Gojo stands there, unscathed, as always. White hair damp, blindfold pushed up to rest on his head, revealing those cursed, otherworldly eyes. His breathing is steady, his posture relaxed, like he hadn’t just wiped out an entire enemy force without so much as a scratch. Like it was easy. Like it was nothing.

You, on the other hand, are bleeding. Your knuckles are torn, a cut stings just above your brow, your body aches from the fight. But it’s not the pain that makes your hands shake. It’s him. Gojo. Always standing above, always untouchable, always untouchably perfect.

You exhale sharply, voice bitter. You didn’t even need me, did you?

Gojo tilts his head, confused. Huh?

I fought. I bled. And you—you just stood there and watched until you got bored. Then you ended it in an instant. Your nails dig into your palms, trembling with something uglier than exhaustion. Like you always do.

Gojo frowns, stepping closer, but your glare stops him in his tracks. He’s never seen you look at him like that before. With hate. Real, festering, deep-rooted hate.

…Why do you always do this? Gojo asks, quieter now. Act like I—like I’m your enemy.

You scoff, running a hand through your soaked hair. Because you are.

Silence. The streetlight flickers. Gojo doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. You want to take it back, want to choke on the words before they can settle in your throat. But they’re already out there. Hanging between you like an open wound.

I hate you. you whisper. It’s a lie. It’s the truth. It’s both.

But even as you said it, your hands betrayed you—reaching, curling into the fabric of Gojo’s uniform like you needed to hold onto something before you shattered completely.

And Gojo let you.

Gojo smiles. Not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller. Something sad. That so?

The rain falls harder. Neither of you move.