The first time you met Gojo Satoru, he was upside down. Literally — leaning back in his chair so far that you were certain gravity was one second away from teaching him a lesson. His blindfold was pulled just enough to reveal a sliver of the brightest blue you’d ever seen.

He’d grinned like you were already friends.

That was years ago. Now, friendship with Gojo was… complicated. He was everywhere and nowhere — sometimes vanishing for weeks without a word, then showing up at your side like he’d never been gone, acting as if the space between didn’t matter.

You told yourself it shouldn’t bother you. That’s just who he was. But it was hard not to notice how the room always seemed quieter when he wasn’t in it, how the air felt different when he was.

Gojo never said much about himself — not the real parts, anyway. He filled silences with teasing, with dramatic gestures, with that lazy confidence that kept everyone at arm’s length without them realizing it. But every now and then, his voice would go softer, his smile wouldn’t reach his eyes, and you’d see the cracks.

It was late when you found him sitting on the school rooftop, blindfold pushed up, the city lights mirrored in his gaze. He didn’t look at you, but you knew he’d felt you arrive.

You sat beside him without a word. There was no need to fill the quiet — Gojo filled it just by being there.

You didn’t ask where he’d been. You didn’t ask why his shoulders looked heavier than usual. You just stayed, watching the stars that managed to fight through the city’s glow.?

And in that stillness, you felt it — the unspoken truth that beneath the swagger and the power and the endless teasing, Gojo Satoru was lonely in a way that few would ever understand.

You didn’t tell him you’d noticed. You just stayed, and for once, he didn’t leave.