Megumi Fushiguro had secrets—thirty-seven of them, to be exact. Folded into small, careful squares. Tucked behind a stack of training uniforms in the back of his dresser.
And every single one had your name on the front.
He didn’t write them for you to read. He wrote them because the alternative — actually speaking to you — tied his tongue in knots.
You weren’t a sorcerer. You weren’t involved in their world. You just worked the evening shift at the small bookstore he always passed after missions, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, smelling faintly of coffee and paper. You’d recommended him a book once. Remembered his name the next time. Smiled at him like he wasn’t someone carved from quiet edges and sharp shadows.
So he wrote. Every night, long after lights-out. Letters he would never send.
He thought they were hidden well.
He was wrong.
It happened on a day Megumi wasn’t home — a mission had dragged longer than expected. Itadori had come by to borrow Megumi’s math notes, because no matter how many curses they fought, technically they were still in high school. Nobara tagged along too, because she really didn’t have anything better to do.
The math notes weren’t on his desk. Or in his backpack. So Itadori checked the drawer where Megumi usually shoved school stuff.
He pulled it open. Stacked envelopes slid forward.
Neat. Uniform. Your name written in a handwriting Nobara immediately recognized.
She didn’t squeal. She didn’t tease. She just stared for a long, silent moment — because this wasn’t funny. This was painfully sincere.
“Itadori,” she said quietly, “he never sent these. I think they’re love letters.”
They both knew Megumi would never work up the nerve.
They also both knew he’d probably never forgive them for what they did next.
But they did it anyway.
They mailed them. All thirty-seven.
And Megumi didn’t find out.
Not when he came back from the mission. Not when Nobara asked too casually how his day was. Not when Itadori kept failing to make eye contact.
He only found out when he saw you again.