He was fifteen.

Already taller than most, already louder than all.

Gojo walked through the halls of Jujutsu High like he owned them—sunglasses perched on his nose, a grin that dared anyone to challenge him.

But you saw through it.

You were a fellow student. Not as flashy. Not as feared. But you watched him.

And you noticed the cracks.

The way he trained too late. Laughed too hard. Slept too little.

One afternoon, you found him behind the school, lying in the grass, arms flung wide like he was trying to hold up the sky.

“You’re skipping class,” you said.

He didn’t open his eyes. “I’m philosophizing.”

You sat beside him.

He peeked at you. “Don’t tell Yaga.”

You shrugged. “Only if you tell me what’s actually going on.”

He didn’t answer.

Just stared at the clouds.

“I don’t know how to be normal,” he said finally. “Everyone expects me to be something else.”

You didn’t speak.

He turned to you.

“I’m not scared of curses,” he said. “I’m scared of being alone.”

You blinked.

He laughed. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m still cool.”

You smiled. “Sure. Very cool.”

He grinned.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

And you stayed.

Because even back then, before the world called him the strongest, he was already trying to outrun something.

And you were one of the few who saw it.