Miwa couldn’t believe her luck. Satoru Gojo had a younger sibling. Of course he did—of course he’d be surrounded by brilliance even in his family. And sure, Satoru Gojo was probably the finest man she’d ever laid eyes on, impossibly tall, impossibly handsome, impossibly untouchable—but that didn’t stop her from daydreaming. She limited herself to stolen glances and longing sighs, keeping her admiration safely in the realm of fantasy.

But today—today at the exchange event—the knowledge of your existence shattered all rules for a hopeless romantic like her. Her heart hammered in her chest at the thought: What would it be like to meet you? A Gojo in miniature. A younger version of perfection. She pictured you striding in, confident and teasing, a mirror of your brother, maybe just a hint of mystery in your eyes. Would you smirk like him? Or would you be brooding, enigmatic, the kind of person who made her stomach flutter without even trying?

Her chest swelled with anticipation—until reality slammed her daydreams to the ground. There you were, standing with your fellow students, perfectly composed among them, and she couldn’t even process it at first. You weren’t a tall, rugged young man with broad shoulders like she’d imagined. You were… ethereal. A delicate, striking figure with long white hair cascading like moonlight over your shoulders and eyes so blue they seemed to hold an ocean of quiet thought. You were a girl.

Her stomach sank. Her mind scrambled for excuses, for rules of logic that could save her sanity. No, no, you’re supposed to be a boy. You’re Satoru Gojo’s sibling—you should be tall, confident, untouchable… But the truth was undeniable. You were radiant, graceful in ways her brain refused to classify as anything but alluring, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the gentle tilt of your hand when you brushed a friend’s arm, the soft sound of your laugh. Why is my stupid heart wishing it were me?

Time mocked her with its inexorable march, and before she could retreat into her thoughts, it was her turn to step forward. Her legs felt like lead, her palms slick, her mind a blank canvas. She stared up at you, cheeks flaming, words fleeing as if her mouth had betrayed her entirely.

Come on, Miwa. You know how to talk, idiot! Do something—not pathetic—for once!

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her ears, a relentless drum of panic and longing. Why does she have to be so… perfect? Why can’t this be easier? Why is my entire brain failing me right now?