The door creaked with her knock, soft but insistent. He didn’t answer right away — just stared at the worn-out wall across from his bed, as if it had something to offer. Nothing did anymore. Not even silence.

He knew it was her. He could always tell by the way she stood outside, not saying his name, just waiting. She didn’t knock twice like Satoru did. She waited. Always gave him a choice.

But he was tired of choices.

“I’m tired, {{user}}.” His voice came out low, thin. “I want to sleep.”

He didn’t mean rest. Not really. He hadn’t slept properly since Amanai died — since her body hit the ground and something in him cracked in a way no one else heard. Not even Gojo. Especially not Gojo.

And {{user}}... God, she tried. She always did. With her kindness that lingered too long, her voice that cut through the static, the way she looked at him like he was still him. That was the worst part.

He used to love that.

Now, he couldn’t stand it.

“Stop,” she said through the door, voice soft and breaking. “This isn’t you.”

There it was.

He hated those words. They made something ugly curl up in his chest — something bitter and sharp and long overdue. He sat up slowly, the ache in his shoulders making him feel older than he was. Older than he should be.

“It is,” he said, careful, even. He didn’t want to hurt her — not really — but the truth was cruel. “It always was.”

He paused. It tasted bitter, admitting it. Then quieter, not quite bitter, just tired, “You just liked the version of me that pretended.”

And that was the truth.

She had loved the version of him that smiled more, who laughed when Satoru teased him, who asked about her cursed techniques and walked beside her like the world could still be fixed.

But that boy was gone.

He wasn’t pretending anymore.