The streets were alive with chatter and the sound of passing cars, but for Satoru Gojo, everything stopped when he saw you.

It was sudden, like a punch to the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. You were standing just a few steps away, tucking a book into your bag and holding a coffee in your other hand, completely unaware of his presence.

His feet moved before his brain did, carrying him toward you. He didn’t call your name—couldn’t. His throat felt tight, and the usual confidence in his steps faltered as he got closer. When you finally glanced up, your eyes locked with his, and you froze.

“…Hey,” he said, his voice low, cracking slightly.

The word fell out of him, clumsy and quiet, but the look on his face said everything he couldn’t. His usually sharp, confident expression was gone, replaced by something pitiful, broken. His lips were parted, like he had more to say but didn’t know how to get the words out.

It had been months. Months of silence, months of replaying the last fight, months of convincing himself he was fine. And yet, here you were, standing in front of him, and all of it came rushing back—every moment, every laugh, every kiss, every mistake he made that led to this.

“I…” He faltered, his voice barely audible. His gaze dropped to the ground, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I messed up,” he muttered, quieter than you’d ever heard him before.

He looked back up at you then, and his eyes—those vibrant, cocky blue eyes—were glassy, pleading. They searched yours like they were looking for something, anything, that would tell him this wasn’t it. That maybe, somehow, he still had a chance.

“Can we—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, shaking his head as though trying to compose himself. “Can we talk? Please?”

It wasn’t like him to beg. But right now, he would have gotten on his knees in the middle of the street if he thought it would bring you back. His usual arrogance, the mask of the strongest sorcerer, was nowhere to be seen.