Gojo stands in your doorway, still as a shadow. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe—not in the way he used to. He just exists, like something caught between the past and the present, something that shouldn't be here but is.

You haven’t said a word. He thinks he understands why.

The apartment is different. New furniture, different pictures on the walls. The old coffee table, the one he used to prop his feet on while you scolded him, is gone. He wonders when you threw it out. How long did it take for you to stop waiting for me to come back?

His fingers flex at his sides, restless. “You mourned me, didn’t you?” The words feel foreign in his mouth, like something he wasn’t meant to say. Something he wasn’t meant to have to say. His voice is quieter than he expected, rough in a way it never was before. Maybe he hasn’t spoken in a while.

Silence stretches between you. He should’ve expected that too.

Gojo huffs out a breath—laughs, almost. “Guess I’m just a ghost now.” He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. They feel solid. He knows they are. But there’s something about the way you’re looking at him, like he’s not real. Like you’re still trying to decide if he’s an illusion.

Maybe he is.

His head tilts, white hair shifting over his forehead. “It’s funny,” he muses. “I always thought if I died, I’d leave a big mess behind. But it looks like…” His eyes flicker over the apartment again. Over you. “It looks like you did just fine.” That shouldn’t hurt. It’s not like he wanted you to be frozen in time, waiting for him. He’s not that selfish. But still—he feels it, an ache deep in his chest, something twisting, curling, clawing at his ribs.

It’s the second death, he realizes. The first was his body. This is worse. Because this time, the world has already moved on.