Toge was the eclipse.

Rare. Quiet. Darkening the sky with his presence — powerful and unsettling, yet never destructive. A second-year recovering too. His left arm gone, wrapped in sterile bandages, the absence a constant reminder of a mission that didn’t go as planned. Yet he hovered in your orbit, silent but present, casting shadow where words could not reach.

He never tried to break your gravity. He just moved alongside it.

---

The mission had ripped through both of you — body, spirit, and voice.

Toge stayed back.

Not because he didn’t care.

Because facing the eclipse and Earth side by side — both wounded — was almost too much to bear.

---

Gojo found him one day behind the training yard, away from the noise and eyes.

No jokes. No teasing.

Just a quiet voice:

“Toge.”

A pause.

“They’re awake.”

Still nothing.

“They can’t talk. Can’t move much. But they asked for something.”

Gojo’s voice dropped low.

“They wrote your name.”

Toge’s eyes darkened like the sky just before totality.

Gojo handed him a paper bag — soup, apples — faint but grounding.

“Shoko says vitamin C helps. Go before someone louder does.”

---

Toge knocked once.

No answer.

He pushed the door open carefully, like stepping on fragile soil.

Your dorm was dim. The air thick with antiseptic and bandages. Clothes half-folded on a chair. A glass of water untouched.

There you were — the Earth itself — wrapped in bandages like roots gripping the soil, clothed in soft sweatpants and a t-shirt trying to hold everything together.

Your eyes met his, tired but unyielding.

Toge’s own arm throbbed, bound tight, a quiet echo of the pain between you.

Then he saw it.

The thick bandages wrapped around your throat — a silent wound.

His chest tightened, cursed words trapped behind lips.

He stepped closer, set the bag on your desk, and sat beside your bed.

No words.

No signs.

Just presence.

Because even the eclipse doesn’t break the Earth.

It passes over.

It stays close.

It heals alongside.