You liked him from the first week of school, when the gym lights caught in his hair and turned him into something unreal. Gojo Satoru—tall, careless-grinning, the kind of athlete teachers forgave too easily because trophies spoke louder than rules. You were ordinary beside him: good grades, quiet confidence, the kind of person who noticed details others skipped. Still, you talked to him. About assignments you already understood, about random thoughts that slipped out before fear could stop you. He answered at first, amused, indulgent. You called him Toru because everyone did, because he let you.

Until one afternoon, lockers slamming like punctuation marks, when he finally snapped.

“Can you stop?” he said, voice flat, eyes not unkind but tired. “I don’t like you. Not like that. It’s annoying.”

The word lodged itself somewhere painful. You apologized too quickly. After that, you learned how to disappear without leaving the room. You stopped greeting him. You stopped laughing louder when he was near. You trained your eyes to look past him, through him, like he was glass.

Weeks later, the class buzzed with groans when the group project list went up. Fate, cruel and bored, put you together. Leader: your name. Members: his.

You stared at your phone longer than necessary before typing, fingers steady in a way your chest wasn’t.

“Gojo, can you do the data analysis for the project and send it by Friday? We’ll compile everything after. Thanks.”

Across campus, his phone lit up. He smiled at first—habit—until he read the name again.

“Gojo? Not Toru anymore?”

Something pinched. He told himself it was nothing. Of course you’d be formal. You were the leader. Still, the message felt colder than it should have, like a door clicking shut somewhere he hadn’t noticed was open.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll do it.”