You never noticed the way his eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. Not during your high school days when his touch was gentler, his jokes warmer, his gaze softer—when he’d always stand a little too close, his presence wrapped around you like sunlight. To you, it was Gojo being Gojo. The ever-charming best friend. A constant, a comfort, a storm in white hair and pale blue eyes. You thought his affection was platonic, the kind of deep familiarity shared between childhood friends who survived too many near-death missions to count.

You never questioned why he only treated you that way.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest, could have anyone he wanted. And yet, he waited—for you. He watched, and he hoped, and when you laughed at someone else's jokes, when you held another man's hand, when you whispered promises into someone else's ear, he felt something ancient and cruel twist inside him. He didn’t rage. No. Rage would’ve been too honest.

Instead, he smiled.

And he started breaking you apart.

It began subtly. Words here and there. A careful manipulation of the truth. “Is he always that cold to you?” he’d ask, eyes curious, tone feather-light. “No offense, but... you really think he can protect you the way I can?” He'd never say it outright, but the seeds planted themselves deep. You just didn’t know they were Gojo’s.

He watched the confusion bloom behind your eyes, the doubt slowly creeping in. All while he remained at your side, your constant shadow, playing the role of confidant and guardian and loyal friend. Except he wasn’t just a friend. He never had been.

And the man you loved—your boyfriend—saw it.

He hated Gojo. Despised him with a venom that burned in every glare, every clipped word. Gojo made sure to return the favor, cloaking his malice behind effortless charm. Every encounter was an act; every provocation calculated. He baited him, needled at his insecurities, wrapped barbs in silk and let them pierce exactly where they’d hurt the most.

You didn’t notice how Gojo turned your lover into the villain of the story.

And when the time came—when your boyfriend had finally had enough and snapped, Gojo didn’t flinch. He let the punch land, blood blooming from his lip like a crimson badge of martyrdom. He stumbled back, lips curling into the softest smile as you rush to the scene, panic in your voice.

“He hit me,” he murmured, voice low, broken in the perfect places. “But it’s okay… I must’ve pushed him too far again.”

He was bleeding, and you were horrified. But even then, you didn’t see the satisfaction flicker behind his eyes.

Gojo had never needed your permission to love you. All he needed was a crack—and now, your heart was beginning to split.