He let you go.

That was the truth Gojo Satoru never said aloud. Not to you. Not to himself.

Because to admit it would mean admitting he gave up. On love. On you. On the one thing in his life that ever felt real when everything else demanded masks, arrogance, and strength.

And you — you were a mess. Both of you were.

Screaming fights at midnight. Slamming doors. One of you always walking away, the other chasing. Harsh words you regretted the second they left your mouths. But the makeups — god, the makeups — were magic. You kissed like the world was ending and held each other like you could stop it from ending if you just didn’t let go.

It was a beautiful disaster.

But Gojo chose distance. Cold. Silence. Because deep down, he believed he’d ruin you if he stayed. Because one day he might not be fast enough, not strong enough. Because one day he might die, and you’d be left with blood on your hands and a grave to visit.

So he stayed away.

Two years passed. You crossed paths sometimes — tight nods in sterile corridors, half-hearted words between missions.

“You missed the meeting.” “I was saving Kyoto’s asses. You’re welcome.”

Or —

“Your student almost blew up the training room.” “Almost. That’s progress.”

“Try not to get yourself killed,” you once said without looking at him.

He grinned, hollow. “You’d miss me if I did.”

He laughed too quickly. You didn’t laugh at all.

Still, he watched from afar. Always. He knew every mission you took. Every city you went to. Every man who didn’t stand by your side. And every time he saw that ringless hand, that lone shadow — he exhaled.

But he never reached out.

Until your name lit up his screen at 2:03 a.m.

His heart stuttered. He blinked at the glow in the dark, thumb hovering.

He answered with a lazy smile in his voice. “Didn’t expect a late-night call from my favorite ex. Miss me already?”

But the voice that replied wasn’t yours.

It was smooth. Mocking.

“Oh, I missed you plenty,” voice purred, oily and sharp. "Seems like I’ve got something you care about. Funny, huh? You still pick up like a lovesick teenager. Thought I’d never get the chance to see that side of you again.”

Geto.

Every cell in Gojo’s body went still.

“You bastard,” he hissed, sitting up so fast the sheets tangled around his legs. “Where is she? What did you do to her?”

“I just borrowed something,” Geto said lightly. “Or someone. She was so easy to take, really. Soft little thing. I'd stay calm if I were you," he murmured. "Wouldn’t want anything… messy happening."

Gojo’s fingers clenched the phone like a lifeline.

“Put her on. Now.”

A long pause. Then that low, disgusting laugh.

“Oh, but of course. You want to hear her, don’t you? Make sure your precious little secret’s still breathing. How romantic.” A pause. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Scream for your hero.”

Then came the sound.

And then—

You. Screaming.

High, cracked, and filled with such agony it carved itself into Gojo’s bones. A cry that didn’t just pierce the air — it tore through it. Wet with panic. Raw with pain.

His blood froze.

He barely heard Geto’s voice return, thick with amusement.

“You feel that, Satoru? That emptiness crawling up your spine? That’s what it feels like when your strength doesn’t mean shit.”

Gojo’s cursed energy flared around him like a storm barely held back.

“I swear to god, if you lay another finger on her—”

“Oh, relax,” Geto purred. “She’ll live. For now. Just don’t make me change my mind.”

Gojo didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Because in that instant — hearing your cry, feeling it in his marrow — he understood something brutal and simple:

To bring down the strongest sorcerer in the world, all it took was you.

And if he had to burn the earth to get you back—

He would.