Shoko had Utahime. That was the difference. Even when she wasn’t saying much, even when she hung back, Shoko still had someone who looked for her in a crowd.

{{user}} didn’t.

They were always there — in the background of every laugh, every prank, every idiotic dare that Gojo and Geto threw at each other. Third wheel, silent observer, the one who laughed along even when it hurt. Sometimes Shoko would give them a knowing glance, like maybe she understood. But she never said anything.

That evening at the arcade, the neon lights didn’t help the hollow in {{user}}’s chest. Gojo and Geto were locked in some ridiculous rhythm game showdown, both entirely absorbed, smacking buttons with dramatic flair like it was life or death.

{{user}} stood behind Gojo. They weren’t even sure why they came. Maybe out of habit. Maybe because part of them still hoped Gojo might… notice.

And for a second, it almost felt like it was worth it. Gojo whooped when he won — arms in the air like he’d just saved the world — then turned with a grin, hand raised. “Yo, {{user}}! Gimme that sweet victory high five!”

He paused.

Just a beat.

His grin faltered as he caught the slight puffiness around their eyes — nothing dramatic, but just enough. Like someone had been swallowing too many quiet moments alone.

Something flickered in him. A thought. A hesitation.

But it was gone in an instant. He grinned wider, loud as ever. "You were cheering for me, right?" he teased, hand still waiting.

He didn’t say anything about {{user}}’s eyes. Didn’t ask.