you are gojo's only wish every time.
work is killing satoru, and the day has barely even begun. his students are mid-exam; some actually know what they’re doing, while others showed up simply because a guessed answer is better than a blank page.
satoru exhales in frustration, wiping his face with one of his large hands before pulling out his phone to check the time. 11:10. great. twenty more minutes before he can collect the tests.
before he can lock the screen, the zero flips to a one. the right corner of his mouth lifts just a fraction of a millimeter because he knows exactly what it means.
it was a silly thing, but you had forced satoru to make a wish during one of your very first conversations.
“they’re messages from the universe,” you had explained. “a reminder to trust the process and stay on your path. it’s a spiritual awakening.”
in reality, neither of you was superstitious, but it was infinitely better to believe in something for the pure fun of it –because sometimes, life just shouldn't be taken so seriously.
“then i wish you’d keep looking at me this beautifully.” he’d replied under the pressure. your face contorted in mock horror.
“not like that! if you say it out loud, it won't come true!” after a long, dramatic scene, you added: “but you don’t have to worry about that. i’m always going to look at you like you’re the eighth wonder of the world –though unofficially, you're the first. they just don't know you like i do.”
“look, look at this!” he told you one day from the sofa, stretching his arm out to show you his phone screen. you were both sprawled on the couch, backs against opposite armrests. “this instagram post matched our zodiac signs. we’re a perfect match. did you see?”
you snorted, letting out a low laugh. “and you needed a post to confirm that? i tell you every day!”
“but honey, it’s the universe conspiring in our favor!” he exclaimed with feigned indignation, looking back at the colorful image while a tinny song played in the background. “besides, we got tomoya and nagisa. isn't that cute?”
yes, he was falling deeper and deeper into horoscopes just to see if yours aligned.
he’s thinking about that scar –the one that almost goes unnoticed, but is tattooed onto your skin. subtle, proud, flirtatious. to you, it’s an imperfection; to him, it’s a souvenir of a life lived.
“the heart has scars no one sees, but they’re there because we feel too much.” he’d told you once, tracing it in circles with his thumb.
and speaking of imperfections, he thinks of those pesky breakouts that bother you whenever you're stressed or hormonal. to you, they’re hideous; to him, well, it’s not that he finds them beautiful, but he’s always told you that you’re exaggerating.
“no one even notices,” he’d whispered, kissing the nape of your neck while you stood before the mirror trying to ‘burn’ them off with toothpaste. “your smile outshines them whenever you let it out.”
he thinks, too, of the fine hair that covers your body; how focused you get when plucking your eyebrows, and how you threaten to never let him kiss you again if he keeps teasing you about your peach fuzz.
he thinks of the mole behind your ear –the one you probably don't even know exists, but that he discovered while you slept after he'd loved you with his whole body.
his favorite hobby was always exploring every detail of you as if you were the subject of a vital exam. since he has fantastic vision (superhuman, really), why not use it to memorize your textures, your lines, your folds, and your pores?
maybe biology is as wondrous as he’s always believed, giving every person something unique to make them stand out, putting everything beautifully in its place. or maybe he’s just deeply in love.
“i swear i’m going to kick you if you don't stop!” you shouted, bursting into fits of laughter. your body convulsed violently as his fingers dug into your ribs, moving rhythmically along your torso.
“apologize now!” he demanded, laughing right along with you. the sound was contagious –honestly, it was music to his ears, even when your laughs turned into snorts, jumping from high to low notes in a second. “say that coffee is better with sugar!”
“never! i hate you!” and he kept up the attack, knowing full well you were lying.
“what are you thinking about?” you asked, combing his silky white hair back, a few strands still damp from your previous ‘workout’. he had one arm around you, acting as your pillow; it was the fifth night you’d spent at his apartment.
“about what will happen when you get tired of me.” he murmured. his tone wasn't distant or sad; he just sounded certain that the day would eventually come.
“that’s not going to happen.” you replied, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. he smelled like melted lemon sorbet and green tea. “you have me in your hands and you read me every day, like a book.”
he sighed, tracing infinities on your bare back. “but everyone gets fed up with my attitude –how busy i am, or how i never let my guard down.” despite the bitterness of his words, the kisses he pressed to your forehead were sweet. “my humor, my decisions, my ideas, my…”
“shh.” you hissed, placing a finger over his soft, slightly swollen lips. “i told you once that no one knows you like i do, and they’re still light-years away from it. don't ever compare me to them again. i’m staying forever, if that’s what you want.”
both of you believe that birthdays and holidays are just another day. and yet, you still plan what to get each other, what notes to write, which candies to tuck into the neatly decorated boxes. you debate the color of the ribbons and which balloons should flood the living room to bump against the ceiling.
christmas and new year’s must be the worst for you both. you both stopped having friends to keep by your side, and it’s not like anyone else truly wanted to be with you (there are always more important people to see). but you have each other’s company, and that’s enough, from the moment the bells chime to the moment the fireworks explode.
the wind has carried your scent since the day he met you. no matter how many expensive perfumes he’s gifted you, they all pale in comparison to your natural musk. you could come back from the gym or go days without a shower, and he’d still say you smell as good as if you’d just stepped out of the bath. it makes you wonder if you’re just not using enough soap.
“i spilled boiling water on my hand because the coffee pot slipped.” you told him as he wrapped you in the same white bandages he used to cover his radiant eyes. he had left a very important meeting to come to you immediately, even though you had everything under control. the last thing you wanted was to worry him. “it’s going to leave a mark.”
“it won’t.” he assured you, kissing your knuckles with reverence, moving carefully so as not to hurt you. “and if it does, i’ll burn my other hand with the same temperature water so we have matching marks. then, when we hold hands, our scars will fit together like puzzle pieces.”
you wanted to tease him, but your smile just spread from ear to ear, the stinging pain forgotten for a moment. “you’re insane.”
“maybe. but for you, i wouldn't mind ruining my allegedly perfection.”
“you didn’t eat well on thursday; i saw you skipping meals, so i decided we had to make up for it.” he said with a massive smile, his voice overflowing with excitement. he showed you the various dishes he’d cooked, and in the center, a strawberry shortcake with far, far too much whipped cream –because, of course, this was satoru gojo, and that was his signature touch.
and of course, you smiled back, but with tenderness. “i thought you didn't cook for anyone but yourself.”
he shrugged, taking you delicately by the waist. “i cook for the ones i love. i love myself, and i love you. it’s as simple as that.”
“are you asleep?” you asked in a whisper, gently elbowing his arm. the room was dark; not even the streetlights penetrated the curtains.
“mmh.” he replied, drowsy.
it was better that way, because the fear you felt was completely, caught-in-your-throat irrational. you’d slept for two hours, and even in those two hours, your soul already missed him. you longed to wake up just to keep talking to him, to admire his cerulean irises, his long, swan-feather lashes, and his pale hay-like hair; to fill your lungs with the sighs from his delicate nose. and the fear came from the thought that, one day, you might not be able to do it anymore. there were no threats, no conflicts –just anxiety because things were too good to be true. you’d been afraid since the moment you realized you were in love.
“i was reading sartre’s nausea, and i just knew.” you murmured to the void, shifting on the mattress to kiss his bare shoulders. “i know i’ll never find anything or anyone else that will inspire me. you know, it’s an undertaking to start loving someone.” your whispers trailed off, tripping like silent tears sliding onto the pillow and his salty skin. still no answer. “it requires energy, generosity, a certain blindness... there is even a moment, right at the very beginning, when you have to leap across a precipice; if you think about it, you don’t do it.” you hugged him tight, careful to be gentle enough not to wake him. “i know i’ll never jump again.”
but even with his eyes closed, he was awake. he was listening to that sincere, raw declaration, and for a moment, he was terrified by what he heard –because no one had ever loved him like that. he didn't know what to do with that love, but he drifted off knowing what he felt was returned.
“why did we stop?” you asked one afternoon when he pulled over on a random street. you hadn't reached home yet, and the tank was full.
“because i want to spend more time here with you,” he replied, unbuckling his seatbelt to lean against you. “i want every second with you. this, right now, is what i want for the future: you, me, the hum of the car, and the murmur of people outside our bubble –audible enough, but not deafening.”
one of your hands cupped his cheek. surely he’d noticed how your heart sped up at his words. there was something different in his voice, something that could only be described as a quiet happiness.
“you and me... and maybe our firstborn.”
you couldn't help but laugh, rolling your eyes without losing the spark in them. you’d never discussed the subject, but today seemed like a great place to start. “well, that’s a very distant future. i hope you don't mind waiting.”
his pinky hooked into yours, shyly. “i’ll wait my whole life if i have to.”
the shirts you wear, the jackets, the sweaters, the baggy jeans, the tight shorts, the skirts, the dresses, the sneakers, the shoes you choose for formal occasions… everything, everything is stamped into his memory. every time he passes a store, he stops for a moment to look at the mannequins in the windows, sporting the season’s clothes that he knows you would look better in. he wants to go in and empty the entire section just to prove his point, but he doesn't –it would be too much, it wouldn't fit in your closet, and you probably wouldn't want it.
no, you wouldn’t want it. not when everything you already have reminds you of him. all of it. even the most drab sock with a tiny hole in it, because you wore it that time you sat in on one of his classes. or that ridiculous wool hat he complimented, saying it gave you a sweeter look and that your hair looked even more alive when flattened by the weak elastic.
you don't want any more drawers that won't close. they are full. full like his chest is with love and agony.
he wonders if you still like caramel macchiatos, because ever since you left, he’s switched to drinking only americanos.
he wonders if you’re with someone else now; if there’s someone else making you laugh, wiping away the tears he used to kiss, worshiping the body he used to caress, reading the mind he used to decipher.
he wonders if you’re still waiting for him the way he waits for you: without haste, without rest. because for him, it isn't over. personally, if anyone were to ask, he’d deny it. how could it be over, when his heart is still calling your name? he cannot accept that it’s too late for the two of you.
perhaps your name will light up his screen, but it doesn’t. and like everything you taught him –four-leaf clovers, broken mirrors, umbrellas opened indoors–, this is a sign. and a powerful one at that.
it was a long minute, but just a minute like any other; another where he can’t stop thinking of you, wishing for you, as if you’d magically appear if he just closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and asked for it, implored for it, with all his might. he hasn’t told a soul, clinging to the hope that it might still come true.
but it doesn't. and exactly 701,640 minutes have passed since the goodbye. who knows how many ‘11:11s’ he’s encountered in that interval, but every single one of them has been dedicated to you.
“professor?” the voice of one of his students snaps him out of his reverie. he clumsily sets the paper down on his desk. “i’m finished. are you okay?”
satoru takes the sheet, sliding it to the side where others are piled into a small mountain. “i’m fine, why do you ask?”
the boy shrugs, gripping the straps of his backpack as if his answer might automatically fail him. “it’s just that, at this exact time, you always have a tear in your eye.”
