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tojipie · 3 months

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THE 1 — GOJO SATORU

“and if my wishes came true, it would've been you.”

exbf!gojo x gn!reader, hurt + very little comfort, one suggestive misunderstanding, alcohol, reader has long hair, here again with my ex!gojo bullshit bc drunk dial was not enough for me apparently

gojo breaks up with you right in the middle of your senior year in high school.

it's nothing like those scenes from those rom-com movies you used to watch through hushed giggles and loud squeals, back when you'd cover your eyes with your hands and peek through your fingers during the passionate kisses and apologies—there's no rain, no swelling music with dramatic violin, no indication of the mixed emotions he's feeling.

honestly, the worst part about it is that you see it coming. you don’t feel surprise or shock when he tells you that it’s over, only an emptiness that digs at your chest; it’s a feeling you’ve felt before (like when you got a grade you weren’t happy with or when your parents yelled at you for screwing up a simple chore) but it’s nothing you’ve felt before because it feels like your heart is squeezing so tight it might burst and you can’t breathe, and then all of a sudden, you’re begging him not to do this, not to you, not right now.

it’s embarrassing in hindsight, knowing just how much you cry and just how raw your voice comes out through blubbering sobs, but even though his eyes are red and he’s trembling under his hoodie, he remains unmoving, like a child unprepared to fight a dragon.

all of the random belongings that you’d stashed in his room over the years end up in a tote bag he sets on your front porch, and he removes your story highlight on his instagram just an hour later—he waits three days before he takes your initials off his bio though, because of course he does, because of course he wants his followers and internet stalkers to speculate and stew on his relationship status.

well fine, you think, fuck you too. you leave your pictures up for a little longer, just to spite him.

shoko tells you that it's better this way. it used to be really awkward, she admits, watching you two fight over the smallest things during your free period, sitting in uncomfortable silence as you dished out your personal affairs in front of the whole friend group.

geto confesses that gojo looks happier now. he perks up more at the things that used to interest him, his cheesy grin makes its way onto his face more often, his hair is fluffier, his clothes are less wrinkled, his eyes are brighter, and he’s just…better.

without you.

you have to clarify if that's what he means, and even though geto's eyes widen in panic and he immediately backtracks, just a glance at your ex-boyfriend gives you the answer his friend is too much of a coward to say; it's obvious to everyone that your relationship had been beyond repair for months, but you still care for him, and you like seeing him happy (even if it means not seeing him at all), so you pretend it doesn't affect you.

it's that uneasy feeling of knowing someone and not knowing them, the precarious ache you finally recognize when you see him playfully flirting with other people, knowing that the two of you used to talk about marriage and what the house would like with your future salaries after college, but you move on, as everyone does.

(not that any of it would've mattered; you would've been content with anywhere he wanted to go, anything he wanted to do, anybody he wanted to be, as long as he brought you with him.)

the next time you talk to him is during your sophomore year of college. it's like he waited for you to forget all about him before he reappears in the crowded lecture hall where your humanities class takes place, and when you feel the presence of a tall man slide into a chair two spots away from you, you realize that the guy with white hair and blue eyes is the same one that dumped you two years ago.

it's painstakingly awkward when he realizes what he's done (he makes a noise in unwitting surprise), but he quickly covers it up with an ill-fitted glance and hesitant dismay, moving to speak anyways.

you find out two things that day.

1.) gojo is a different person than he was in high school.

he always used to be that guy, even in elementary, the one who got picked first amongst the raised hands and wilted heads during kickball, the one who teachers used as an example for other kids to look up to, the one who lived for other people instead of himself, but he carries himself differently now. he's quieter, you think —softer, even— donning muted blues that match his eyes, a large sweater covering the lank of the muscles of his arm.

2.) even though his voice is deeper than it used to be, it makes your heart flutter all the same.

you exchange pleasant formalities with him and say your goodbyes as quickly as possible after the class ends, and whether it's to escape the awkward situation or to hide the fact that your heart is palpitating far faster than usual doesn't matter, and you really shouldn't be thinking about gojo satoru.

…still though, once you catch your breath in a new seat for your new class, you find yourself opening your phone under the dim lights of the auditorium. you type in his instagram handle like it’s second nature (it might as well be), biting your bottom lip as you press his profile. he’s privated now, with far fewer followers than he had in high school—you begin to wonder if he’s blocked everybody he didn’t care about after graduation like he always said he would, but the red notification in the corner of your screen catches your eye first.

go.satoru has requested to follow you. confirm | delete | 40s

the confirmation button is blue.

(blue like the sweater he wore today, like the detergent you smelled when he shifted ever so slightly, his arm leaning against the fold-up table as he stared nervously at you.)

after a moment of hesitation, you press it.

gojo slips into your life rather easily after that. you’re hesitant at first, but you’ve always been weak to him, so it really was only a matter of time before you let him back in.

you never used to mind it that much—being weak, you mean—gojo was always strong enough for the both of you until you had to hold yourself up on your own. maybe that’s where your relationship failed, with your endless urge to depend on his incessant need to be depended on.

he was always there, though, there to pick your broken pieces back up, scraping his own bloodied fingers against the broken glass of your psyche, painstakingly gluing the mirror of your soul back together. it came easy to him, like most things did, like a gingerbread house filled with icing and peppermint candy, decorating the driveway with gumdrops and sprinkles, sugary sweet, like his heart— warm and soft, like a home.

it hurts because you could've cultivated your love into a house if you'd just tried harder, but the brick needed patience, the heating needed communication, he needed a steady hand to support yours as he piped the icing, and you lacked everything when you were children.

(it was idiotic to think you could've anyways, children were never meant to build their own homes.)

but really, who's to say that exes can't be friends?

he's shy at first, he starts with small smiles directed vaguely in your direction when he comes in late to the lectures once again, and then it's a chirpy "hi!" or "good morning!", and then, one day, he brings in an awkward smile and two coffee cups, one in each hand.

it's the same coffee order you used to get when you were younger, but even if you've grown out of the high-energy cappuccinos, you still accept it.

you can love and value somebody you used to date, you rationalize—you're more than aware of your self-destructive habits, and his aura is next to you but never beside you, so it doesn't matter that you laugh a little harder than you need to when he makes fun of your professor's bald spot, and you don't care when he stares at you with that incredulous smile of his, his lips curved into a smirk before his eyes soften ever so slightly when they meet yours.

and then the end-of-semester party comes.

it's a blur of a lot of big mistakes and bad alcohol, but somehow, your hand finds his, grasping onto his pinky and dragging him away from the crowd of bodies that distract him. you pull him to a private bathroom, pawing at the rolled-up sleeves of the unbuttoned hawaiian shirt he wears.

he's confused the second your skin touches his (it feels familiar, the kind of feeling that feels just out of his grasp, ghosting and teasing at his memories), and honestly, he thinks you might just make out with him if you're feeling messy enough, but then you kneel down on the floor.

his face turns red as he finds your half-lidded eyes staring up at him with desperation, your pearly whites barely peeking through the pink fat in your lips as you grasp at his pants.

"need you—" you mumble, "need you to stay—"

"oh, nonono," he panics, "not when you’re drunk—"

your head whips to the right, and he stares in horror as you throw up right into the toilet bowl.

and then it finally clicks for him.

oh, shit.

he hesitantly crouches down, his fingers wrapping around your hair and sweeping back your bangs as you hurl your alcohol, clutching the porcelain for dear life.

he swallows to calm himself down, grimacing as you finish emptying out your stomach.

“…here,” he gently maneuvers your shoulders to lean against the tiled wall, “do you need water? i can go get some.”

you shake your head rapidly, your eyes closed as your nose scrunches up in defiance.

like a bunny, he thinks.

he likes bunnies.

he stands up from his kneeled position, dusting off his jeans before he moves to unlock the door on a mission to find a drink that isn't alcohol, but your voice calls out to him again.

“s'toru,” you slur his name—his first name, he realizes, “’m sorry.”

for what? what could you be sorry for?

“don't move, okay?” he replies, a small smile on his face, “i'll come back as soon as i can.”

gojo ends up staying next to you for the rest of the night.

“parties just aren't for me,” he shrugs, cocking his head to the side, “the guys there were starting to piss me off anyways.”

“yeah?” your eyes peer up, leaning forward as you teeter next to him, “what were they doing?”

“they kept talking about greek life—hazing and alcohol or whatever,” he scoffs, “like seriously, if i have to hear about kids prancing around in made-up wolf packs ever again, i’m cutting my eardrums out myself!"

you giggle at the joke. it’s refreshing, like the wisp of the breeze that blows through your hair, like the cratered moon that shines light on the sidewalk as he helps you stumble to your dorm.

“what were you, um, sorry about?” his voice cuts through the night air, “in the bathroom, when you were shitfaced.”

“you’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” you smile drunkenly, poking his shoulder in glee. he rolls his eyes in faux annoyance, the humor ever-so-present in his blue eyes, but he opts out of your question and remains silent.

your smile falters at his lack of response, and you look ahead down the path. “i was sorry i had to make you leave,” you say innocently, “didn’t really know anyone else, but i shouldn’t have dragged you away. i should’ve handled it myself.”

…right,” he nods, “it’s fine if you rely on people, you know, i really—”

“satoru.” you give him a pointed glare, to which he goes back to focusing on getting you home safely.

“for what it’s worth,” his footsteps clatter far louder on the sidewalk than he’d like, “i’m sorry too.”

“really?” you snort as you reach your dorm building, the small patch of grass lining the front porch, “about what?”

“for not being there when you needed me.”

this is the danger of thinking about satoru, because just like that, he's suddenly all you can think about.

you’re already halfway up the steps before you turn back to him—he’s wrapped in the moonlight itself, shining and reflecting like the radiant star that you know he is, and you step back behind the shadow the brick casts.

“you were here today.” you acknowledge quietly, “that has to count for something.”

“you had to find me.”

“i dunno,” you play dumb, “not many people would leave a party to help their ex throw up in a toilet for an hour.”

for the first time in a while, gojo wears his heart on his sleeve.

“i didn't hate it, y’know.” he crosses his arm, his eyes flitting to the ground, “it wasn't fun or enjoyable by any means, but i didn't hate it.”

a beat passes, and he looks back up to see you staring directly at him. you clutch the railing on the stairs, and you ask your final question for the night.

“why?”

he thinks (something he rarely does), before he continues softly, "because you asked. you asked me to stay, and i’d do anything you wanted.”

gojo called himself many things in the time he spent in your life.

“stranger” turned into “classmate” when he spotted you in the back of ms. hideka's math classroom, left in awe as you taught him how to use the graphing function on the calculator, and “classmate” upgraded to “friend” when he asked you to ditch school with him. “friend” became “lover” after years of push-and-pull, and finally, "lovers" became "stranger" during your last year in high school.

who knows what “strangers” might become? could become? do strangers answer each other’s beck and call? do strangers cradle the heart of the other in their palms, waiting in a standstill to see what the other one does?

you bite the inside of your cheek. bravery (or liquid courage?) flows to your fingertips, and like a child unprepared to face a dragon, you grit your teeth.

“you were it for me, y'know.” you blurt out, your voice cracking against your will.

there’s a visible hitch in his breath, a clench in his jaw, badly-disguised anguish hidden and cemented into his skin.

his voice is airy, barely louder than a whisper. “you were it for me too.”

it takes you a second to process his words, your crumpled expression completely unable to hide the agony you feel. it takes you a second, but you nod anyways, swallowing the lump in your throat with the tears that sting at your eyes.

(you nod in acceptance, you think. for closure.)

“...hey, (y/n)?” he waits out to call to you when your back is faced to him, your hand placed on the doorway and your right shoe half off—his tone soft enough to melt the marshmallow strings that pull at your heart, hidden behind layers of the brick crackers (tough, but brittle to the right thing), “don't be a stranger.”

what does it mean to be a stranger? a part of you grieves the fact that you don’t know if his favorite color is still blue (baby blue, not the darker tones, even if he looks better in it), the idea that all your memories with him are just that, the notion that you won’t know what interior designs he prefers for his future house.

your head turns around, just enough to peer back to the man that waits for your answer at the bottom of your front porch.

like your own prince charming, you think.

you’ve always liked prince charming.

“good night, satoru.”

your smile is barely there (you wonder if his hugs feel the same—if his thumb would brush over your cheek as he coos pretty nothings into your ear like he used to), but he smiles back anyways.

he'd always smile for you, he thinks.

“good night.”

i’ve realized that i've been relying a lot on my dialogue lately, and i feel like my writing has been super jumpy bc of that, so i did my best to incorporate as little dialogue as possible so i could focus on everything else. hopefully it worked out ahsjshshs

#too good

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tojipie · 3 months

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I'm never forgetting the Palestinian babies that were left to starve to death then rot in their beds by the IOF.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian doctors surrounded by bodies of dead children begging the world to stop the slaughter.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian children who held a press conference in English to beg the world to stop murdering them because they want to live.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Priest who said "We will not accept your apology after the genocide" to the world.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Imam who used the speakers of the Mosque, not to call people to prayer but to call out to God while the world around them was burning from American supplied Israeli bombs.

I'm never forgetting the grandfather who held his dead grandchild in his arms. Or the father carrying the remains of his two children in plastic shopping bags. Or the mother holding her dead child in a shroud. Or the father sitting among the rubble after he lost his whole family. Or the girl trapped under a broken building begging for people to save her family first. Or the boy who cried when he saw his brother alive. Or the girl who asked if she was still alive after being pulled from the rubble. Or the boy who carried the remains of his brother in his backpack. Or the old man the IOF used for a photoshoot before they shot him dead after getting pictures. Or the little boy wearing plastic gloves to pick up the remains of his family. Or the graves desecrated. Or the body of that small baby girl left alone in a tent because no one knew who she was or if her family was alive, small and alone and not one person who knew her name to bury her. Or the young boy who was shot in the street while his sister watched from the window. Or the men and boys who were stripped naked in winter. Or those tortured. Or those made to stand in open graves. Or the people who were raped by IOF soldiers. Or Palestinian workers kidnapped by the IOF and then labeled with wristbands, each one reduced to a number, then made to walk back to Gaza to be killed in the world's largest open air concentration camp. Or the people of Gaza starving because Israeli Zionists are blocking aid trucks. Or the Israelis dancing and celebrating the death of Palestinians. Or the lies spread by Zionists and their supporters. Or the people profiting off the oppression and deaths of Palestinians. Or the people of the West Bank being killed or kidnapped by the IOF. Or old woman who was older than the creation of the terror state of "Israel" who was shot by snipers for saying that. Or the Israelis dressed up as Palestinians to enter a hospital and kill three Palestinians in their beds. Or every single Palestinian currently kept in an Israeli prison. Or the journalists, doctors, poets, men, women, children, and the unborn all massacred. Or the fact that WCNSF exists now. Or the woman who refused to wash the blood from her hands. Or the dead, unburied and unmourned.

I'm never forgetting those who chose silence in the face of a genocide.

I may not know all their names but I will not forget the over 30,000 Palestinians dead. Or the over 60, 000 people hurt. Or the unknown number of people missing, still lost under the rubble. Or the 12,000 children slaughtered. An entire generation crippled or murdered.

I will never forget these things when Palestine is free.

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