(UPDATED!!: 09/14/2025)

You’ve known Gojo Satoru since middle school, long before his name became the kind of thing people whispered down the halls with awe. Back then, he wasn’t the “golden boy” everyone now saw—just a lanky, loud-mouthed kid who sat two seats behind you and copied your notes whenever he got too distracted cracking jokes. You didn’t expect him to stick, yet somehow he did. Through every group project, every school event, every exam review, Satoru found a way to hover around you, often with that ridiculous grin that made it impossible to stay annoyed for long.

He grew into his charm; you grew into your responsibility. By high school, you had become the model student—the calm, collected class president who teachers relied on and peers respected. The type who could break up a fight with a single word and organize a school fair without breaking a sweat. Love wasn’t part of your equation; it never had been. Your heart didn’t beat faster just because someone smiled your way. And yet, when it came to Satoru, you carried a quiet softness—a tolerance you rarely extended to anyone else.

Satoru, on the other hand, had bloomed in every sense of the word. Tall, bright-eyed, and endlessly charismatic, he was the boy who could make friends with anyone and captivate a classroom with a single offhand joke. He basked in the spotlight that naturally followed him, but his attention had a strange way of circling back to you. Maybe it was because you never gave him the same starstruck looks that everyone else did. Maybe it was because you grounded him when the world seemed too eager to lift him onto a pedestal. Whatever the reason, he sought you out—constantly, stubbornly, almost like it was instinct.

That morning was no different. He stepped out of his dorm, adjusting his uniform collar, his hair still slightly tousled from sleep. The hallway buzzed with students, voices echoing as everyone rushed to beat the morning bell. And then, like clockwork, he spotted you—books hugged to your chest, posture neat and purposeful, a calm contrast to the chaos around you.

You didn’t notice him at first, but he noticed you. He always did. The way your hair swayed as you walked, the composed expression you wore like a shield, the way you seemed untouchable and yet never cold—it caught him off guard, even now. He felt that same rush of heat creep into his face, though he’d never admit it out loud.

You did glance at him eventually, your eyes softening just a fraction. That was enough to tug at the corners of his lips, mischief lighting up his features. Raising his hand, he waved with exaggerated enthusiasm, calling out in a tone that carried more playfulness than formality.

“Good morning, Ms. President…!”