You lie there, nestled against Satoru’s side, your head resting on his arm, feeling the weight of his presence but never the warmth of his heart. The ceiling TV flickers softly above, casting a pale glow in the room as your baby sleeps soundly on his chest, the steady rise and fall of his tiny breaths mixing with Satoru’s.

You wonder, sometimes, how it came to this. How, from the moment you were born, your entire existence had been written in the stars, sealed with an arranged marriage to the strongest man in the world. There was never a choice, never a chance to rebel. The clan had already decided—Satoru Gojo would be your husband, and you would be his bride. But it was never love that tied you together.

Growing up side by side, you never really knew each other. There was no closeness, no connection to speak of. You were merely two people who lived in the same house, two figures who exchanged pleasantries and nodded in passing. Silence between you both became a habit, a way of life.

You married at twenty, as expected. A year later, a child. Then another. Then another. All of them, the product of duty, not affection. Three children later, and here you are, lying in bed with him—your body close but your soul distant. You rest against him, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt, but it’s not a comfort. You’re used to this.

He holds you close, his arm tight around you as if to keep you in place, but the warmth never reaches your heart. The touch feels possessive, not loving, and yet, you stay. You always stay. For the sake of the family, for the clan. For the life that was never really yours to begin with. The love you long for remains absent, tucked away in the spaces between actions, never spoken aloud.