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The city is muffled behind the glass windows, a sound of life that you’ve grown used to ignoring. Night has fallen, yet the lights seem endless, stretching across the horizon like they’re mocking you. You’re seated at the farthest corner of the quiet cafe, nursing a cup of coffee that’s long gone cold.
And of course, he’s there.
Gojo Satoru. His presence is like the universe playing a cruel joke on you. Where he goes, light follows, and somehow it always exposes the darkest corners of yourself. It’s unbearable. It’s him, and yet it’s not his fault at all.
“You’re sulking again,” he announces, sliding into the seat across from you as though he owns the air you breathe. His voice carries a playful lilt, but his cerulean gaze searches you like he already knows what he’ll find—that bottomless pit where your self-loathing festers.
You flinch. You hate that he’s so good at seeing through you, and you hate that a small part of you hopes he would look away, to stop seeing you.
“I’m not sulking.” Your voice is barely a whisper, cracking at the edges.
He raises a brow. You’ve grown used to that smug expression, but tonight it lacks its usual arrogance.
“Liar,” he says softly.
The words hit harder than they should, and suddenly you’re not in the cafe anymore. You’re back in your room, staring at the mirror.
You remember the way your dull eyes met your reflection, how the faint light in the bathroom revealed every flaw. Your fingers would trail across your skin, pinching, tugging—trying to mold yourself into something, anything, better. It didn’t matter how much you whispered to yourself to stop. The thought would come again.
Why can’t I be pretty like them?
Your mind would wander to the girls you passed on the street—the ones who seemed effortlessly beautiful. The ones whose laughter sounded like music, their smiles never strained or rehearsed. They didn’t shrink in their own skin. They didn’t overthink every bite of their last meal. You did. You hated yourself for it. For feeling guilty over food, over things that shouldn’t matter.
Your hands would press against your cheeks, as if you could push yourself into a shape that felt more acceptable… as if you could erase the version of yourself you loathed so much.
And every time, the thought would slip further. Maybe if you were prettier, you’d be happier. Maybe if you were someone else, you wouldn’t feel this hollow ache that nothing could seem to fill.
You would step away from the mirror, cheeks red from pressing too hard, stomach twisted in guilt over your last meal. Counting calories in almost every single meal you ate, doing sit-ups in your room, why can't I just be pretty?
You grip the coffee cup harder, knuckles turning white. “Why do you keep coming back? Gojo, you don’t need to waste your time on someone like me.”
Your words are harsh, but they’re directed at yourself, You were self aware, You knew that you weren't the most prettiest girl. You want him to leave, to stop trying to save someone who can’t be fixed—someone who doesn’t deserve to be saved.
Gojo doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t. He’s unshakable, unfathomable, and so infuriatingly joyful in the moments you hate yourself the most.
“Waste my time?” he repeats, tilting his head slightly, his white hair catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. His smile falters for a moment. A crack.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table as his hands fold together. “Is that really what you think?”
You don’t answer. Your throat feels tight. Gojo doesn’t understand. He can’t. He’s the strongest, the brightest—he has no idea what it feels like to be this. To be broken.
“I’m not worth it,” you whisper. Your voice trembles like the walls of a collapsing building. “I… I hate myself, Gojo. You should hate me, too.”
“Hate you?” His voice sounds incredulous, but there’s no humor there. He shakes his head. “Is that what you want?”
“You don’t understand,” you snap, louder this time. The tears sting harder, going past your lash line now, But who cares? you've been bottling this up for too long. “You… you’re, Gojo. You’re perfect. You've been perfect, you've been put on a pedestal your whole entire life. You don’t know what it’s like to look in the mirror and feel sick. To pick yourself apart piece by piece until you can’t even stand being in your own skin. You… you wouldn’t get it.”
Gojo doesn’t react the way you expect him to. He doesn’t laugh it off, doesn’t argue. Instead, his expression softens—pain flashes behind his eyes, and it's cold.
“Perfect?” he echoes, almost like the word stings. He leans back slightly, a heavy breath leaving his chest. “I’m not perfect. Far from it.”
You stare at him, confused, squinting your eyes. He doesn’t let you interrupt.
“I get what it’s like to hate yourself. I get what it’s like to feel like you’re unlovable.” His voice is calm. “But none of that matters when I look at you. Because when I see you, I see someone worth staying for.”
His words knock the wind out of you. They chip at the armor you’ve so carefully put in place, the lies you’ve repeated until you believed them.
“I don’t deserve that,” you whisper, tears slipping down your cheeks.
Gojo’s gaze softens, and suddenly he looks human in a way you’re not prepared for.
“Maybe you don’t think you do,” he murmurs, “but I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it. I don’t care how long it takes.”
You shake your head, choking back a sob. “Why? Why won’t you just leave me alone?”
Gojo reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against your trembling hands. His touch is warm—steady—and it breaks you further.
“Because I love you,” he says quietly. “Even if you can’t see it right now, I do.”
Your chest feels like it might collapse. You hate yourself, and yet Gojo… Gojo loves you. It doesn’t make sense. It’s unfair. It hurts. And yet… it’s something else, too.
The realization crashes into you without warning. You love him. You’ve been so focused on tearing yourself apart, you never noticed the pieces of your heart that you’d quietly given to him. It terrifies you.
But for the first time in a long time, something else hurts, too—hope.
You don’t respond. You can’t. All you can do is sit there, tears streaming down your face as Gojo’s hand wraps around yours, grounding you to this moment… this unbearable, beautiful moment where you wonder if maybe—just maybe—you’re not as alone as you thought.