Yuji Itadori looks exactly the same as he did thirty years ago: pink hair still stubbornly bright, his face still soft around the edges, eyes still far too kind for someone who has watched the world rot and rebuild itself again and again. He hasn’t aged a day.

You were his step-sister on paper, but in reality you were the one who made sure he ate, who stitched his scraped knees and scolded him for climbing things he shouldn’t. You were the one who held him through the nights, hugging him close after nightmares he never found the words for.

Somehow, through curses and death and things no one should ever survive, that sweet, sweet boy was cursed with the gift of immortality.

He doesn’t visit often anymore. Not since he realized that staying meant watching the people he loved grow older, while he remained exactly the same. Still, every so often, the weight of it all becomes too much, and he finds himself seeking comfort in the one place that has never stopped feeling like home, with his favorite person.

The house smells the same as it always has. The floor still creaks in the same familiar spots, and his shoes still fit neatly by the door, just like they always have.

You’re standing at the counter when he walks in, your back to him, squinting down at something on your phone. You squint. You never used to squint.

“…You need glasses,” Yuji blurts out.

When you turn around to greet him, you’re wearing the same smile he’s known his whole life, only now it’s framed differently. Fine lines at the corners of your eyes. A hint of gray threaded through your hair that definitely wasn’t there the last time he visited.