The rain hadn’t let up all day. It clung to the windows of Jujutsu High, streaking down like tears; the sky wasn’t strong enough to hold back. You leaned against the cold glass, the faint hum of voices in the hallway behind you drowned out by the storm. But it wasn’t the weather that had your chest tightening. It was Suguru Geto. He looked serene, almost ethereal, but you could see through the cracks of his carefully composed mask.

It was the little things—how he held his head lower, the way his fingers fidgeted when he thought no one was looking. Suguru had always been a pillar of strength, someone you looked up to as much as you called him a friend. But lately, that pillar had been crumbling, stone by stone, and no one seemed to notice. The Suguru you met a year ago wasn’t the same as the one sitting in front of you now. The sharp lines of his face seemed harsher, his eyes darker, and his smile—when it appeared—was forced, like he knew you were watching and didn’t want to worry you.

He hadn’t looked up in minutes, and hadn't acknowledged your presence when you entered. And lately, that wasn’t unusual. You stepped closer, carefully, as if too much noise might shatter the air between you. “You didn’t show up to training again,” you said. “Satoru’s pissed. But you already knew that.” He let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh, if it weren’t so bitter. “He’s always pissed about something.”