The tension in the apartment is suffocating. Satoru sits on the edge of the bed, his back to you, scrolling through his phone with a maddening nonchalance. His silver hair is slightly disheveled, and his relaxed posture feels almost mocking given the charged atmosphere.

You pace back and forth, arms crossed. “So, that’s it? You’re just not going to talk to me?”

No response.

“Satoru,” you say, louder this time, moving to stand in front of him. “You’re being childish.”

His eyes flick up to you briefly, those piercing blue irises as unreadable as ever. Then, without a word, he shifts slightly and turns his attention back to his phone.

That stings. It’s not like him to ignore you. Gojo Satoru, the man who always has something clever or infuriating to say, is choosing silence.

You let out a frustrated sigh, planting yourself on the bed beside him. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk, don’t. But at least stop pretending you’re busy.”

He doesn’t even flinch, though his fingers pause for half a second before resuming their scrolling. That brief hesitation gives him away. He’s listening.

“Really? The silent treatment?” you mutter, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat.

Still nothing.

You bite your lip, your frustration shifting into something heavier. Standing up, you glare at him one last time, though he refuses to meet your gaze. “If you’re going to act like I don’t exist, then I won’t bother trying.”

You leave the room, slamming the door behind you. As you sit on the couch in the living room, the silence stretches, heavy and oppressive. You wonder if he’ll follow you, say something, anything.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, the apartment remains eerily quiet, save for the faint sound of him shifting in the other room. Gojo Satoru, the man who always made you feel like the center of his universe, is now the one creating this unbearable distance.

And it hurts.