The night air was crisp, clear, and unusually still—almost as if the sky itself was holding its breath. Far from the neon haze of Tokyo, Satoru sat beside you on a quiet hillside, a wide expanse of stars scattered above you both like shards of hope.

He lay back, arms behind his head, his trademark blindfold pushed up to rest lazily on his forehead. “You know,” he murmured, voice unusually soft, “I could’ve taken you anywhere for our first date. Paris. Venice. Okinawa. But no—you chose a hill in the middle of nowhere.”

You smirked, hugging your knees. “Because this place is real. Not some flashy illusion to distract me from who you are.”

That made him pause. Slowly, Satoru turned his head toward you, the corner of his lips twitching. “That’s not very fair. My illusions are top-tier.”

“You are the strongest, after all,” you teased.

A light laugh escaped him, but it was tinged with something deeper—wistful, maybe even nostalgic. He fell quiet for a while, letting the stars speak. You didn’t push. You both knew silence had its place—especially between people who’d seen too much.

You’d been classmates. You’d seen him at his brightest, loudest, most arrogant. But you’d also seen the day his laughter turned quiet, the day Suguru walked away, and a piece of Satoru went with him. You were there for the silent storm after, when even the most powerful sorcerer in the world didn’t have a spell to fix a broken heart.

And now, years later, here you were. Sitting next to him, watching the sky slowly turn.

“I hated you, for a while,” you admitted suddenly. “Not because of who you are. But because I thought you’d stopped feeling after suguru. Like you just floated above the rest of us.”

His breath caught. He didn’t speak right away.

“But I get it now,” you continued. “You weren’t numb. You were… trying to hold everything together. Even if it meant falling apart on your own.”

He turned his face away, blinking up at the stars. “You always saw too much,” he said quietly. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”

A breeze swept over the hilltop. You could feel the tension unspooling from him like thread finally loosened after years of pulling too tight.

Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he reached for your hand.

“I never wanted anyone close again,” he said. “But you were always there. Not as a sorcerer. Not as someone trying to fix me. Just… you.”

You squeezed his hand gently.

“Look up,” you whispered.

He did.

A meteor streaked across the sky—silent, brilliant, fleeting.

He let out a small, breathless laugh. “Was that your cursed technique? Perfect timing?”

“No,” you smiled. “That was just the universe agreeing with me.”

Satoru didn’t speak for a moment. Then, softly, “You know… this might be the first time in years I feel grounded. Like I’m exactly where I should be.”

He leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you. For seeing me—not the strongest, not the teacher, not the sorcerer. Just… Satoru.”

Under a sky full of ancient light, two people who had known pain, power, and the quiet ache of memory sat side by side. And for one brief night, the world felt small enough for healing.