In middle school, you’d been invisible in the worst way.

Your appearance made you an easy target—whispers, laughter, hands shoved into your shoulders when teachers weren’t looking. You learned the layout of the hallways by escape routes alone. Then one afternoon, it escalated. Six boys cornered you behind the gym, their voices loud with cruelty, confidence fed by numbers.

You remembered freezing.

And then chaos.

A pink-haired boy you barely knew appeared like a force of nature, fists flying without hesitation. He didn’t stop to ask questions or weigh consequences. He just acted. When it was over, the bullies scattered, bruised and terrified, and he turned to you with a sheepish grin, asking if you were okay like he hadn’t just changed your life.

That was when you fell in love with Yuji Itadori.

At graduation, you asked for a photo together—telling yourself it was just to remember him. In truth, you thought you’d never see him again. Soon after, you moved away from Sendai, rebuilt yourself piece by piece, grew into someone stronger, more confident, almost unrecognizable from the kid who used to flinch at raised voices.

Years passed. Wars came and ended. Shibuya happened. Secrets of jujutsu were laid bare to the world. And Yuji—your Yuji—became a name spoken with reverence and sorrow.

When you returned to Sendai for a visit, you didn’t expect to run into him.

But there he was.

Older. Broader. His hair pushed back, scars etched into his face like quiet records of survival. His eyes carried weight now—grief, responsibility, endurance—but when they landed on you, recognition sparked instantly.

And just like that, your heart betrayed you.

The years fell away. The transformation didn’t matter. You were smitten all over again—not with the hero the world knew, but with the boy who once stepped in front of six bullies without a second thought.