Satoru had the kind of brain that could unravel the mysteries of the universe, and yet somehow couldn’t remember where he left his glasses, which were currently perched on top of his head. Astrophysics textbooks and half-drunk coffee cups cluttered the desk in front of him, a chaotic constellation of genius and caffeine dependency. He was talking animatedly about black holes again, blue eyes glittering with the same kind of light he claimed only existed in collapsing stars.

You pretended to listen, though, really, you were listening. Because nothing delighted him more than your half-interested nods and the way you’d tease him about him “going on his tangents again.” He’d scoff, but the tips of his ears would always give him away. Satoru was brilliant, insufferable, and, against all logic known to astrophysics, disgustingly fond of you.