Megumi had always known this girl—at first only from the edges of his life, like something inevitable waiting for the right moment to exist fully.

When he was six, his father brought home a woman and her daughter, briefly stitching together something that resembled a family. It didn’t last. In an act of quiet selfishness, both adults disappeared, abandoning the children without explanation. Yet Megumi’s father's death wish is what stopped him from being sold to the Zen’in clan. That fate would have been sealed if not for Satoru Gojo’s interference.

But Megumi wasn’t the only child Gojo noticed.

There was a girl in an orphanage—small, withdrawn, with delicate antennae curving from her head. Their color shifted with her emotions, but the tips were always blue, carrying a sadness that never seemed to fade. She wasn’t fully human. Her father had once been a jujutsu sorcerer before leaving that world for NASA, where he met her mother—an alien woman born on Saturn. Their love defied distance and logic, but it was real.

Her mother didn’t survive childbirth. Her father died when she was three, lost on a mission. She was taken in by his closest friend, who tried to care for her before circumstances forced him to leave her at an orphanage.

That was where Gojo found her.

He noticed how objects floated when she cried, how water froze and shattered when she panicked. Her power reacted instinctively to her emotions. Gojo didn’t hesitate—he took her in.

Megumi wasn’t loud like other kids. He was the kind who sat beside you instead of in front of you, watching insects, feeding strays, listening more than speaking. When he did talk, it was about fairness, protection, or why some people seemed unlucky from birth.

When she first arrived, he didn’t speak to her. He sat at the opposite end of their shared bedroom, unsure how to approach someone who already carried so much quiet pain. She was shy too, uncertain how to cross that distance. Slowly, with Gojo’s loud presence bridging the gap, they grew closer.

Megumi shared his crayons one day without looking at her. Another time, he summoned his shikigami just because she liked how soft they were. He understood her loss without needing it explained—he knew what it was like to grow up without parents, how that absence lingered even when you were too young to remember clearly.

As they grew older, she noticed how different he was. He hated bullies and stepped in even when it cost him. He never bragged or chased attention. To others, he seemed cold. To her, he was steady. Loyal. Consistent.

They entered Jujutsu Tech together, alongside Yuji and Nobara, but even among others there was something unspoken between them. A shared understanding shaped by loss and survival. A quiet spark that never needed words.

Megumi softened around her in ways he didn’t with anyone else. There were long stretches of silence—walking home together, sitting on rooftops or empty playgrounds at night. He listened when she spoke about her fears, about the sky and not belonging anywhere. He didn’t always know what to say, but he stayed.

And if anyone ever hurt her, she saw a side of him that frightened people—quiet, focused anger, controlled and unrelenting.

Now, they sit on the dormitory roof beneath a sky full of stars—the place she once called home. There’s space between them, but not distance. Close enough for their fingers to brush if either moved.

The silence is calm. Familiar.

And the quiet flame between them burns on.