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The clock ticked relentlessly in the quiet apartment which felt colder than usual. He sat at the dining table, his head resting on his folded hands, eyes heavy with exhaustion. A plate of cold, untouched food sat before him—the dinner he’d cooked, the dinner you hadn’t eaten. Again.
You’d walked in hours ago, a soft smile on your lips but not for him. The same smile you saved for your phone calls, your whispered conversations. He’d tried not to listen, but the way your laughter echoed in the room had gnawed at his chest like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
You were busy, you’d said. Work had been demanding. He understood—of course, he did. But when had "demanding" started meaning you had time for everyone but him?
He stopped setting the table for two. It was easier that way. The leftovers in the fridge piled up, each container a silent testament to another night spent eating alone. The apartment still smelled like your perfume, like the shampoo you used, but it was starting to feel like a place you passed through rather than lived in.
He tried to bridge the gap—suggested a movie night, offered to pick you up from work, even learned how to make that pasta you loved. You’d smiled, thanked him, and promised next time.
The next time never came.
Instead, the glow of your phone lit up the dark bedroom at night, your quiet chuckles slipping between the sheets like an intruder. He lay beside you, staring at the ceiling, hands clenched into fists beneath the covers.
You stopped saying "I love you" first.
The words had once been effortless, tumbling from your lips in the mornings, between sips of coffee, when you rushed out the door. Now, they came only as a response, an afterthought. If he didn't say them, he wondered if you’d notice.
The apartment felt larger these days, too big for just one person to exist in. He found himself cleaning just to fill the silence, scrubbing countertops that weren’t dirty, rearranging bookshelves you no longer touched. He scrolled through old pictures—of vacations, of nights spent tangled together on the couch—and wondered how they had turned into this.
He stopped waiting up. What was the point?
He'd long given up asking where you’d been, who you’d been with. The answers had become vague, rehearsed, the kind designed to end a conversation rather than start one.
The bed felt colder, the nights longer. He filled his time with hobbies, things he never cared for before—reading, baking, even knitting at one point, just to have something to do with his hands. Anything to keep himself from checking the clock, from counting the hours between the moment you left and the moment you came back.
You still kissed his cheek before bed, a ghost of affection that barely lingered. But the warmth was gone, the weight of your love no longer something he could hold.
And so, he sat in that quiet apartment, a forgotten housewife in a home that no longer felt like his, waiting for someone who had already left.
So yes, the apartment felt colder than usual. Not because of the temperature, but because of the distance between them—an invisible chasm that had grown wider with each passing day. He sat on the couch, staring at the muted television. The faint sound of your laughter drifted from the balcony. His jaw clenched.
You were on the phone again.
The laugh that used to light up his world now cut through him like shards of glass. It wasn’t his jokes you were laughing at anymore. It wasn’t his voice that softened your features or brought that sparkle to your eyes. No, that belonged to someone else now.
He’s fists tightened against his thighs as he listened. The man on the other end of the line—some colleague, you’d said—had become an unwelcome fixture in both your lives.
He’d caught glimpses of your texts when your phone buzzed on the counter.
Friendly messages, full of inside jokes he wasn’t privy to.
You never laughed like that with him.
Not anymore.
One night, the dinner sat untouched on the table.
The same as every other night.
He’d spent an hour making your favorite meal, hoping you’d sit down with him, talk to him, see him. But when you walked in, you barely glanced at the plate before heading to the balcony with your phone.
After you disconnected the call, you turned to find him standing behind you.
He wasn’t spying, just hesitant.
Not sure how to exist in a place where he felt like he wasn’t wanted anymore.
This used to be his house too, wasn’t it?
“Who was that?” he’d asked casually, clearing his throat, though the edge in his voice betrayed him.
“Just a friend from work,” you replied, brushing him off.
“You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”
Your fingers paused mid-swipe. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He hesitated, unsure whether to push further. “It means I’d like to spend more time with you.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Physically, yes. But your mind, your heart… they were somewhere else. With someone else.
It had been weeks—maybe months—since the last time you two had shared a proper meal together, one that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t filled with silences too thick to cut through.
But tonight, he was trying.
One last time.
The candles flickered on the dining table, their soft glow casting shadows against the walls. The air smelled of slow-cooked garlic and rosemary, the kind of dinner that used to make you press up against his back in the kitchen, stealing bites, giggling as he swatted you away with a wooden spoon.
He’d set everything perfectly—your favorite wine, the playlist you once called "our soundtrack," the one you played on road trips, during late-night dances in the living room.
When you walked in, he felt it—that brief, fleeting moment where your eyes softened, where your lips curved into something real.
"You did all this?" you asked, stepping closer, inspecting the meal as if it were some rare artifact.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "figured if I waited for you to cook, I'd starve first."
You laughed. A real laugh. The sound was warm, familiar, like home.
"Rude," you teased, nudging his arm before taking a seat.
You actually ate this time. You talked, joked, and rolled your eyes when he grumbled about how much effort it had taken to perfect this dish. He felt like himself again, like the version of him that existed before the distance, before the cold bedsheets and unanswered questions.
Maybe—just maybe—he could fix this. Maybe you were still his.
After dinner, he put on music, an old, slow song that once made you sway in his arms without a second thought.
He extended his hand. You hesitated. But then, with a small, almost shy smile, you took it.
Your fingers were warm against his as he pulled you close, resting a hand on your waist. You smelled the same—like something undeniably you. For the first time in a long time, you weren’t pulling away.
"You still dance like an idiot," you murmured, but you were grinning.
"And you still can’t follow my lead," he shot back, earning a playful shove.
Then, without thinking, without analyzing, he tilted your chin up, his lips brushing yours.
It wasn’t desperate or demanding.
Just a reminder.
But you kissed him back.
Something ignited between you both, something raw, something that had been buried under months of silence. Your fingers tangled in his loose unstyled hair, and his grip tightened on your waist. He pressed you against the table, the wine glasses rattling as he lifted you onto the edge.
For the first time in so long, it felt right. It felt like you wanted him again, like you missed this as much as he did.
And then—just as quickly as it began, it stopped.
You pulled away, breathless but distant, and murmured, "Let’s go to bed."
Bed.
Not together, not with him. Just bed.
He followed, swallowing the unease rising in his chest.
You climbed under the sheets, and he hovered above you, waiting, wanting, aching. But instead of pulling him down, instead of pressing your lips to his like you used to—like you once swore you’d never stop wanting—you reached up and gently, gently , placed your hands on his shoulders and held him there.
Not pulling him closer.
Just holding him down.
His breath caught in his throat. "What are you doing?" he whispered.
You didn’t answer, just smiled softly, brushed your fingers through his hair, and whispered, "Just stay."
He didn’t move.
He didn’t argue.
He just lay there, going along with it, convincing himself it was enough.
That this was still love.
Maybe you were tired, maybe it had just been too long, too much at once. He could wait. He’d waited this long, hadn’t he?
It became a ritual. A routine .
You’d let him kiss you, let him touch you just enough to keep the illusion intact. But every time, just before it could become something more, you’d stop him. You’d wrap your arms around him, whisper something sweet, something distant, and hold him there like a thing to be kept, not wanted.
And he let you.
Because if he didn’t, then he’d have to admit the truth—that something was dying. That maybe it was already dead .
Then one night when he couldn’t take it anymore.
When his body felt like tearing itself apart.
It happened.
You were in bed, waiting for him, already curled up like you always did, expecting him to play along.
But something inside him had shifted. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
"You don’t want me anymore."
It wasn’t a question.
It wasn’t angry.
It was just true.
You stiffened but said nothing.
He let out a hollow laugh, running a hand over his face. "I used to be the best you ever had. Remember?" His voice was quiet, but there was something damaging lurking beneath it.
"Of course," you said softly, like you always did.
Like it was rehearsed.
He turned to look at you, his eyes empty. "Then why do you keep stopping me?"
The silence stretched.
He felt something in his chest tighten, twist, break.
And then—he stopped speaking altogether.
He lay down next to you, let you wrap your arms around him like always, let you hold him down, let you reduce him to something small and quiet.
But in that silence, something inside him went cold.
And you didn’t even notice.
Then one evening your co-worker who you swore was ‘just a friend’ dropped you home. Drunk.
The door clicked shut, followed by the faint sound of retreating footsteps.
He sat in the dimly lit living room, the untouched dinner still laid out on the table, growing colder by the second.
The scent of rosemary and garlic—once comforting, once meant to bring you home—now only mocked him.
His grip tightened around the glass in his hand. He had heard it all.
"Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything."
"I will. Thank you!"
The laughter. The softness in your voice. The kind of warmth you hadn’t spoken with in months.
Not to him, anyway.
His jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He didn’t want to fight.
He’d let so much go already.
What was one more thing?
You walked past him like a ghost, barely sparing him a glance. "I’m going to shower."
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
His throat felt thick, his chest heavy, his fingers twitching.
The food in front of him blurred.
He swallowed hard, forcing it all down—the questions, the resentment, the ache.
You had forgotten the anniversary.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, before standing up and packing away the dinner.
Like always.
Now, the TV hummed softly from the bedroom, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Cartoons. Again.
No invitation for him to join.
You were curled under a blanket, eyes fixed on the screen, the faint remnants of a smile still playing on your lips. The same smile you used to give him.
His patience snapped like a brittle bone.
The chair scraped loudly against the floor as he pushed away from the kitchen table. His footsteps were steady but heavy, each one sinking deeper into the weight of everything he had swallowed for far too long.
"Hey," he said, voice low, measured.
You hummed in acknowledgment, but your eyes never left the screen.
His fingers curled into fists. "Can we talk?"
Your brows furrowed slightly, but you grabbed the remote and muted the TV. "About what?"
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "About us."
Something in your face flickered—hesitation, maybe guilt—but it was gone before he could hold onto it.
He swallowed. "You’re never home anymore. You barely look at me, let alone touch me. You laugh on the phone with… someone else. You don’t eat what I cook, and you don’t—" His voice cracked, but he forced himself to continue. "You don’t love me anymore, do you? Haven’t in a long time."
Your lips parted, but no words came.
Instead, you shifted, like you were about to get up, about to walk away like you always did.
His breath hitched. His body moved before he could think.
He stepped forward.
"Don’t," he said, voice firmer, sharper. "Don’t walk away from this. I deserve an answer."
"Baby, please…" Your voice was soft, but it felt like a knife, carving through him with its emptiness.
"Please, what?" His voice rose, frustration bleeding into every syllable. "Please let you avoid this? Let you keep ignoring me while I sit here wondering what I did wrong? While I beg for scraps of your affection?"
You flinched, and for the first time in months, he saw something break in you. Your hands trembled as you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, like it could shield you from him, from this—from the ugly, raw truth between you both.
"It’s not like that," you whispered.
"Then tell me what it is!" His voice cracked, his composure crumbling to dust. "Tell me why you’re shutting me out! Tell me why you’re treating me like I don’t exist in our own home!"
Your lips quivered, and then the tears came—slow at first, then all at once. You lifted your hands to your face, shoulders shaking as quiet sobs wracked through you.
And just like that—the fight was over before it even began.
The anger in his chest burned, smoldered, and then twisted into something else. Something worse.
He had been so ready for a war.
Ready for screaming, for accusations, for ugly confessions to come spilling out like blood on the floor.
Anything but this.
Because this?
This felt like surrender.
And he didn’t even know which one of you had lost.
"Hey…" His voice softened, guilt threading through the remnants of his anger. He took a step closer, reaching for you, hands trembling. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. Don’t cry."
But you only cried harder, shrinking away from his touch.
Something sharp twisted in his chest.
He crouched in front of you, desperation bleeding into every inch of his expression. "Please, talk to me," he whispered. "Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me how."
Your hands slowly fell from your face, revealing red-rimmed, swollen eyes.
You looked at him—not through him, at him . Like you were memorizing every detail, like you were grasping onto something fragile before it shattered completely.
Then, so gently it nearly broke him, you cupped his cheeks.
"Baby…The love of the very essence of my existence in every universe…" Your voice cracked, barely audible. Your thumbs brushed against his skin, slow, reverent. Like you were trying to convince yourself.
His breath caught. His eyes shining with all his love.
"You’re not real."
The words hung between you both, sinking into his skin like ice. A deep frown now etched onto his face.
"What are you talking about?" His voice was steady, but there was something trembling underneath, something afraid.
"You remember your last mission?" you whispered. "When you came home and said you’d retire? For us?"
He exhaled slowly, nodding. "Of course. We defeated that cursed spirit. It was…"
He trailed off as you shook your head, your touch growing lighter, as if you were afraid he’d dissipate.
"No," you mumbled, voice breaking with sobbs. Each one harder than before. "You didn’t. You never came home."
The room seemed to shrink around him.
"You died that day."
His world stopped spinning.
"No," he said immediately, shaking his head. "That’s not true. I—" His breath hitched.
"I kissed you that night. I held you." His heart was pounding, desperate, frantic. "You were in my arms. We even watched cartoons and ate pizza."
You let out a sob so broken it tore through him. "I’ve been pretending," you whispered. "Pretending you’re still here. Pretending I’m not alone. But you’re not real, baby. You’ve been gone for so long."
His lungs felt too tight. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"You’re lying," he rasped. He reached for your hands, gripping them tight, pressing them against his chest. "You feel that? My heartbeat. I’m here. I’m right here."
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tightening around his for just a second—one last second.
And then, with a look so full of sorrow it made his stomach drop, you whispered, "There’s nothing there."
He froze.
"No." His voice was barely a breath. "No, that’s not—"
But then it hit him.
The way you never looked him in the eyes for too long.
The way no one else ever acknowledged him.
The way you never reached for him first.
How the food he cooked never tasted right. Not like how it used to.
How the memory foam mattress only ever had one dent in the mornings.
And suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
You were still crying, shoulders shaking with the weight of grief too heavy for your frame. "I wish you were here," you sobbed. "God, I wish you were."
He wanted to fight.
Wanted to prove he was real.
Wanted to pull you close and never let go.
But then—the look in your eyes.
Not avoidance.
Not guilt.
Just loss.
And for the first time, in the suffocating silence of your shared home—
he felt the cold, hollow weight of truth.
Fushiguro Megumi
At first, he doesn’t say anything. Just… stares.
And then, slowly, his hands lift, pressing against his temples.
"No."
It’s not a yell.
It’s not even firm.
It’s quiet, almost pleading.
"No. That doesn’t—" His breath shakes. "That doesn’t make sense."
He sways slightly, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. His head pounds, his body feels heavy.
"I am with you," he murmurs.
He’s always been logical, always been able to process things quickly. But this—
This is different.
When he finally looks at you, his eyes are empty.
"So that’s why everything felt off."
His voice is hollow. His hands tremble, curling into fists.
"I should’ve figured it out sooner."
And then, finally, his face crumples.
"I should’ve done something."
Fushiguro Toji
Toji laughs. Short. Bitter. A sharp exhale through his nose.
"Tch. Bullshit."
His arms cross over his chest, his weight shifting onto one foot like he’s gearing up for a fight. Like he’s daring you to say it again.
You do.
And this time, his smirk falters.
"The hell are you talking about?" His voice drops an octave, his brows knitting together. "I’m right here."
But you just look at him.
No words. No argument.
And that’s what does it.
His fingers twitch. His throat tightens. And suddenly, the air feels wrong.
His mind races—memories flickering like a dying lightbulb. The fight. The pain. The blood.
The way everything just… stopped.
And then, just like that, he remembers.
His breath stutters. His fists clench. His shoulders tremble—not from fear, not from sadness, but from sheer, gut-wrenching denial.
"No." His voice is sharp, biting. He shakes his head. "No, I walked away. Megumi, I—"
His chest aches. His vision blurs.
"I can’t be dead. I fucking can’t."
His own voice shakes, and he hates it. He hates the way his body betrays him, hates the lump in his throat, hates the way his vision distorts as the first tear falls.
"I was supposed to come back to him."
You flinch.
Because you know exactly who him is.
Toji squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches. His whole body trembles as the weight of his absence finally, finally crashes down on him.
He falls to his knees.
“I have him. He’s safe with a friend.” You get on the floor and hold him.
You wiped your tears quickly from the back of your hand because you could not bring Megumi in a house that was haunted by you and his father.
Geto Suguru
His arms instinctively come around you, protecting you from something he can’t even fight . His breath is uneven, his body trembling as he holds you as tightly as he can , as if you might slip away too.
"I’m sorry."
He says it over and over, voice cracking, shaking, breaking. As if this is his fault.
Tears slip down his face in silent streams, dripping onto your hair as he buries his face in your shoulder. He never cries. But now, he’s unraveling, feeling every moment he missed, every touch that wasn’t real.
"I wanted to come home to you."
And when he finally pulls back, his eyes are haunted.
"I don’t want to go."
Gojo Satoru
He laughs . A shaky, humorless laugh—like this is some joke, like you’re playing a cruel prank.
"Nice one, babe. You almost had me."
But then he sees your face. The grief in your eyes. The way your hands tremble. The way you look right through him, like he’s already gone .
And suddenly, the air is gone from his lungs.
"No, no, no—"
His voice wavers, his fingers twitching as he grabs you, pulling you against his chest , shaking his head.
"I’m right here. You feel me, don’t you? I’m here. You’re messing with me. You have to be."
His breath hitches, his infinity flickering, his body betraying his denial .
When you whisper his name, soft and full of sorrow, something inside him snaps.
He crumbles. Completely .
"Please…" he begs, his voice so raw, so helpless. "Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me alone."
Gojo never begs. But he begs for this.
For you.
For one more second .
Haibara Yu
He smiles.
A soft, sad little thing.
"Oh."
And then he laughs . Because of course, of course, it had to be true.
He should have known . Should have realized.
The laughter fades, his throat tightening, and his hands shake as he lifts them— to touch you, to hold you. But they hesitate .
Because what if he’s not really here?
The thought makes his chest cave in, and suddenly, he’s crying—quietly at first, then ugly, body-wracking sobs.
"I didn’t want to leave you."
His fingers reach for yours, barely brushing against them.
"I wanted forever with you."
And when you whisper, "Me too," he finally breaks.
Hakari Kinji
"Tch, you’re talking nonsense."
He rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off the ice settling in his veins. His usual cocky smirk falters, his bravado barely holding.
But when you keep looking at him like that—like he’s a memory instead of a man —his breath stutters.
"No. That’s bullshit. I was with you every night since. I—I—"
And then his knees buckle.
He slams his fists into the floor, his shoulders heaving, his teeth clenched so hard it hurts.
"WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU LET ME PRETEND?!"
He’s angry —angry at you, at himself, at the universe that took him away. His chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven breaths, his body trembling.
But then, after what feels like an eternity, the fight drains out of him.
"I wanted more time."
And when you reach for him, he leans in, forehead pressing against your shoulder, his tears finally falling.
"I just wanted more time."
Higuruma Hiromi
His first reaction is silence.
Then, a low, shaky exhale. He leans back slightly, processing, his lawyer's mind running through every possible explanation, every logical outcome.
None of them make sense.
His hands tighten into fists at his sides. His nails dig into his palms, but he doesn’t feel it.
Then, a whisper makes its way out of him.
"Why didn’t I realize?"
He lets out a dry, bitter laugh, his breath shaking.
"I thought—" His voice cracks.
He swallows, hard. And then he breaks. He never cries. But he looks lost.
"We were finally supposed to be together."
His arms wrap around you, and he clings, desperate —because for the first time in his life, he can’t argue his way out of this one.
Inumaki Toge
He doesn’t react.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tense.
He just… sits there. Staring at you.
His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something. Like he’s trying to process it.
And then, slowly, his hands lift—shaking.
"Don’t."
The single word—so small, so quiet—shatters the room like glass.
"Don’t do this to me."
His fingers clutch at his throat. His cursed speech had always been a burden, a limiter—but now, he thought he could speak.
You both had been talking now without rice ball ingredients.
He wants to scream.
Instead, he just wispers, "Tell me you’re lying. Tell me I’m real. Tell me I’m still here with you."
His shoulders tremble. His head bows.
And when the first tear hits the floor—you swear you hear his heart break.
Itadori Yuji
Yuji’s face freezes. Completely.
"No."
There’s no hesitation. No humor. Just raw, unfiltered refusal.
"That’s not—" His voice cracks. His lips tremble. "That’s not funny."
His hands curl into fists at his sides, his breath coming faster, shallower. His body knows before his mind does.
Because suddenly, it feels wrong.
Like he’s not supposed to be here.
The memories come like a gut punch. The battle. The pain. The blood. The darkness.
His stomach drops.
"No, no, no—" He steps back, hands pressing against his chest like he’s trying to feel something, anything.
His breath hitches. His knees go weak.
"I promised—" His voice breaks apart.
And that’s when the sob rips from his throat.
"I promised I'd live."
Tears spill. His whole body shakes.
"I promised I'd be different. That I’d have a long life. That I wouldn’t—"
His fingers dig into his scalp, his chest rising and falling in short, choked gasps.
And suddenly, it’s not about him anymore.
It’s about everyone else.
Gojo, Nanami, Nobara, Megumi—his friends.
"They're gonna be alone."
He chokes, his knees giving out completely.
"I left them all alone."
And when he finally looks up at you—tears streaking his face, lips quivering, hands trembling—you know.
Yuji Itadori never wanted to die.
But he did.
And nothing will ever change that.
Kamo Choso
He’s silent. No reaction. No change in expression. He just stares at you, his lips slightly parted, his mind trying to grasp the weight of your words.
Then, slowly, his breathing falters. His fingers twitch, his body stiffens. His usually composed face shatters as his lips tremble, his eyes welling with tears. His voice, so steady before, comes out in a whisper—fragile, broken.
"That’s not true. I’m here. I promised I’d protect you."
When you shake your head, his shoulders shake with the force of his grief. His arms wrap around you—desperate, clinging —as if holding you tightly enough would pull him back into existence. But even as you sob into his chest, he already knows .
And it destroys him.
Todo Aoi
"Nah."
Todo grins.
"Nice try, but I’m not that easy to fool."
You don’t smile. You don’t laugh.
His grin fades.
His heart stutters.
"Oi. Quit messing around." His voice wavers, just slightly. Just enough for fear to slither in. "You’re making it sound like I—"
His words die in his throat.
Because you won’t look at him.
And that’s when he knows.
His fists clench. His chest heaves. His jaw locks so tight it hurts.
"Hah… no way."
His breath is ragged now. His shoulders tremble.
His whole life, he’s built himself on strength. On resilience. On always pushing forward.
But right now—right here—
Todo Aoi has nowhere left to go.
He forces a laugh. A weak, broken sound. "So, what? That means I—?"
He can’t finish. He won’t.
Because if he says it, it’s real.
And if it’s real—then he left Yuji behind.
His best friend. His brother.
His chest tightens, his vision blurring.
"I was supposed to be there for him."
His breath stutters. His legs give out.
"I was supposed to—"
His body shakes with silent sobs.
He had promised Yuji he’d never be alone.
And now?
He can’t even keep that.
Kamo Noritoshi
Noritoshi barely reacts.
"I see."
His voice is neutral.
Straightens his back. Keeps his composure.
But his fingers tremble.
"I should’ve expected this."
He nods to himself, as if rationalizing it. As if accepting it.
But the tightness in his throat betrays him.
"Then that means my clan—" His words cut off.
Because if he’s dead, then everything was for nothing.
All that suffering. All that fighting. All of it—
And then, for the first time in years, his mask cracks.
His breath stutters. His hands curl into fists. His vision blurs.
And suddenly, Noritoshi is not a leader. Not a fighter. Not the heir to a clan.
He’s just a boy who never got to live his own life.
And now, never will.
Kashimo Hajime
Kashimo laughs. A cruel, hollow sound that isn’t like him at all.
"Really? I died?" he scoffs, voice biting, eyes sharp. "And you’re just telling me now?"
His jaw clenches, his fingers curling into tight fists. He refuses to believe it. Refuses .
He steps closer, teeth bared. "Then how the hell am I standing here, huh?"
But you don’t answer.
And the silence is louder than anything he’s ever heard.
His breathing stutters, and his shoulders tense as the weight of your words presses down on him like a boulder.
He’s never been afraid of death. Never .
But suddenly, his chest is too tight, and his vision is too blurry, and his body is shaking in a way he doesn’t recognize.
"You’re saying I lost?" he whispers, voice hoarse. "That I just… disappeared?"
His hands tremble as he tries to reach for you, but stops himself.
Because he’s starting to feel it now. The emptiness. The absence.
And for the first time in his life, Kashimo Hajime feels something worse than boredom.
He feels regret.
Kiyotaka Ijichi
He goes completely still.
And then, he lets out a choked breath, his eyes widening in pure, unfiltered terror.
"No, no, no, no—"
His hands grip his head, his breaths turning erratic. His entire body shakes as reality comes crashing down.
"That’s not true. That can’t be true. I—I was just—"
His voice cuts off.
He looks at you again, searching, begging. Pleading.
But you don’t deny it.
And something inside him shatters.
He sinks to his knees, his fingers tangling in his hair as sobs wrack through his body.
"I didn’t want to die."
He gasps for air, but it’s not enough.
"I wasn’t ready."
You hold him, because it’s all you can do.
And he clings to you, to whatever is left of you both, because he knows—
You can’t hold a ghost forever.
Kokichi Muta (Mechamaru)
Just… a slow, pained inhale.
"I see."
His voice is quiet, too quiet. His eyes drift to the floor, his fingers twitching like he wants to touch something, anything.
"Then… it really happened."
His voice wavers on the last word. His shoulders slump.
"And I still couldn’t be by your side."
You reach for him, but—your hands almost pass right through.
He flinches.
His whole body locks up, his breath catching.
And that’s when he knows.
A broken, strangled sob escapes his throat.
He grips his arms like he’s trying to hold himself together. But it’s useless.
"I just wanted… a normal life with you," he whispers.
Tears spill down his cheeks. His hands shake.
"I never even got to hold you with my own body."
And that’s what breaks him.
Okkotsu Yuta
"That’s not funny."
Yuta’s voice is soft. Too soft. Like he’s holding something back. Like he’s begging you to take it back before he even processes what you said.
But you don’t.
You just stand there, your eyes filled with pity.
And Yuta’s stomach drops.
"No." His head shakes, frantic now. His hands lift like he’s trying to stop something from slipping through his fingers. "No, I—I was just with them. I was just—"
His breath hitches. His knees wobble.
He remembers.
The mission. The fight. The impact.
The way everything blurred.
He feels cold. So, so cold.
His chest tightens. His pulse races.
"I was supposed to come back."
It’s a whisper. A plea. A lie.
He clutches his chest, desperate for the familiar weight of his beating heart—but there’s nothing.
His body betrays him.
"Rika."
The name barely escapes his lips before he crumbles.
And for the first time since losing her, Okkotsu Yuta is truly alone.
Your heart breaks when he still calls for her.
Ryomen Sukuna
"Tch. What kind of pathetic joke is this?"
He sneers, arms crossed, crimson eyes narrowed. But there’s something off. His voice isn’t as sharp as usual. His grip on control isn’t as tight.
You don’t flinch. You don’t waver.
You just stare at him with so much sadness that it makes something twist in his chest.
"I’m serious," you whisper. "You’re not real. You died a long time ago."
His expression darkens. Fury floods his veins.
"You expect me to believe that? That I—" His teeth grit. His breath comes out ragged. His whole body tenses. "That I lost?"
The word feels foreign in his mouth.
Sukuna, the King of Curses.
Defeated.
Gone.
Forgotten.
No.
He refuses.
"Enough," he growls. His claws dig into his arms. "I won’t listen to this nonsense. You’re lying. You’re confused. I’m right here, standing in front of you, aren’t I?"
His voice wavers.
Because suddenly, something feels wrong.
The weight of his body. The air in his lungs.
It’s hollow.
Like he’s made of nothing.
And you—you won’t stop looking at him like that.
Like you know.
Like you’ve known.
Like you’ve been carrying this truth for far longer than he has.
A breath shudders past his lips.
The denial fractures.
"No…"
It’s small. So, so small.
"I am real."
He says it like a prayer. A curse. A plea.
But your silence kills him.
You move to hold him.
And for the first time in a thousand years—
Ryomen Sukuna has lost everything.
Shiu Kong
Shiu laughs.
Short. Dry. Empty.
"So that’s how it is, huh?"
He exhales slowly, rubbing his face. His hands are steady. His voice is calm.
But you see it.
The devastation in his eyes.
He looks away.
"Tch. I should’ve known."
A sigh. A shake of his head. A muttered "Figures."
He leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Composed. Aloof. Unbothered.
But then, you notice—
He won’t look at you.
Because if he does—if he sees your grief, your tears, your pain—
He will break.
And Shiu Kong never lets himself break.
Not in front of anyone.
Not even you.
Even as his hands tremble.
Even as he grips his arms too tightly.
Even as his chest aches with the weight of everything he will never get back.
Because it’s already too late.
And there’s nothing left to save.
Takuma Ino
He blinks once. Twice. Then he laughs—light, breathy, confused.
"Okay, haha. That’s a messed-up joke."
But when you don’t laugh with him, when you don’t say "I’m just messing with you," his stomach drops.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His body sways slightly, his fingers twitching at his sides. The reality of your words seeps into his bones like poison, and suddenly, the air feels too thick, too heavy.
"But… I still have so much to do," he whispers.
He turns, as if expecting to see his friends with their cameras at him, proof that he’s still alive.
But there’s nothing.
Just you.
Just your shaking hands, just your grief-stricken eyes.
And then it really, truly sinks in.
Ino is not the type to cry. He likes to act tough, likes to joke through his pain.
"I don’t want to be dead."
His voice cracks. He clenches his fists so hard his nails break skin, his shoulders trembling, his head shaking like he can deny it enough to make it untrue.
"I had plans, I—" he chokes. "I wasn’t done."
He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the tears.
Nothing will.
And all he can think is: I never got the chance to live the life I wanted.
Yoshino Junpei
"Huh?"
Junpei blinks, confused. He tilts his head, his lips parting as if he misheard you.
Because he must have.
There’s no other explanation.
"What do you mean?" he asks, a nervous laugh slipping past his lips. It’s shaky. Unstable. But you don’t smile. You don’t joke. You just look at him with that same pitying stare.
And suddenly, he can’t breathe.
"No… no, that doesn’t—" He shakes his head, his hands curling into fists. "That doesn’t make sense. I—I killed them. I came home. I—"
The words die on his tongue.
Because the memories—they don’t fit.
They blur at the edges.
They break apart.
He remembers—
Mahito.
His mom.
The pain.
The cold.
The moment it all went black.
All his life he wanted to die but not after meeting you.
Leaving you alone like his mom.
"No…" His voice cracks. His fingers clutch at his hoodie, nails digging into his skin.
You take a step forward. He takes one back.
"You’re lying," he whispers, his breath shuddering.
You shake your head.
And that’s what destroys him.
The dam bursts. A choked sob tears from his throat as he crumples to his knees, his whole body shaking. His hands grasp at his hair, tugging—desperate to hold onto something real.
"I don’t want to go."
He sounds so small. So broken.
"I don’t want to be alone again."
Because that’s all he’s ever been.
And now, not even you can reach him.
Nanami Kento
He doesn’t let anything show at first.
He simply… stares in the distance.
Away from you, trying to get his thoughts together.
His brows furrow slightly, his head tilting just a fraction—like he’s processing your words, like they don’t make sense.
"What?"
He turns to you. His voice is steady. Calm. Too calm.
You repeat yourself. Slower this time.
"You’re dead."
And suddenly, the room feels too small.
His breath catches in his throat, his shoulders going rigid, his jaw tightening as he swallows. Once. Twice.
"No."
It’s soft, barely above a whisper.
"No, I promised you. I—"
His voice breaks.
His fists clench so hard his nails dig into his palms.
"I was supposed to come back to you."
His eyes burn, his chest aches. But he doesn’t cry. He refuses.
But then—he sees your face.
Sees the devastation. The grief.
And suddenly, he remembers.
The pain. The exhaustion. The moment everything went black.
And just like that, his entire world shatters.
"No."
It’s desperate now. He grabs you, pulls you against him, breathing you in like he can keep himself here just by holding on tightly enough.
"I can’t be dead. I can’t—I still—" his breath hitches, his arms tightening around you, shaking. "I still love you."
And then, finally, Nanami Kento breaks.
The first sob rips from his throat like it’s being torn out of him.
"I just wanted to grow old with you."
He presses his forehead against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. "I just wanted more time."
And the worst part?
You can’t comfort him.
Because he’s not real.
Because you’re all alone.
And because no matter how many times he whispers your name—
Nanami Kento is never coming home.