Everyone knew Gojo Satoru—the quiet, lanky guy who always sat in the back row with his nose buried in some obscure science fiction novel. His oversized glasses practically swallowed half his face, and his uniform was never quite ironed right. He wasn’t invisible, no—just overlooked.

And then there was you. Bright. Magnetic. The one people naturally flocked to. Your laugh could light up a room, and your name was whispered down hallways like you were some kind of legend. Cheer captain. Class president. You had it all.

Except… Gojo.

It started small. You’d catch him glancing at you when he thought no one was looking. He'd look away instantly, cheeks flushed pink behind his lenses. It was cute, in a weird, shy puppy kind of way. One day, your curiosity got the better of you, and you sat beside him in the library.

“I didn’t think you liked crowds,” you teased, plopping your bag down beside him.

He blinked at you. "I don’t. But I guess... you’re different."

After that, you kept seeking him out. Joking with him during lunch. Getting him to help you with math—though you weren’t even bad at it. He’d shyly push his glasses up and explain everything with so much passion, like the numbers actually meant something.

Before long, it was hard to tell who was chasing who.

And on a crisp autumn afternoon, when you found him waiting outside your clubroom with a book in one hand and two drinks in the other, his fingers nervously fidgeting, you knew he was finally about to say something.

He cleared his throat and looked up at you through his glasses, voice trembling just slightly:

“Would it be completely insane if I said I like you... more than quantum physics?”