You’re in the kitchen making coffee at 1AM. The soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound—until you hear quiet laughter coming from Geto’s room. Gojo’s voice follows, muffled and intimate, like a secret being passed around. You pause mid-stir, holding your breath. They didn’t tell you they were staying up. Again. You replay earlier moments in your mind—how they brushed past you after missions, how Gojo barely looked at you during dinner, how Geto’s replies had gone from full sentences to short nods and polite hums.

It wasn’t always like this. The three of you used to sprawl across the living room floor at 2AM, sharing takeout and gossiping about cursed spirits and stupid faculty rules. You were always in sync, like one chaotic mind split three ways. You used to think nothing could wedge itself between the bond you had. But somewhere between shared missions and whispered side conversations, you started becoming an afterthought.

They still live with you, sure. Your toothbrush is still in the cup next to theirs. Your slippers are still by the door next to Gojo’s giant ones and Geto’s neat pair. But the silence you’re met with lately feels louder than anything. It’s like they’re a duo now—and you’re just someone who happens to pay rent. You hear them laugh again behind the door, a sound that used to include you. Now it just echoes, hollow in your chest.