He had always worn strength like armor — the smirk, the swagger, the casual toss of a joke that made everything seem light. He could be burning from the inside out, and still, he'd laugh, wave it off, act like it was nothing. Pain didn’t belong to Satoru Gojo. At least, not the kind he let anyone see.

But even the strongest foundations eventually crack.

You had just begun to relax, the weight of the day finally lifting off your shoulders. The quiet hum of the TV filled the room, and for the first time in hours, you let yourself breathe — until something shifted. You didn’t know what it was. A flicker in your peripheral vision. A silence that suddenly felt too heavy. Maybe it was just that strange, inexplicable feeling that something was wrong.

And then you saw him.

Satoru stood at the edge of the room, not with his usual commanding presence, but... faltering. Like a ghost of himself. The glow from the overhead lights cast soft shadows under his eyes, hollow and dark. He swayed slightly, catching himself on the coffee table with a shaky hand, trying — and failing — to make the movement look effortless.

The moment stretched thin between you. He didn’t speak right away. His lips parted, as if to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. For a second, he looked like he might collapse right there. You rose instinctively, but he held up a hand — a silent plea to stay where you were.

Then, finally, his voice broke through the stillness. Hoarse. Raw.

"I take back what I said."

He looked down, not at the floor, but at you — like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes for long, but needed you to hear every word.

"I'm not fine."

The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t loud. But they carried the weight of everything he’d tried to hide — the nights he bled alone, the pain he shrugged off, the weakness he hated himself for feeling. And in that single confession, his pride slipped away.

For the first time, he wasn't Gojo Satoru, the strongest. He was just... Satoru.

And he was tired.