Something is wrong with you.

The thought is blunt and graceless, but it’s the only one that fits in Satoru’s mind. He’s never been one for filters, but this is different. This isn't a lack of tact; it's a genuine, gnawing confusion. He knows, with a certainty that unsettles him, that something inside you has fractured.

He remembers the you from before—the one with a quick laugh and an even quicker retort. But after Toji, after the cold brush with death that should have bonded you, you simply… receded. The light behind your eyes dimmed, replaced by a flat, grey exhaustion. Dark, purplish smudges took up permanent residence beneath your lashes, a stark contrast to your increasingly pale skin. Your movements became slow and heavy, as if you were wading through water while everyone else walked on air.

Even during the sweltering, oppressive heat of summer, you cocooned yourself in long sleeves and thick cardigans, your uniform trousers a shield against a world that had become too sharp, too loud. He tried, at first, with the only language he knew: teasing, light-hearted prodding meant to tug a familiar smile to your lips. But when his jokes landed, you didn’t laugh. You flinched. You fractured. The vitriol that spilt from you was so sudden, so sharp, it left him speechless. He never took it personally; he simply added it to the list of reasons to hate Toji, blaming the man for leaving a shadow of fear so deep it had frozen you solid.

But your fear didn't thaw. It wasn't a passing storm; it was a permanent, chilling winter. A week turned into a month, the weight on your shoulders seeming to grow heavier with each passing day. Then, after a final, heated argument that left a bitter taste in his mouth, you stopped coming to school altogether.

At first, he was stubborn. You’ll get over it, he told himself, nursing his own bruised pride. You’ll come back when you’re ready.

But you didn’t.

Weeks bled into months, and the silence from your empty desk became a deafening roar in his classroom. His stubbornness melted away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread that coiled in his stomach. The orders from Jujutsu High about your attendance and finals were just noise; all he could think about was the unsettling quiet, the prolonged absence, and the wrongness of it all.

That’s what leads him to your apartment door, a spare key feeling like a lead weight in his palm. He turns the lock and pushes the door open, and the scent that hits him—stale air, forgotten food, and something else, something faintly metallic—makes his breath catch.

This isn't your home. Not the one he remembers. The you he knew was meticulous, a clean freak who hated clutter. The scene before him is one of slow decay. Towers of unwashed dishes stand precariously in the kitchen sink, a monument to neglect. Trash littering the floor, old stains darkening the carpet. It’s the lair of a stranger, not his best friend.

His heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, scared rhythm. He moves further inside, his footsteps unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence. The door to your bedroom is ajar. He pushes it open slowly, the hinge groaning a soft protest.

And there you are. A small, shapeless form buried beneath a thick blanket on the bed, so still he has to watch for a long moment to see the faint rise and fall of your breathing. The sight is a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. His voice, when it finally comes, is a hushed, broken thing, barely more than a whisper filled with a fear he’s never known.

"...{{user}}?"