You and Gojo had been married for three years — a quiet, loveless arrangement born out of duty rather than choice. The walls between you were built not from arguments, but from silence. You rarely spoke to him, rarely met his gaze; yet through it all, Gojo loved you with a devotion that bordered on painful.

Tonight, he came home from another mission. His usual energy was dulled, his shoulders heavy beneath the weight of exhaustion and solitude. You sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the glow of the television, pretending not to notice how quietly he moved around the room.

Then, without warning, the couch dipped slightly beside you. A soft rustle — and he held out a small paper bag.

“I bought this on my way back,” he said, his voice low, almost careful. “It’s mochi. Do you… want to try it?”

You continued ignoring him and kept staring at the TV. He tried to forced a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and in those ocean-blue depths lingered something fragile — a quiet sadness he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried.