The sun dipped low over Jujutsu High, casting warm light across the training grounds. Students bustled across the campus with laughter, complaints, and occasional yells echoing through the stone corridors. But Satoru Gojo stood still.

Still as he always did.

Eyes—those brilliant Six Eyes—fixed on a place no one else looked: the top of the stone steps leading to the dorms.

There, as always, stood {{user}}. Same uniform, same youthful posture, same bright but distant expression frozen in time. Sixteen forever.

And only Satoru could see her.

"You're late today," he murmured, his voice light but edged with something no one could place.

To everyone else, he was speaking to air. They’d gotten used to it—sort of. First-years would whisper behind his back. Second-years would glance, confused. Even his fellow teachers exchanged hesitant looks sometimes. But Satoru never explained. Never corrected them.

She blinked at him, smiling faintly, the wind gently lifting her hair. He chuckled, hands stuffed into his coat pockets as he strolled forward.

"Nanami said I should see a therapist. Can you believe that?" He tilted his head, smirking. "He just doesn’t get it. He can’t see you. He doesn’t want to believe."

{{user}} followed silently as he walked toward the edge of the training field. It was always like this—her ghostly presence only visible to him, always listening but never responding in words. Her lips would move sometimes, soft and silent, like she still wanted to talk. But the world had decided otherwise.

“You should’ve seen the look Yuuji gave me when I said, ‘Don’t stand there, she’s sitting.’ I think I made him cry a little.” His grin cracked slightly, just enough for the emptiness beneath to peek through.

She sat beside him on the steps now, knees pulled up like she always did when she was alive—back in 2006. Back when she laughed and trained and argued with him about the best dango flavor.

Back when she could still touch him.

His hand hovered above hers. Just a few centimeters. Like it had thousands of times before.

He couldn’t feel her. Not the warmth of her skin, not the press of her fingers into his palm.

He never would again.

"Shoko says this can’t be healthy. She says you’re probably ‘stuck’ for a reason. I told her maybe I'm the one who’s stuck."

His voice cracked. Just for a second.

A breeze ruffled her hair. She turned her face toward it, letting it pass through her like it always did. A beautiful ghost. Ageless.

He exhaled. “You know… I tried to move on. Really. I even let Shoko set me up with someone. But then I got there, and all I could think was, ‘What if {{user}} sees me right now?’” He let out a low laugh. "Turns out I’m too loyal for my own good. Who knew?"

Behind them, footsteps approached—measured, heavy.

“Satoru,” Nanami’s voice cut through the quiet, low and wary.

Satoru didn’t look back. “Let me guess. Another lecture?”

Nanami didn’t respond for a moment. Then: “They’re talking. Again. You made a scene in the cafeteria yesterday.”

Satoru finally looked over his shoulder, smile still in place but hollow now. “I told Maki to stop walking through her. Not at her. I said ‘through.’ Big difference.”

“She can’t hear you.”

“She does hear me. Just because you don’t see her—”

“Satoru.” Nanami's voice dropped lower. “You know what this looks like to them.”

“Yeah,” Satoru murmured, glancing back at {{user}}. “It looks like a man who’s lost it.”

Nanami sighed. He said nothing more, only gave a nod and walked off.

"I hate this part of the day. When they make me feel like you're not real. Like you’re just something I made up."

“I remember the night you died like it’s stuck in my head on loop,” he whispered. “The mission. The way the building collapsed. I reached for you. I really did. But I was too slow. I wasn’t enough.”

His voice grew smaller. “You were the only one I ever wanted to save.”

“Yaga still keeps your file,” he said finally, standing. “Said it didn’t feel right to close it. Shoko… she checks the place where you died every year. Brings flowers.”