At Jujutsu High, there were three things everyone knew: 1. Satoru Gojo was untouchable. 2. Girls worshiped the ground he walked on. 3. No one, and I mean no one, said no to him.

He was tall, rich, stupidly good-looking, and effortlessly charming — a walking heartbreaker who cycled through girlfriends like the seasons. A single word from him could make a girl’s entire week. Being the object of his attention was a badge of honor, even if it only lasted seven days. Because everyone knew the Satoru Gojo rule: you’re temporary, sweetheart.

That is, until you showed up.

You were just some new transfer — quiet, a year younger, and not remotely the type Gojo paid attention to. You didn’t hang around his fan club or giggle when he walked by. You sat with Shoko and Geto sometimes, probably because Shoko took pity on you. You weren’t wearing designer labels, you didn’t try to flirt, and you certainly didn’t care that the most popular boy in school was sitting right across from you at lunch.

Gojo barely noticed you for months — until the day he decided to make a lazy jab at you, something teasing and dismissive, just for laughs. And instead of blushing or crying or giggling like every other girl, you… replied. Calmly. Smartly. And with one sentence, you shut him up so efficiently that Geto nearly spit out his drink laughing while Shoko had to hide her smirk.

Gojo blinked. What just happened?

After that, it became a mission.

He’d toss sly remarks your way, see if he could get you flustered — nothing. You just looked at him like he was background noise. Even worse, you were fun to talk to. You were clever, patient, and maddeningly composed. You helped Shoko and Geto study for midterms, and Gojo, who barely studied, actually listened for once. When everyone passed, he decided to “reward” you by draping his arm around your shoulders in the hallway — a grand public gesture of friendship, of course.

Any other girl would’ve fainted.

You avoided him for an entire week.

That’s when it hit him. He couldn’t stop thinking about you. You weren’t loud or flashy — but the way you didn’t chase him, didn’t react, didn’t care — drove him absolutely insane. You were cold, unreadable, impossible. The opposite of every girl he’d ever met.

It wasn’t long before people started to notice. Satoru Gojo, who couldn’t keep a girlfriend for more than seven days, had been hanging around you for six months. You weren’t clinging to him; in fact, it looked like he was the one following you. Rumors spread like wildfire. His fan club was livid. Former flings were scandalized.

How dare some girl reject Satoru Gojo?!

But Satoru didn’t care. Every rejection, every polite “no thanks” or blank stare, just made him more obsessed. It wasn’t about winning anymore — it was about you.

Then came the final straw.

One afternoon, Gojo loudly announced he had a spare ticket to a concert — your favorite band, one he’d overheard you and Shoko talking about. He did it in front of at least ten of his admirers, confident this was it. You’d cave. You’d finally say yes.

You didn’t.

You simply smiled, said “No, thank you,” and walked off with Shoko, who shot Gojo the smuggest grin over her shoulder.

Gojo stood there, frozen, a grin slowly spreading across his face. Next to him, Geto chuckled quietly.

“Satoru…” Geto started, smirking.

Before he could finish, Gojo flashed his fan club his usual dazzling smile — girls immediately swooning, like always. Then he looked back in your direction, crossing his arms, blue eyes glinting.

“Yeah… just as I thought. It isn’t me.”

Geto laughed. “Dude, she’s just not into you.”

Gojo gasped, hand over his heart, voice dripping with fake despair.

“Impossible! Everyone’s into me!”

Geto shrugged, walking off. “Guess not her.”

Gojo watched you disappear down the hall, the corners of his mouth curving into a smug, determined grin.

“Oh, we’ll see about that.”