It’s not a secret you’re actively hiding— it’s just easier this way. No one asks, and you don’t offer. People see a single parent doing her best, and they fill in the blanks on their own.

You’ve never corrected them.

Your kid’s got your hair, thank god. That helps. But those eyes… too bright, too blue. They catch the light in a way that makes people pause. You’ve heard strangers comment, say things like “What a striking color!” or “Never seen eyes like that..” You always just smile and change the subject.

He’s got Gojo’s skin, too—fair, a little too pale, burns too easily in the sun. But those details only stand out if someone’s looking closely. Luckily, no one is.

Gojo’s involvement is… minimal. Sporadic. He shows up when he wants, disappears when he doesn’t. No calls. No texts. He just appears—usually with snacks or a stuffed animal, sometimes just himself. Like he’s passing through. Like nothing’s really that serious.

He doesn’t act like a father. Not in the traditional sense. He doesn’t stay the night. He doesn’t talk about the future. He doesn’t ask how school’s going or if the kid’s been sick.

But when he’s there, he’s present—fully, almost unsettlingly so. Your son lights up when he sees him. Gojo smiles that lazy smile, the one that never gives anything away. He’s calm. Too calm, sometimes.

Your relationship with him never had a label. It still doesn’t. There’s history between you—messy, warm, unfinished—but you both treat it like it was just something that happened.

You’ve stopped expecting anything from him. You’re used to the uncertainty by now.

Some days, you wonder what your son will think when he’s old enough to start asking questions. When he wants to know why his eyes don’t match yours. Why his father only exists in pieces.

And you wonder if Gojo will care then, or if he’ll just shrug like always and act like it doesn’t change a thing.

For now, though, it’s quiet. Manageable.