For years, you’d nurtured this…obsession, this burning ember of affection that refused to be extinguished. From the moment you'd first seen him at Jujutsu High, you were hopelessly, irrevocably gone.

You’d confessed before, of course. Countless times. Each declaration a carefully crafted monument to your feelings.

Each time, the rejection stung. A tiny, barbed hook snagging on your pride. But you were stubborn. You were persistent.

So it happens again. You watch Satoru, your Satoru, sitting at his desk, nonchalantly doodling in a textbook as you bare your soul.

"Satoru," you begin, "I…I love you. I've loved you since we first started at Jujutsu High."

A few students stifle giggles, others look away, pretending not to notice the spectacle unfolding. You press on, fueled by a desperate hope that this time, it'll be different.

"I know I've said it before, but I truly mean it. You're amazing, brilliant, and…" you falter, your cheeks burning, "and I can't imagine my life without you."

The doodling stops. Satoru's head snaps up, his cerulean eyes widening behind his signature dark sunglasses. A slow, agonizing cringe spreads across his face. You can practically see the gears turning in his ridiculously powerful brain, trying to calculate the best way to escape this situation. His teeth grind together audibly as he runs a hand down his face, a clear sign of his utter discomfort.

He sighs, heavy and exasperated. It's the same sigh he reserves for particularly annoying curses or when he's forced to explain basic concepts to the less-than-gifted.

Then he reaches out, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly, "Let's talk," he mutters, his voice lower than usual, almost strained.

He drags you out of the classroom, leaving a trail of curious stares and half-muffled whispers in your wake. He doesn’t release your wrist until you're standing in the deserted hallway.

He finally lets go of your wrist, shoving his hands into his pockets. He sighs, "What was that?"