear the normal uniform. Okkotsu has a special uniform in white.” 

“Oh, I see,” you nod your head, “It’s a nice uniform, though. I wish I could wear a uniform that pretty.” 

“You could always enrol yourself here,” he suggests, “They’d welcome you with open arms.” 

“Maybe they will,” you chuckle, “But my mother would be adamant on me staying in the ‘normal’ world. She’s unyielding like that.” 

“And your father?”

“Wouldn’t mind, at least I don’t think…” you say, “I’ll have to wonder when to tell him if I do end up in jujutsu high; you never know when he’s mad. He’s always unpredictable like that nowadays and it’s not… particularly pleasant.” 

“I see. It would be good if you were here, though. You would be closer to Dr Ieiri that way. And it would do good, because, um… well, I’d like you here. You’d be… good for the people around you here.” 

“Ah, you— you would?” you ask, slightly phased— not like he hasn’t been a bit nicer to you since you’ve seen him again (maybe it was the awkwardness, maybe it was the guilt). “Thank you,” you say, the corners of your mouth tugging up sheepishly, heading to the dusty drawer (you haven’t touched it in what feels like years, usually excluding it from your list of things to clean). 

After a scrupulous amount of wiping away at the dust outside of and surrounding it, you open the drawer with a slight bit of anticipation— you don’t expect much, but you’re a person who lingers on the past like a ghost that has forgotten how time has passed. There wouldn’t be much in this drawer to reminisce on, you presume, but you still approach it with an eager fascination— you’re the type to do so, after all. 

Of everything there, the most noteworthy are two things you grabbed almost immediately— you could never forget how they felt, and the weight that they held in your life back then: a letter, addressed but never delivered to the person you were talking to right now, and a cigarette with a hastily scribbled slew of numbers on it and a lipstick mark on its end. 

Oh, that letter. That letter.

From what you remember, you’ve never rebelled against your parents before. At least, not with anything major— for a long time, you were their good girl, and you never disobeyed them, as much as you wanted to at times. You still are, still stuck with that age-old drive to be useful. (But was there even a point in that anymore? At least, was there one with your parents?). You didn’t picture yourself as any kind of righteous goody-two-shoes, but you definitely weren’t a rebel or a delinquent. You followed their instructions and seldom ever questioned what they told you, and so it had always been subtly implanted in your brain that they would be alright with anything you did or said. Yet the first time you did actually start to question them, you realised that their belief in your ‘obedience’ as pure love— and maybe it was; you loved them so much you were blinded and trusted them with everything and did anything they wanted their baby to do— you realised they only treated you so lovingly if you were not an actual person with your own ideals and beliefs. 

(But they still loved you, right?) 

Even now, you still do obey them and listen to them. If your father needed anything, he could consider it done; if your mother wanted her clothes to be patched up you’d try your utmost best to withstand the pricking of needles and bring it back to her hospital room with bandaged fingers. It was like that with your mother: even if at times it seemed like the only pain she wanted for you was callouses from a pen or pricks from needles, at other times you feel she could have known you’d end up like her, maybe. Maybe she saw it as a curse: the worlds the two of you were born in were different, and she wanted you to stay in yours, lest you die or live in a world of endless pain. 

You’ve been doing it for a long time: being dismissive of yourself, prone to self-prostration, subservient; the lovingness of a mother, the sweetness of a teenage girl (you hoped), the kindness of a caring friend. Maybe it was Tsumiki— maybe it was because you’d always seen this in Tsumiki. She was always smiling, always caring; taking on the weight of motherhood before she could carry the weight of her school bag. Hugging you with her saccharine smile; braiding her hair with gentle hands and holding your wrist with her hair tie on it even gentler. (You still have it with you. You had planned to start taking it off more once Yuuji left, but you suppose some habits take longer than a week to develop.) All while having that sickening, fantastical, mysterious sweetness of a teenage girl in what you now understand could have been a hidden misery— because caring for someone like a mother while suppressing the thoughts that spoke to you to act like a child was something you wanted to replicate until you realised you understood it. And then you no longer wanted to recreate it. (Maybe that was the way it was for every woman or girl you knew: watching someone you loved hurt themself or not being able to do anything to prevent it when they started. Life was a cycle that way. A very annoying, frustrating one full of unfortunate circumstances and wrongly-picked out decks of cards.) 

“…you know what? I think I may be able to come,” you tell him. 

“You don’t have to go against your father for our sake.” 

“No, don’t worry about it. I think I know who to ask for help. Thank you, Megumi.” 

—

“Hi, Dr Ieiri?” 

“Kid? That you?” she goes, the slightest bit of excitement stark against her usual deadpan tone. “I thought you’d never call because of that old man.” 

“Haha, yeah— sorry to disturb you, but, um, Dr Ieiri? I may want to take you up on that offer, by the way, but um, I’m still on the fence. I mean, I know I want to be like you and do what you do but… I don’t know, I’m not quite sure about leaving the two of them alone here and all. But anyway, I just called you because I wanted to ask if there was, you know, any way you could get me to Tokyo somehow. I need to pass something to someone, but, um… I guess I’m going with this with the hope that I’ll change my mind and join you. But I’m… perpetually on the fence for now, I guess.” 

“Pft,” she snorts, “You little rebel, I’m in. I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Thank you so much.” 

—

24-6-2018 

The decision and the plan were made as swiftly as you could. 

You decide to tell your father— you wouldn’t want to deceive him, after all. At least, you’d give him a quick notice. And then you’d leave. Like a snowflake before the first day of spring. He’ll probably tell your mother.  

“I’m leaving for Tokyo for a while,” you say, “I’ll be back before you can even realise I’m gone. Invitation from Dr Ieiri.” 

—

25-6-2018

“Why?” your father asks, the night before you leave. He suggested going out together at least once before you left. He always knew when you were making white lies. 

“I guess that maybe I’m just too much like you, Daddy.” 

For the first time in years he hugs you on the doorstep, patting you on the back on the day you’re set to leave. “Make sure you study and work hard,” he reminds you. 

—

“I’m leaving for Tokyo,” you announce.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving us for a boy," she goes, rolling her eyes. She doesn't even blink.  

“I’m not.” You are. 

“You know, your father travelled all over the country to see me again after we’d first met.” 

“Oh. Okay?” 

“And he’s always been dedicated to his job and dedicated to helping people.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“I’m saying that the two of you are very similar. I’ve lived through this story before,” she states, “And you look just like your father right now.” your mother says. She hasn’t smiled the way she used to— you remember it vividly, that vibrant gleam in her, the liveliest and loveliest of life— in ages and you don’t think she will, not now of all times. 

“Really? Sometimes he says I take after you more.” 

“You will.” 

It doesn’t feel like a curse. Even if it usually would make your heart well up in guilt, it doesn’t feel like a curse. 

Maybe she knows that her time is running out. Maybe this is resignation. Whatever it is, you hold her hand first, but you’re also the first one to let the other go, your fingers slipping away from hers. You leave the door for the last time in a while, making another round in your life of that carousel of abandonment and reuniting and departures. 

—

25-6-2018 

Dr Ieiri greets you with a calm smile on her pallid face. 

“Good to see you again.” 

“It’s good to be back here,” you sigh. 

It is. 

You keep your hand on your other hand’s wrist, holding them in front of you. The cherry hair tie on it feels warm against your skin as you exit the station, summer heat embracing it softly. 

Chapter Text

25-6-2018  

By the time you’re back in Jujutsu High’s campus, nighttime has already shed its shadow against the world, black over Tokyo's fulgid skyscrapers like a veil, the sky devoid of any stars. Tokyo is a metropolis of glittery, coruscant lights that litter the land, with parks, crepe shops and cafes galore. And oh, how you love it every time you come back, from its 90s movie mood to its futuristic innovations. 

Dr Ieiri really had planned everything, as if she’d always expected you to be here: she’d got you a room near her office, even helped to clean some of it up, and promised you that you’d still be merely a room away from the one other female student currently in the school. Once the last first year— a girl— arrived, she’d be staying right next to you. 

“So? How long do you think you’ll be staying?” Dr Ieiri asks, “I know you’re planning on just giving someone something, but you’re going to be here for much longer, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Alright, but I’ll give you a heads up first. Staying here and operating as an actual sorcerer here, or a doctor for sorcerers like me or your father— it’s a far cry from the last time you were there. I won’t force you to help me when I need it, but you’re still going to be demanded of at almost all times, and I know you’d be the type of person to try to save people as much as you can. You have to be ready for that— the strain and all.” 

So she knew what you wanted better than you did. “I am.” You’ll ask that of your father later, to tell Sugisawa Third that you’re transferring to a religious school in Tokyo. They knew too little of you to think of whether you were religious or not anyway. 

“I’ll help you so you can still take things easy, okay?” 

“...okay. Thank you, doctor.” 

—

26-6-2018  

Dr Ieiri smokes less than you thought. Really, the night that you first met her was the first time she’d smoked again in five years, according to her. She attributed it to nostalgia and reminiscing on old memories before asking you to just go to bed— it was almost two in the morning. But you thought it made sense that the ones who were made to heal were the ones who mourned what was unhealed the most; you weren’t the only one stuck playing long-gone memories like a panoramic film on loop, a permanent backdrop in your mind. 

“You need to get a good night’s rest,” she’d said, but now you’re walking down the desolate hallways again. It’s fine— if there’s one thing about actually going against your parents for the first time instead of solely refuting them verbally in heated, mangled arguments, it’s that it’s insanely liberating. Before this, you’d have never even considered it an option, yet now it suddenly exists— that autonomy; suddenly, there isn’t a need to follow whatever order you’ve been given. And yes, you do respect Dr Ieiri and probably everyone else in your life, but you can choose not to abide by what they tell you just because you don’t want to— you decide it. No justifications, no reasons or polemics. Just pure responsibility and autonomy of yourself. You can’t fathom now, why you’d been scared of it before, or whether you’d even realised you were. It still feels unfamiliar, like a thrill, like adrenaline from treading on a tightrope above pits of deep, all-encompassing water, but in a week or so you’re going to have become used to it. 

From your room, if you walked all the way to the end of the hallway, you’d see the first year boys’ dorms. You don’t take the letter with you— that’s a bridge to either burn or cross another time, when you’re not right about to sleep. 

Careful to make as little sound as possible, you knock the door, hoping he’s awake. 

You hear his groggy steps as he seems to trudge himself along, before the door opens with a creaky whine. “—it’s one in the morning,” he frowns, “What do you want—” 

“Hi, Megumi.” 

He closes the door. You wait outside for a moment. 

Megumi opens the door again. 

“...I should’ve told you I was here, actually,” you say. 

“It’s one in the morning,” he goes, “Why aren’t…” he blinks his eyes awake a little, groaning as he rubs his temples, “Why aren’t you asleep? —no, why are you even here, really…” 

You’re going to regret your replies come morning, probably; they’ll sound stupid by then. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but that doesn’t really bother you. “I’m sorry. It’s just, um, I actually wanted to give you something, I mean— I’ll give it to you tomorrow or one of these days, but I was just bored. I just got here, and I’m just going to help Dr Ieiri with some things, um. …sorry, did I wake you? You should rest, actually, it helps your injuries heal faster; sorry for waking you—” 

“—no, not… not really. Don’t worry about that,” he states, “But you should still go to sleep anyway. It’s late.” 

“I can’t sleep.” 

He opens the door and heads inside. An invitation for you to enter, it seems, because he turns and waits for you, the door ajar as you hesitate in front of it. 

You come in. 

His dorm room seems quite similar to the one in his old home, actually, the only difference being how his room now is only just a little larger than the one you were in at fourteen. (You wonder what happened to it, whether Tsumiki still lies on her bed with her phone for a maximum of five minutes at the same time every day.) The two of you sit on the foot of the bed, the lack of light unquestioned. Just like things were two years ago. With the lights outside his window, the bustling city still abuzz with their izakayas and night clubs, your eyes can trace over an outline of his sharp face and spiky hair.  

“How long will you be staying?” 

“Quite a while, I think.” 

“...which is?” 

“Probably more than a week.” 

“Wh— then what about school?” 

“Oh, I kind of, um… threw it away. I don’t know, um. My parents knew I’d be here for a long time. I think I’m just going to transfer here. I’ll leave it all behind that way.” 

He sighs, “I know, but that… that just sounds like a thoughtless decision.” 

“The only part of it that I put thought into was whether I’d run away and live or stay and rot there. So when Dr Ieiri gave me a chance I just took it. And I’ll keep taking what she gives me. If not, then… I’ll be stuck dwelling on it for the rest of my life, I think.” For so long, you’d been trying not to do so; to not take that life-determining chance, to decide to dwell yearningly instead of live, and to appease your parents so at least your mother would have that sliver of assurance, but not anymore. They wouldn’t be in your life forever. 

“So you’re doing this just so you won’t live a life of regret? You’re doing this just for yourself?” 

“It’s the same thing as doing this so that I can help people. It’s two sides of the same coin. Not everyone has what I do.” 

“You sound like Itadori,” he says. The way he does so makes your chest ache slightly and you don’t know why. But nobody is as selfless or as much of an unstoppable force as Yuuji is. Nobody, ever. You turn your eyes away from him even if he can’t see you do so in the dark. 

“But Yuuji takes that to the extreme, I’m…pretty sure. I’m just trying to do what I can because I can.”  

You move your right hand to the side, fiddling with yourself, empty hands trying to find something to do. It bumps into something— something warm and soft. Skin. 

With imaginary chills running along your body, you feel Megumi’s left pinky finger loop itself around yours. He clears his throat, breaking the silence, and you look at him again, at the vague shadow before you. “—that’s…that’s my hand.” 

“Oh. Ah, okay,” you say. It feels right this way— comfortable, nervous, jumbled, calm— 

Your hands move slowly, your fingers trying to steady it like steering around an old, shaky wooden boat with only a paddle, set and ready to embark on a journey. Quivering, you pull your right pinky finger away before your hand is fully enveloped under the hold of his. The heat from his palm on the back of your hand transfers itself right to your face and neck. It’s summer, but it feels cold and hot in the best way possible. “Do… do you want me to let go? Do you want me to stop?” 

“...no. I don’t think so. Do you?” 

“No. I want to stay.” 

“Okay. Me too.” 

He does. 

In the silence you sit up, biting your bottom lip, your nerves like jelly and your brain probably fried if not for the lack of sleep. For a moment you decide to look at him, and you see him swifty turn his head away from you as soon as you do so. 

(—so he’d been looking at you?) 

—

What wakes you up is the sunrise, an early morning. It’s been embedded into your brain to wake up at seven sharp no matter how late you slept. 

He’s sleeping, his face down, water in his eyelashes— you suppose that’s why he has such crystalline eyes, viridian ones that remind you of summer and life and protection. Jade and grass. Shifting into rather uncomfortable positions so as to not wake him, you pull yourself away. 

His hand still remains snug over yours. 

‘Just friends’ don’t do things like this, you think. But at the same time, ‘just friends’ don’t fight curses or heal those who do so, and ‘just friends’ don’t have a third person they had better relationships with before they broke apart while constantly thinking of each other and decided to at the very least become active figures in each others’ lives again. 

This is scary, moving all too quickly. You’re being grabbed by the waist and thrust into a paraglider; you’re flying in the vast expanse of a boundless, unnavigable sky, manning a paramotor with no previous warning or idea of how to do so. 

But he's very beautiful like this. Hair so black it’s blue, eyelashes woven of silk, a jaw so sharp yet so smooth. The sun greeting the sky as it ejects itself from the inky-hued horizon. You don’t know if there’s a creator, or if there’s a god— you’ve heard of Christianity and many other kinds of faith, though you’d never really dabbled in any of them. But you’d definitely thank someone like that, because scenes like these are proof that someone like that exists, and that that someone is an artist, a masterful artist. So he must have created you and given you an apt appreciation for beauty and art, too, as well as someone like Megumi who was beauty and art. 

‘Just friends’ don’t think like that. 

But you still will anyway. You can allow yourself that. 

He makes a tired little noise as he wakes up, taking in a deep inhale. “...did we really—” 

“Yeah. Um. —wait! I should, um, probably brush my teeth first, my breath probably smells horrible right now, sorry—” 

“Oh. No, it’s fine, I should too—” 

“Yeah, I think I’ll go back to my room too; I don’t want doctor suspecting anything, ah—” 

“Oh— okay,” he releases his hand. 

It’s strange to have things like these— little snippets and moments that remind you to just have fun and be a kid. For years— maybe your whole adolescent experience so far— every day hailed with it a new matter to tend to and worry about, and every day you subconsciously wondered if you were wasting your life away, doing nothing but fantasise of a faraway fancy in which you could use the only potential you had for something. 

But who knew that it was so simple, yet so profound: that the excitement and memories that you yearned for could be obtained just from wanting to do so? That if you wanted to do something, you could just up and do it? 

You like it, though. The paralysing, dizzying feeling of it all, breaths caught in your throat and you can’t say anything without stuttering. The last time you’d felt it, it was Yuuji: you’d had yourself emotionally constipated to the point you choked it all up within you, toned things down and muted the intensity of it all before you even felt it. But it was fun then, and now this is much better. It would seem delusional to hope for anything else. There’s not much of a fantasy for you to look to and put yourself into a deluge of daydreams about, but for once you want to feel something without the implications. That must be what being a teenager is like— you’d seen it time and time again in movies, with cliques and girlfriends and gossip sessions, but you’d never had the luxury to have them yourself and be a girl like that. So this must be what it’s like, at least a semblance of it, with its fun and frivolities and feelings straight from familiar flicks. 

Not quite the time to put a name to it just yet, but it’s fun. At least, you can do it a little longer. It feels like a breath of fresh air after chaining yourself down like an anchor to the seabed. 

You rush to the door. “I’ll see you later? For breakfast,” you try to smile as calmly as you can while you turn back to look at him again. 

Thank goodness Dr Ieiri wakes up at eight whenever there isn't much work for her to tend to. 

You set a mission for yourself: hold Megumi’s hand again at least once in your high school career. 

Now that’s how to live without regrets, be a teenager, and have fun. 

—

Are you being delusional? 

You don’t know what Fushiguro Megumi is to you now, because ‘friend’ doesn’t sum it up well enough, ‘stranger’ doesn’t do the two of you your deserved justice, classmates isn’t the actual term, and ‘boyfriend’ is way too far from the truth. 

So to have dreams like that; thoughts like that, you think as you brush your teeth, you’re probably making a fool of yourself again. 

There’s something going on here and you don’t know what it is. And even if you’d told yourself you were fine with it, you don’t know how long everything else will be. 

It makes you feel like an idiot. 

But in your head you're filled with thoughts and, for a lack of a better term, hindrances. Did he sleep well? Do friends do that? Or was it just the two of you who’d do that? Was there even any meaning behind it all, any implications on your relationship due to this? This way you’d drive yourself insane before you could even get to breakfast. 

Did he like it, though? Could he have liked it, the sight of you sleeping next to him? Of vulnerability? No, he couldn’t, right? Yet, if he did, then—

You needed to calm down. 

(What about the letter?)

—

Maybe this was adrenaline: you’d run and take a few bites of breakfast before anyone else did, heading back to your room after you had done so. This way, nobody would see you. (You weren’t calm enough to do this, what made you think, in your sleep-deprived mind, that you’d be mature enough to handle this the next morning?) 

Just as you’re planning strategies to spend the whole day holed up in your room and avoid contact with anyone for it all, there’s a knock on your door. 

“Took so much to talk to the dad alone—” he says, his voice muffled as he speaks to someone else, “I could never stand that old geezer! If he’s like that I’m glad I never had to know how much worse his wife is.” 

It’s Gojo, you can tell. There’s a slight mocking tone in the way he does everything, in the way he says and laughs about the most out-of-pocket shit ever— this is one of those times, because you can almost hear what you think is a feral maniac with the voice of an idol laughing like a loon as he bangs against your door as if he’s trying to kill it. 

“You probably shouldn’t hit it so hard.” Dr Ieiri’s voice. 

You open the door. “Yes?” 

“He’s saying that you should come as backup, and I thought it would help you be put on the spot. It’ll teach you how to operate with clarity as you work,” Dr Ieiri explains. 

“Besides, you won’t even need to help that much. It’s just that this way, you’ll be able to do so if it’s needed while we’re here to guide you. Think of a baby taking its first steps with the help of its parents. If it gets dangerous for them, I’ll step in and you can heal them, but if you can’t heal them enough, we’ll just bring them back to Shoko,” Gojo cheerfully adds. Dr Ieiri nods along with him. 

“Ah… okay.” Your first “actual” lesson as an “apprentice”, then.  

“But first, you should change,” Gojo tells you, handing you a set of clothes, “Here. It’s a spare standard uniform that we keep for special cases. Now you can match with Megumi!” 

Your eyes widen, unsure of whether to laugh nervously or slap him or dash in the opposite direction— shawty a runner, she a track star.  

“I’m so sorry that he’s like this,” Dr Ieiri goes. Joking or not, she’s right. You’re sorry she’s dealt with him for so long, too. 

“...thanks.” 

“Don’t bully my student, Satoru,” Dr Ieiri orders, and you kind of like the sound of your new title. 

—

You wonder how Gojo got used to teleporting with his cursed technique, but you suppose that it comes with the innate ability to switch from one scene to another so rapidly without feeling at least a little sick— like how the shift from the quiet of the dormitories to the bustle outside of Harajuku has you feeling right now. The brightness of the summer sunlight feels like an intrusion as Gojo sets you down and you open your eyes again. 

“Wow.” 

“Oh, it’s [Name]!” 

Megumi looks away. He’s probably embarrassed to hell and back right now— angry at you, even, maybe. You weren’t sure anymore; you couldn’t even think. You try to let the heat rising up to your face subside without fanning it, steadying yourself beside Gojo, swearing that you’d like to be invisible just this once. 

“Sorry for the wait! I had to take up a call. I brought [Name] over here for backup too to get a grasp of the on-field experience.” Gojo says, waving at them, “Oh! Your uniform made it in time.” 

“Yeah! It fits great! Though I noticed it’s slightly different from Fushiguro’s. Mine has got a hood.”

It does fit him, you think, as you look at Yuuji. It looks better on him than it did when he sent you pictures of it over text. It’s easier to look at him now than Megumi. 

“That’s because the uniforms can be customised upon request.”

“Huh?” Yuuji tilts his head to the side, “But I never put in any requests.” 

“You’re right!” Gojo smiles, “I was the one who put in the custom order.” 

“Huh… oh. Well, cool!” 

“Be careful,” Megumi goes, “Gojo has a habit of doing that kind of stuff. So why are we meeting up here in Harajuku?” 

“Because,” Gojo clarifies, “That’s what she asked for.” 

—

“Oh!” Yuuji starts as the four of you walk out of the station, “You’re wearing the uniform too, [Name]. Looking good!” 

“Really? Thanks. I mean, I like the skirt. The uniform makes me feel like a fancy princess in a fancy school or something, but the skirt looks a little like it belongs to an elegant office lady.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Megumi follows, “You… look good. In the uniform, I mean.” 

You force out a laugh— “Haha, uh… you too. I mean, everyone would look good with these uniforms, right?” Wow… 

“...I guess so,” Megumi replies, looking in the other direction. 

If you see Gojo stifling his laughter in front of you, no you don’t. 

“We- we should get popcorn. I read online that said you could get really tasty popcorn at one of the shops in Takeshita Street.” 

“Yay, popcorn!” Yuuji exclaims, “I want some!” 

“Sure,” Gojo chuckles, “The shop’s pretty near here anyway. This is your guys’ first time in Harajuku, right, [Name] and Yuuji?” 

“Ah… yeah, and now that I think about it, Yuuji had never been out of Sendai until recently, actually. Right?” 

“Yeah, but I thought you’d have been to Harajuku before.” 

“I mean, I used to live in Tokyo, but I didn’t really move around. I think the most famous place I’ve been to is Shinjuku-Gyoen. Really pretty garden…” 

“Oh… then we should go around Tokyo one of these days!” 

“Yeah,” you smile, “We should! But you could spend a whole week exploring and you still wouldn’t see all of it,” you remark, “It’s a good idea, though.” 

“Fushiguro, wanna come along?” 

“Uh, sure…” Megumi goes, avoiding eye contact with you. You do the same. 

“...hey, is everything okay between the two of you? How come you’re so shy with each other all of a sudden?” 

“H-huh? Ah, no, no, it’s okay.” 

“You said ‘no’ twice. You usually only repeat words like that when you’re really worried about something,” Yuuji says. Curse his affinity for knowing you. 

“But it’s fine, though. Don’t worry.” 

“Uh… yeah. What [Name] said.” 

“You sure?” Yuuji asks again, a bit concerned. “Okay, then.” 

—

The rest of the walk mostly goes in silence— Yuuji excitedly heads for things to buy, from funky accessories to buckets of snacks. By the time it’s over and all of you are near the 400 yen corner, he’s decked out in all the Tokyo tourist gear, there’s popcorn in his hands, and sunglasses with frames spelling out “ROOK” on his face. (Maybe because he’s a rookie?)

There’s a well-dressed girl in front of you— you wonder if it’s her, but she isn’t wearing the uniform, so it probably isn’t— and a man most likely bald and wearing a wig with his black-and-white business suit. “Well, hello, there!” the man says to her, “Are you on the clock right now?” 

“No, not right now,” she replies. 

“That’s great! You see, I’m looking for potential models. That’s what I do! Would you be interested?” 

He’s scouting for models?  

There’s a sliver of hope in you that he looks at you next and asks you that question. You’re sure it isn’t going to happen, but you suppose you would like being told you were pretty by having a job associated with people who were— there was no chance, though. In Tokyo, the vast metropolis that it is, there are so many with better looks; better faces, prettier hair, nicer bodies— or people who dress better, walk more confidently; people who are adequate in all the ways you aren’t. 

The thought slightly shocks you, in reality— you haven’t thought about how you may not be able to compare with others since the time when you really did realise that Yuuji would never like you (not in that way, at least, and it still hurts to think about it). You never thought you’d feel that way again, and you never thought you would have to be surprised by such thoughts that had been brought in by something akin to envy or jealousy. 

“I’m in a hurry right now,” the girl denies. 

At least she probably knows just how beautiful she is. 

“Hey, you!” another girl calls. This one is just as beautiful— prettier than you, with brown (probably dyed) hair, and pretty brown eyes to match. She’s wearing the same uniform as you save for some titivations at the skirt, and she looks way better in it than you do. “What about me?” she asks, pointing at herself, “For that modelling gig. Hey, I’m asking what you think about me.” 

She’s so confident, it’s so cool…  

“Oh, well uh… I’m in a hurry at the moment,” the man says. Little bitch boy. 

“What the hell?” she asks, holding the man by the collar, “Don’t run, come out and say what you think!” 

“Wait, she’s the one we have to go and talk to? This is real embarrassing,” Yuuji says. 

Megumi mutters under his breath, “Yeah? So are you.” 

“I think she’s an icon,” you express. 

Gojo waves at her, amused, “Hey, we’re over here!” 

The girl slams the locker door shut after she places her backpack— a really tiny, cute pink one— into its pit of shopping bags. Probably to buy pretty clothes. She’d look really good in them. 

“Right, so now we have our three students! Oh— [Name] here isn’t really a student, by the way, I’ll explain later,” Gojo informs the pretty girl, “I’d like you to meet—” 

“Kugisaki Nobara. Be honoured, boys,” she says, stance confident, “I’m your group’s girl.” 

She’s so cool.

— 

Oh, she’s judging them, you think as she stares at the boys. 

“I’m Itadori Yuuji. I’m from Sendai!” 

“Fushiguro Megumi.” 

“Ugh,” she lets out, “This is what I get to work with? Great, just my luck.” 

“She took one look and sighed— that can’t be good,” Yuuji says. 

“Are we going somewhere from here?” Megumi asks. 

“Well, we do have all three—” 

“All four—” Megumi interjects. 

“Ack— no, no, Megumi, I’m not a student, hold on—” You don’t want to be something other than a ghost, not right now, because then you’ll have to deal with whatever you’ve done in the last twenty-four hours that you’d rather beat around the bush and eventually forget about than anything. 

“Okay, we do have all four of you together, and since three of you kids are from the countryside, that means…” he pauses for effect— were you really “from” the countryside, though, if you’d moved around so much that you had no sure idea where your roots were? “...we’re going to Tokyo!” 

You and Megumi watch as Kugisaki and Yuuji chant the city name over and over in unison before arguing over where to head to. But this is Gojo— so there may be a catch somewhere that you just haven’t found yet. 

Megumi looks as annoyed as ever, much like the expression his younger self used to have when his eyebrows crinkled in exasperation from your antics. 

“If you quiet down, I’ll announce our destination,” Gojo begins, and the newly formed pair quiet down, “Roppongi!” 

It’s probably just something like an abandoned building in Roppongi, not Roppongi in all of its glamour itself. 

—

It’s an abandoned building in Roppongi. 

Gojo explains the situation after Kugisaki and Yuuji’s outrage— “There’s a big cemetery nearby. That, plus an abandoned building, and you’ve got a curse.” 

Kugisaki stops her raging when she finds out that Yuuji is still learning about how curses are formed. “Wait, hold up here. He didn’t even know that yet?” 

“To be honest…” Megumi starts to explain. 

She looks horrified after. 

(If you could, though, if you were anything other than a ghost right now— you’d tell her of how selfless and brave Yuuji is, of how incredible he is that he stopped at nothing to help his friends. You’d tell her that this was what made liking him as easy as breathing air.) 

Before the two of them head into the building, Gojo hands Yuuji a cursed tool— you’d never actually seen one before. You wonder if he’ll be able to wield it well enough: you know he has it covered, but you’re still worried about him anyway. (You always are.) 

And he gives Yuuji a challenge, too, though it’s more like an ultimatum. “Don’t let Sukuna out, okay?” 

Soon the three of you sit down near the building— there’s a block of concrete that you wonder why it was placed there for, and Gojo gestures for Megumi and you to sit down there. 

“Hey, you should be sitting here. I’m fine with standing.” 

“Nah, just take a seat. I’ve got to be on standby anyway.” 

“But you’re the teacher. You should get a better seat. And I’m not injured like Megumi, so I’m fine with standing.” 

“Pft,” he snorts, “You think I actually care about that sort of stuff?” 

You pause. “I… guess not. Thank you. Sorry again.” 

Gojo squats down instead, only his feet on the floor. “See? It’s better this way. Just you and Megumi in your own little world—”

“—please stop.” 

Megumi turns away from you again in embarrassment. 

“Anyway…ah, Kugisaki is really pretty,” you state, “And she seems really strong. I’m still worried, though. What if the curse inside is stronger than anticipated…” 

“...I think I’ll go in too,” Megumi says, “Someone needs to keep an eye on Itadori, right?” 

“You should rest and let your injuries heal, though. I mean, I could help you with that, but I’m supposed to wait for their injuries first—” 

“Well, the one we’re testing this time is Nobara,” Gojo highlights, “That Yuuji… he’s got some screws loose: he’s fearless— these things take the form of terrifying creatures who try to kill him, yet the guy has no hesitation at all. And he doesn’t have the familiarity with curses that you have. We’re talking about a boy who used to live a normal high school life. By now you’ve seen plenty of sorcerers and you’ve seen them give up because they couldn’t conquer their fear or disgust, right?” he explains to Megumi. 

He’s right, though. For someone who had no idea what curses were just a bit more than a week ago, it’s amazing how he can acclimatise himself to such a new life so quickly. When you’d first learned about curses and jujutsu sorcerers, the only reason your life stayed that way was because actually becoming a victim of it seemed like merely a faraway hypothetical, something that couldn’t affect you— up until your father revealed his cursed technique and you exorcised that curse in the store a while after. That was when the ghastly figure of reality that was jujutsu society reared its head and pricked you with its cold finger. As happy as you were after you’d exorcised it, you could feel that empty pit forming in your gut— you did it, thank goodness, but what now? And as your heart raced while you helped that lady, you didn’t address it. 

You supposed the benefit of your position was not having to at all. 

“Hasn’t Kugisaki already dealt with curses before, though?” 

“As we know, curses are born from human minds, so their strength in numbers grows in proportion to the population,” Gojo teaches, “Do you think Nobara understands? Tokyo curses are of a different level than those in the countryside.” 

The curse you handled before would be on the weaker side, then. “In what way?” you ask. 

“Their cunning— monsters that have gained wisdom will force cruel choices upon you where the weight of human life hangs in the balance. [Name], when you fought that curse last time, did it seem to be sentient or self-aware?” 

“...I mean, I guess it seemed like it couldn’t really see the other person there. It was just me and the lady who worked there, so… no.” 

“Well, to put it into perspective, [Name], the curse, had it been one from the city instead, could have done something like take the lady hostage to sort of threaten you and keep itself at large. So this test is to see if Nobara is crazy enough.” 

It wouldn’t matter, though— you were the healer, the medic, the doctor. Whatever level of martial prowess you were supposed to have didn’t concern you. 

“And speaking of tests, [Name]…” Gojo begins, “One of these days, you’ll have to get one too. As someone about to take Shoko’s role, this is your first test as a medic— every mission you get sent to will be a test in that aspect. But as a sorcerer…” 

“Hey. I’m not an actual sorcerer, though, remember? And you should speak with Dr Ieiri first if you want me to expel curses like one and all.” 

“Well, I didn’t speak to Dr Ieiri. I spoke to your dear old dad!” 

“What?”  

“Took a lot of convincing, but—”

“He didn’t tell me anything about this. I’m sorry— I know you just treated me well and gave me a better seat, but why didn’t you think to ask me first? It’s not like I ever really wanted to fight, either. And they were on-board with that. It’s just— why would you change that?” 

Megumi sighs exasperatedly, “Seriously, what is this?” 

“Yeah! What is this, Gojo?”  

“Okay, okay: I’ll share a secret with the two of you, then. You’ve always been tied together, so there’s no use in me telling either of you just to not tell the rest. Keep it between yourselves, okay? Think of it as another part of your shared bond,” Gojo says. 

You purse your lip. (Your mother did that a lot. There is nothing you can do that your parents are not entwined in even now; the roots of them have been planted so deeply into your life, ingrained so deeply into your psyche.) “Look, I just want you to answer me, Gojo. Why did you do it?” Why ruin a consensus that took years of compromise and arguments to settle on?  

“...because you can. I mean, it’s your philosophy to be like that, right? If you have the ability to help someone, do it.” 

“I mean, in essence, yeah, but what kind of point are you trying to make here?” 

“That I think with that mindset you’d make a pretty good teacher. You know,” he sighs with a faux furtiveness, “Your father had that same mindset, with his strength and his intelligence and his kindness, and he was one of the best teachers you could ever have. He wasn’t an actual teacher, but… he was the kind of geezer who people thought were wise and would seek guidance from. A great guy, actually. But to cut to the chase, what I’m saying is that I want you to be a sorcerer who knows how to fight, too, instead of just the doctor in the corner that you believe will be the peak of your potential. I think you can do better.” 

“So? I mean, as bad as it sounds, I don’t want to.” 

“That’s why I just want you to try. I want you to have that test and become an actual student here. Shoko doesn’t mind you not becoming one because she thinks they won’t send you on missions if you’re considered ‘too valuable’ by the higher-ups. But I want you to become my student— I’ll give you time to think about it, but look at this way: you have abilities that exceed what you think of yourself— imagine how it sounded to other sorcerers when they heard of you back then, a thirteen-year-old with a late-blooming cursed technique grasping control of it instantly and defeating a grade two curse, even healing the person left behind. Face it: you’re technically a prodigy. The only thing that separates you from others like you is your humanity that troubles you with a reluctance to believe you can actually do anything.” 

Harsh. “...I’ll think about it. But why spring it up on me now?” 

“Maybe you know too little. O-kay, children, listen carefully. Little [Name]’s father would be a relatively famous sorcerer just because of his partial position as a healer, right? For all your life, you were sheltered and protected by your parents who never wanted you to enter into the jujutsu world. I even spoke to your mother herself, remember? Told her that you’d probably be a window but that you could still use cursed energy. You hadn’t shown signs of a cursed technique yet, but we hadn’t considered that it was because prior to that you never had to use it— the countryside areas you grew up in were practically devoid of any curses that your mother and father wouldn’t have already killed themselves. So, with your father’s quote-en-quote ‘fame’, what makes you think that people wouldn’t have wanted you as a jujutsu sorcerer from the start?” 

Just like that the worlds in your head have had worlds of meanings added to them. 

“So? What do you think, [Name]?” 

You turn to Megumi. When you’re backed out into a corner, your eyes scrambling for a place to put them, you turn to Megumi. 

His hand moves hesitantly to your shoulder, ghosting over it like a teapot over a china cup. “...whatever it is, you’ll do well. Gojo just likes to pull stuff like this.” 

It feels warm. You won’t be in trouble if you don’t run away from this. It’s nice. It’s calm, his steady hand on your shoulder as your heart feels like it’s about to take a nosedive. “...thanks.” 

“Give me some time, Gojo.” 

—

Yuuji and Kugisaki come back with a little boy in tow. 

“Ah— you’re back!” 

“No injuries, [Name]! We’re all scratch-free! The kid has a bruise on his knee, though.” 

“Oh. Can I see it, please?” you ask the boy, kneeling to his height. 

The boy pulls the left hem of his pants up, revealing a fresh violet blot on his skin. 

“Would you be okay if I touched your knee? I can take the bruise away for you.” 

He nods and soon it’s gone, his skin pristine and new. “Woah,” he goes, “Thank you! Was that magic?” he asks, eyes full of childlike wonder. 

You giggle. “Something like that. Could you keep it a secret?” you make the best welcoming and kid-friendly grin you can as you place your index against your lips. 

“Okay!” he whisper-shouts, smiling wide. 

Kugisaki and Yuuji rest by the building while Gojo, Megumi and you bring the kid back home. 

“You know, I wanted to say, big sister,” he starts, looking up at you, “You’re really pretty!” 

(So cute!!) “Ah, really? That other girl is really pretty too, though.” 

“You too! You could be like a model on a poster!” he exclaims, “Oh wait— I live over there! Thanks again!” he points to the turning on the left. 

“Haha, thank you,” you reply as Gojo waves at him, “Take care of yourself!” 

“I will! Bye-bye, big sister!” 

“Are you hungry?” you ask Gojo and Megumi. “Ack— I feel lightheaded.”

Megumi turns to you in an instant— “You didn’t eat enough for breakfast?” 

“Guess so,” you reply, “I should be fine, though. I think I just had something on my mind the whole day and I couldn’t feel the hunger or something.” 

He whips his phone out. 

“Oh, there’s a famous tonkatsu restaurant back in Omotesando,” you suggest as he scrolls through restaurant options. “I think Yuuji may want to eat something like steak, though, and I don’t know what Kugisaki likes. Is there anything you want in particular?” 

“I’m fine with anything,” he says, “But it’s Gojo’s money we’re going to be using, so we should probably make the most of it.” 

“Mm… we can eat beef steak in Ginza, I think… ah— Yuuji’s grandfather always called it beefteki. I’m surprised I can still remember.” 

—

27-6-2018  

“Hi. It’s one in the morning, Megumi,” you greet him as he stands outside your room’s door, “Can’t sleep?” 

“...yeah,” he admits sheepishly, “Sorry about this.” 

He sits down on the bed. “Nah, it’s fine. It’s like we’re going to keep doing this,” you start, “Our special ritual. Something like that. I mean, we help each other in this way, right?” 

Your hand strays upward a little, nervous as it inches toward his shoulder. 

He brings your hand there and places his own hand on top of it. “Yeah,” he replies contentedly, “But I… wanted to ask,” Megumi begins, “What Gojo said. Are you going to become a student?” 

“I don’t know. I mean, looking at how things are going now, I may. It seems like things are leaning more towards me being a full-fledged sorcerer. Haven’t had the time to think about it.” 

He seems to pause for a moment, to reconsider something one last time like a record in his head. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

“I should take you to see Tsumiki first.” 

You nearly gasp. “She wants to see me?” After all this time? “I’m happy, but… wouldn’t she be busy, though?” 

“No… I mean… you really should take a look at her first. Then you’ll see what I’m trying to say. I’m sorry, but I just— I really should have told you sooner.

“Told me what?” you frown. Learning of this feels a bit like restarting and going back to square one somehow. 

“I’m sorry, can we just… do something else for now? Just… please be patient with me a little longer. I’m sorry you have to do that so much.” 

“…okay.” 

You wake up to his figure being illuminated shyly by the light of dawn. In the tiny bubble that the two of you share— of intertwined paths, secrets, lives— and the sensation of waking from a late night, you realise just how much you want to stay there forever. 

This morning, you don’t rush back to your room and hastily go through your routine. All you do for a while, for what feels like it lasts for a century yet lasts for too little time, is look at him, at his steady, quiet breathing as his eyes are shut comfortably tight.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

28-6-2018  

“Morning. Did you sleep well?” 

Megumi moves the blanket away from him, blinking sleep out of his eyes still. You hoist yourself up until your back is against the headboard. 

“The blanket wasn’t here before I fell asleep, I think,” he voices out, nearly inaudible, drenched in the aftermath of a deep slumber, “Did you—” 

You nod your head.  

“...thanks.” 

At this moment, it’s as if nothing exists. Just you and him and the sky at blue hour, on his bed doing something that people who are just friends shouldn’t do. The urge to trace over his face— over his shut eyelids and sharp nose and thin lips— clings to you like a second nature, one which you never thought you had. There’s hair on his head like a nest you’re itching to touch, spiky and jet black like blades of grass. 

You’ve seen this kind of movie before, felt these feelings with your best friend, no less — and now they’ll eat you up from the inside like bacteria on a rotting fruit. Because feeling like this means feeling everything else assault you all at once: you don’t know if you'd like to bury your face into something and scream, or cry from the fact that it may be unrequited, or jump around in joy for everything good Megumi has done for you. 

But forget the sorcerers, forget the healing, forget the cursed techniques and the need to be useful and needed for one second, forget your parents, forget Tsumiki, even— and you can’t believe you thought that. What can they offer which you can’t find next to him, right now, on a warm twilight with cold blankets and pillows? 

There are so many things you have wanted. But right now, just this is enough. 

“Sometimes I regret talking about how I feel, being emotional and things like that— to the point that if I feel things strongly, these days I try not to show them. It’s… the vulnerability, I guess. Letting your walls down. I know it sounds super cliche, and I know that about 80% of the time I probably fail at this, and that it’s not always good being like that—” stirring him further into consciousness, “—but I think you’re the same, just in a different way. You don’t like talking about your feelings. Still, I have to say, I really enjoy this, these things we do.” 

His gaze stays locked on yours, and silence fills the air again; nothing but steady breathing. You wonder, if there’s anything he thinks about when he’s alone on mornings like these, whether he thinks about you. 

“So do I.” 

—

The girls’ and boys’ bathrooms are right next to each other. So at 4 in the morning, when everyone else is still asleep and the sun is yet to rise, you bump into Megumi after brushing your teeth. 

“Not going to shower?” he asks. 

“The sound will travel and it may wake the others up. What about you?” 

“I don’t shower in the mornings, only at night.” 

“Oh, right.” 

He pauses for a while, makes a little sound to fill in the gaps of his hesitation. You wait for him patiently. “Tsumiki… I can let you know about what happened to her. The truth is, she—” 

“Take your time,” you interrupt him. You aren’t stupid; something bad must have happened to her for him to be like this. Any slither of hope you have left that she’s all fine and good was used to play dumb and deny yourself the truth. 

“...let me take you there. To where she is.” 

For more than half your life, Tsumiki’s been a constant. As you moved around and floated between friend groups, you felt lonely in every waking moment; only wishing for the days when you had Tsumiki and Megumi again. That was the impact they had on you. So after such a long wait, your heart leapt with joy at the thought of seeing her again. 

“Okay.” 

—

“Actually, do they not have a curfew? It’s only 5 am,” you say as the two of you are on the sidewalk, next to each other; not with either of you in front of the other. You pull the strap of your bag up every time it slips down. 

“They do, but it’s only until 4 in the morning. It’s not as if it’ll be easy for sorcerers to obey a curfew anyway, so the teachers don’t really check if everyone is observing everything,” he explains, “Hey, I can hold your bag for you, you know—” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“It looks heavy. It’ll hurt, and I don’t mind carrying it for you for a while. How many things are in there, actually—?” 

“... I do try to pack minimalistically. I don’t have many things in it. I don’t know why it does this.” 

“Let me hold it.” 

“...okay. Thank you. But next time, you don’t have to.” 

“I really don’t mind. It’s uh… like what you said. We take care of each other.” 

“I’m surprised you still remember that,” you note, chuckling, “In that case I should try to take care of you more.” 

“...you’re already doing more than enough.” 

“Hope I’m not being too much, then,” you joke, and your voice sounds a little too fond as you hear it exit your mouth, “I’ll start doubling down from now on.” 

A small part of you wants to indulge yourself; to imagine him doing this for you always. To feel the extent of the things he can do for you, and to want to do the same. 

You hand him the bag. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

You have a problem here. You’re in deep, aren’t you? 

The two of you had decided not to phone up anyone who could drive you there, nor were you able to take public transport from the school’s campus to your destination. In truth, you had no idea why it seemed that he and you were being secretive about it, but since you weren’t sure if whatever happened to Tsumiki was something Megumi wanted others to know yet, you obliged him. 

“Where are we headed to, actually?” 

“...the hospital.” 

“... what? ” 

“...you’ll see. I’ll be able to explain once we get there.” 

It’s as if the expression on his face is written in a language you can’t understand. 

It only spurs your worry— what happened to Tsumiki? You’d wanted so badly to see her again and speak to her ever since she stopped all contact with you. The whole time you’d thought she was just busy, or that she would speak to you again soon, as if she were some constant who you couldn’t imagine being absent from your life due to sickness or injury. It hadn’t even occurred to you, that after you checked in on her and hadn’t even seen that she’d read those messages. To you she was a constant, and she’d always come back. You couldn’t imagine a life without her doing so. 

First your mother, and now Tsumiki. 

“The whole time I thought she just decided to… stop talking to me for a while.” 

“If anything was done to her, she would have told you, provided that she could . You weren’t an afterthought to her. She loved you. I… it was my fault, that after everything happened, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I’m sorry.” 

She loved you?

“I still don’t know what happened. I mean, don’t blame yourself—” 

A car passes by and the two of you cross the road. His hand hovers near your back at the end of it, when the pedestrian traffic light goes red and the cars move rapidly behind you. You pretend his actions aren’t blowing up fireworks inside you. 

“No, you called me, right? You even tried to reach me, and… after all I did and how I acted… it wasn’t the right thing to do. But I chose not to call you.” 

You remember when you did, remember how it stung. 

He’s not the only one keeping secrets. You’ve got the letter and the years of yearning you want to let him know about. Yet it would feel like betrayal to yourself, even with the guilt you have from always keeping them. You’re not sure if that guilt is for him or you. 

“But you apologised for all of that, and, well— I think I’m mostly fine with it now. It was just… circumstance, I guess. Especially because it was Tsumiki. Not sure what happened to her, but I mean… if it was just what was happening at that time, even if it may frustrate me, I just have to accept it,”  you explain yourself, speaking from your chest. 

“You’ll hate me once you see what happened.” 

“No, Megumi, I won’t, ” you reassure him, “And anyway,  things are different now, too.” You’ve got more control over your technique, fine-tuned it with practice and determination. You may still be weak at times: you may struggle to heal severe injuries or may get a nosebleed when you’ve pushed yourself too far and tried to heal bruises on four hours of sleep, but you’ve improved.

“No— I’ve hidden it for so long, I don’t know—” 

“I mean, look, we all have our secrets. Sometimes we have them even if we don’t want or have to. You don’t have to be privy to all of myself, especially what I try to keep hidden, but if both of us ever want to… we can always take one step at a time, and I think we’re doing that quite well, in my opinion. Besides, you’re here now. And now that we’re both on campus it’s going to be even harder to get away from me.” 

He stops in his tracks all of a sudden. You do, too. The words come floundering out of his mouth. “[Name]... I don’t know the… ‘right’ way to say this, but I don’t want to get away from you.”

“ Oh. ” 

“Yeah, I never did.” 

“Huh.”  

He hums.

“…me neither,” you coax out of yourself. 

“...there’s a floral shop nearby. I usually get her some flowers.”  

It’s time to get your mother some flowers, too. 

The florist there greets the two of you with a wistful smile, and says that she hasn’t seen Megumi in a while. Megumi introduces you as a childhood friend. 

“What do you usually get?” you ask. 

“Lilies, usually. Carnations and daisies, sometimes, too.” 

You’ve only bought flowers to pay respects to the deceased, at least when it was you buying them and not Yuuji. You’d never met your grandfather, but back when your parents still called you their little girl, your father would bring you to the temple where his ashes were kept every year. You’d see that photo of his face, smiling in black and white, next to your grandmother on their wedding day, and you’d notice how your father prayed before it. He’d replace the flowers— carnations, lilies, daisies, and tell you all the anecdotes he had with his father growing up. You’d gaze at the chrysanthemums and carnations with their honey-hued petals, at the lilies and daisies in their clear glass vases, and you’d think of how pretty they were. You think your grandfather would have liked them, his smile a spitting image of your father’s and a spitting image of yours. 

“Those are her favourite, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“They suit her. It’s a perfect match, because— well, to me, I always thought of parts of her as different things. Her kindness and the joy she shared with other people were cherries. Her hair was brown, so I’d think of chestnuts and that reminded me of Christmas with her, or mont blanc desserts. And her smile was like a flower to me, a bouquet of lilies. At first I only thought that it was because she was pretty and one of the sweetest people I knew, but now it’s more than that— wait, sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, no— it’s okay,” he replies, almost immediately. 

“I’m just excited, is all.” 

He sighs, though you don’t know why. “Then you’ll want to scream at me,” he begins, “…I’m sorry. You’re excited and I just… I’m sorry. You’ll understand when we’re there.” 

You want to hold him. Tell him that it’s okay. Tell him that no matter what, you could never hate him. That you’d never had the power to, ever since you met him on that spring day. 

He chooses one bouquet on display, then heads over to the cashier. You don’t think you’ll be able to hold him at all, today. Or he won’t let you, his walls barring you from him, even when you thought many of them were already gone. You’d been so stupid, thinking the two of you were getting closer, but there was still so much more you had to learn about him now. There was still so much more you had to wait for, until he was willing to take them down. 

“Have you known her for a long time?” you ask, exiting the shop. He bought two— one from him and one from you. 

“Ever since Tsumiki got admitted.” 

“I can pay you back for the bouquets, by the way,” you suggest. 

“It’s fine.” 

“Gojo’s money?” 

“Gojo’s money.” 

You snicker. 

— 

To be honest,  it’s a little difficult walking with him now. The two of you are devoid of any communication whatsoever, a silence calm in the night and early morning yet thickly unbearable once the sun has risen. Before this, you’d been timidly tiptoeing between small talk and deep conversations. Yet now, with the mood of Tsumiki’s incident looming over the air like a ghostly whisper, there’s nothing to talk about, really, as much as you’d like for there to be. 

You’d once heard that people who fell in love were able to talk each others’ ears off for hours on end. You could do that with Yuuji. But Megumi has always been different— in your life, at least. He’s not as boisterous, and not as agreeable with most people despite his politeness, but it’s always been a pleasure being silent with him. Sitting in silence. Lying on the bed together. There’s no spark before you, just the tranquility of an ocean at midnight. In the darkness, with shadows. 

He’s special. Now you can see that, now more clearly than ever before. 

And even now— even when things are awkward and jittery, you find you don’t mind this that much at all.  You don’t think you mind anything if you’re doing it with him. 

So there are no words between you, and you glance at his face, at the frown that contorts his face so softly and gently. 

If you held hands now, it would be pleasant. 

If you held hands now, your hands would inch closer to his as shyly as the first hints of spring arrive after winter. Your wrist would reach his, fingers aching for others to interlock with. Then they would slowly graze his palm like a lost man navigating through the wilderness, until you slid your fingers up his arm again. You would keep them on his wrist, at the outline of his veins, and perhaps if you pressed on it hard enough and used the same mental imaging you do for your cursed technique, you would be able to watch as blood flowed through his arteries and veins. You’ve held his wrist before anyway, grabbed it and pulled him along while his hand would slacken a little. At that time you did it almost abrasively. 

Maybe he would flinch. And maybe you would pull your hand back. 

But then before you realise it he would be tugging on your fingers again, palm against yours, finger to finger. You can even feel it as you think of it now— you would nearly melt in the grooves of his palm, the texture of his skin, and your hand would dance around his a bit until both of your hands wrapped around each other, a snug fit.

“[Name].” 

Your breath seems to fall short as you’re pulled from your fantasies. “What?” you ask, your face hot like a pan sizzling with melted butter. 

“Are you okay? It’s time to cross the road.” 

“Yeah. Just… it’s just… Tsumiki.” 

His hand is on your wrist. 

“Okay.” 

And if your hand slides down to his palm, and you squeeze his hand before he squeezes yours back despite not looking at you at that moment, well— 

You’ve done this before, and several times. But yo know why it’s different now. 

— 

The sun has risen. There’s a certain pallor on Tsumiki’s face that you’ve never seen before. Under the early morning light it’s as if sunlight is seeping through her like light refracted in water. Her face is torn between peace and a grimace, as if she’s suspended precariously between a dream and a nightmare. A glaring red mark burns into her forehead like carved wood in patterns completely alien to you. There’s no lively ponytail bursting from her head, only the sordid scene of strands of chestnut hair gone flattened and lifeless, her once bright pink lips turned desiccated and pale; the sight of her grinning face from before only slipping through your fingers like powdery heaps of dust. She’s drawn out on the mattress resembling a fawn carcass in a documentary: too young and innocent to be like this, shallowly breathing in the torpid air. Comatose. The sight juts through your heart. 

This is different from grief. It feels like suffocation, like heaviness in the air. Your breaths are shallow as you take the clear glass vase, fill it with water and replace the previous lilies with new ones. There is no grief because nothing has been lost, only suspended. Locked in a standstill, for a little while. 

“We think it was a curse,” Megumi chokes. 

“How can you cure her?” 

“There’s no known cure since it was made from cursed energy. All we can do is wait for her to wake up.” 

“How long…?” 

“Since junior high. A while after you left.” Megumi confesses, “I’m sorry if you’re angry that I should’ve told you sooner,” his voice is strained and soft, a little bit from cutting himself off, “I’m sorry.” 

How many times had you thought of seeing her? How many times had you wondered why he’d never call and let you know how she was? Would she survive this, or would you have to wait a hundred times more just to see her again?

He knew all of this. He could have told you. 

Don’t be unreasonable, you think. Just focus on what you can do next. 

“It’s not your fault,” you sigh, “It’s just that after everything…” 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“I just wish I could’ve known. Then this whole time that I spent waiting—” 

“I know,” he goes, begging you to be angry. To hate him, as if anything he’s done to you could be the cause of something so great. 

You can cure people. You were placed on this world, born with powers to make or break life’s structures and processes, to cure people. With powers like that you’ve been hunted, sought after, protected— and yet now, when you need to heal this wound of hers, there’s nothing you can do. 

It makes you feel so useless it shakes you to the core. 

“I don’t know if I can do anything,” you start, half-resolute and half-doubtful. But despite your doubt you know that this is what it’s all about; what you’ve pledged yourself to do— to try your best and be useful. Like walking on a tightrope: you’ll have to march forward in the face of all of this and just force yourself not to look down, because this is all it’s ever been. Maybe, you think for a second, everything in your life has led to this moment. “But can I try?” 

“…of course. If anyone could do it, it would be you,” he remarks, voice softening with each syllable. 

“…thanks.” 

He’s very… tender today. Vulnerable. You suppose it’s because of Tsumiki and refrain from commenting on it.

You focus all your energy into her forehead and her brain, trying your best to somehow work against an obscure charm with an even more abstruse molecular structure. 

You can feel it— the strain on your consciousness, how it hurts to even think at some point, but ignore it all and try your best to help her. 

Be useful. If you don’t make it work now, her health is going to be up in the air for longer. If you don’t make it work now, you won’t know if you’ll be able to speak to her again, to thank her for everything— for teaching you to be kind and loving, for caring for you and appreciating parts of you when you’d never felt it before, for her cherry hair tie and her bright smile and her endless wisdom and— 

[Name]? 

If you don’t make it work now, how many more months will she have to spend without smiling through life and sharing her love with others? 

You want to scream at Megumi sometimes, actually. 

[Name]!

If you don’t make it work now, how much time of her life would be wasted in the end, when she had so much potential to change the world and shine her light on others? 

…he could have just told you from the start! 

You have to focus. If he told you this at the start, would that have changed anything? 

Be useful. 

[Name]! 

You have to make it work. You have to bring Tsumiki back.