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It’s an ordinary afternoon when he finds it.
Satoru walks down the empty halls of Jujutsu Tech, sipping at the can of soda he just pulled from the vending machine. The carbonation stings pleasantly at the back of his throat.
Outside, wind stirs the trees, sending shadows shifting across the polished wooden floors in long, lazy patterns. His footsteps echo in the quiet.
Suguru’s not here right now—off on another mission, of course. Satoru had just missed him returning from his own. Now there’s no one to bother, no one to drag into whatever dumb idea pops into his head.
He doesn’t even think about it when he turns toward the dorms, feet carrying him down the familiar path. By now, Suguru’s room feels as much like his own as his actual room does.
He nudges the door open with his shoulder, letting it swing shut behind him, and flops across the mattress without a second thought. The blanket smells faintly like Suguru and his laundry detergent. Satoru breathes it in, letting the familiarity settle over him.
He thumbs at his phone, firing off a few texts that get no reply. Not that he’s expecting one. Suguru’s busy.
Satoru rolls over to stare at the ceiling, bored. He could train more, maybe try to hone his teleportation skills—he hasn’t quite gotten it down yet. But the thought slips away almost instantly. Right now, what he wants most is simple. He wants to see Suguru. To hear him talk, to push back when Satoru teases, to just exist in the same space.
Hanging out in his room is the best alternative Satoru can get right now.
He props himself up after a while, restless energy buzzing under his skin. His eyes land on the desk across the room. If he remembers right, Suguru keeps his Tamagotchi in one of those drawers.
He slides into the chair, tugging open the first drawer. Inside it are pens scattered in no real order, a few receipts, and some notebooks stacked unevenly. Satoru rummages through it, muttering to himself. “Come on..”
His hand stills.
Half-buried under the clutter is a folded sheet of paper. The handwriting on the outside is unmistakably Suguru’s, neat and sharp.
Satoru almost pushes it aside—probably notes from some briefing, or an old draft of a report. He’s about to keep digging when he notices the first word inked across the top.
His name.
Satoru’s curiosity prickles. He brushes the receipts and notebooks aside with one sweep of his hand, tugging the page free.
The contents of it are short, only taking up half the page.
Satoru,
It reads.
I can’t do this. Being here, with you.
I thought maybe it would pass, that I’d get used to it, but I haven’t. If anything, it’s worse. When I look at you, I see everything I will never be, and it makes me want to tear myself apart. I don’t belong here.
I can’t lie to myself anymore. I can’t keep pretending that I do.
With every line, Satoru’s heart sinks further.
I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not. Not for how I feel. The only regret I have is that I let it get this far. That I let you think we were fine
It stops there.
Satoru stares at the page, the words swimming until they blur into black streaks. His grip tightens, the paper bending and crumpling under his fingers. A faint ringing fills his ears, drowning out everything else.
What?
The thought is jagged, useless.
The room tilts, spins—he grabs the edge of the desk before he can sway, but even the wood feels unsteady under his palm. His pulse hammers against his ribs, too loud, too fast.
This isn’t real. It can’t be.
Suguru would’ve said something. He would’ve… he wouldn’t just leave this here for him to find.
But it’s his handwriting. His voice between the lines. Every careful stroke of the pen screams Suguru.
Satoru lowers the letter slowly, his chest rising and falling harshly.
He doesn’t understand.
Suguru was his usual self the last time they saw each other. He kissed Satoru goodbye—like always. Wished him luck—like always. His smile was warm, the kind that crinkled his eyes. He looked at him the way he always does—like Satoru was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
So what the hell was this? What happened?
The paper trembles in his hands. Did he do something? Miss something? His chest hurts. The room is still spinning.
His fingers fumble with his phone, muscle memory pulling up Suguru’s contact. He calls.
Once. Twice. The ringing drones in his ear until it cuts off into silence.
He calls again.
And again.
By the seventh time, his hands are shaking so badly the phone nearly slips from his grip.
By the twelfth, his throat is raw from muttering Suguru’s name under his breath, like maybe saying it will force him to pick up.
The twenty-fourth attempt dies the same way. No answer. Just a dark screen staring back at him.
He wants to crush the phone in his palm, wants to watch it shatter into pieces, but he can’t let it go—what if Suguru answers the next one?
What if this is all some mistake?
His breathing won’t calm, chest tight, heart hammering hard enough to hurt.
Could Suguru really leave like this? Just walk away? Write a letter and vanish without even saying it to his face?
What is Satoru supposed to do now?
. . . .
Suguru
Yesterday 13:35
>Receptions kinda bad up here
>I’ll call u when it gets better
OK<
Today 16:43
When r u coming back<
I’m bored<
Today 16:45
Miss u<
Today 16:47
Suguru what the fuck is this<
I don’t understand<
What do you mean??<
Answer me<
Today 16:52
You’re not funny<
Pick up<
Suguru<
Talk to me<
Today 17:15
Pick up the goddamn phone.<
Geto Suguru<
Where are you??<
Answer the phone<
Today 17:32
Suguru<
are you serious??<
respond<
please<
Say something<
Today 18:02
talk to me<
Suguru<
what happened?<
Today 18:15
Suguru<
Today 19:22
Just tell me youre okay<
please<
. . . .
The week passes like this.
Suguru can’t be reached by anyone. No calls. No messages. Not Satoru, not Shoko, not even Nanami or Haibara or Yaga. Satoru refuses to give up.
He’s this close—this close—to going after him himself.
He would, if only the letter didn’t feel so final.
Suguru wrote that he doesn’t regret anything. That he doesn’t belong here, with Satoru. That he doesn’t regret anything.
The words burn the back of Satoru’s throat every time they resurface in his mind.
Did he do something wrong? Was this his fault?
Suguru said he didn’t belong with him. Did Satoru not make it clear enough that Suguru mattered to him more than anything? Did he not show him, in every way he knew how, that he needed him? That Suguru was everything? Every smile, every word, every casual touch Satoru thought spoke for itself—was it never enough?
Did Suguru really believe he didn’t belong by his side?
Why hadn’t Satoru noticed? They promised each other openness, that they wouldn’t hide anything from the other anymore. Why hadn’t Suguru told him, or even hinted at what was going on?
Why bury the letter so deep in the desk, hidden under scraps and notebooks? Somewhere Satoru would never look on any other day? Was Suguru planning for him to stay in the dark? To wake one morning and find the person he loved gone, no explanation, no reasoning, just absence?
Did he really want Satoru to learn the truth only by accidentally stumbling across it? A letter that provides no answers. Just a goodbye. Final.
The thought makes Satoru’s stomach twist. Did he really mean so little to Suguru? So little that all he left behind was a piece of paper to end everything?
He closes his eyes. His fists clench so tightly his nails bite into his palms. He wants to throw up. He wants to see Suguru, just once, to hear him say it to his face instead of through ink on a page.
And this is what Satoru’s days have become. Staring at nothing, sitting in silence, replaying everything until it blurs together. Every laugh. Every kiss. Every whispered word that maybe never meant what he thought it did.
The questions circle endlessly. What did he miss? Where did it all fall apart?
Why won’t Suguru just talk to him? Just one more time?
. . . .
Satoru is sent on another mission.
The distraction is welcome, at first.
At first, he welcomes the distraction. The only thing that matters is exorcising the curse in front of him. Not Suguru. Not the hollow ache clawing at his chest.
But the focus doesn’t last.
At first, he welcomes the distraction. The only thing that matters is exorcising the curse in front of him. Not Suguru. Not the hollow ache clawing at his chest.
But the focus doesn’t last.
Mid-battle, his mind drifts. He remembers the last morning with Suguru. The way sunlight hit the dark strands of his hair, the warmth of the smile he gave him before he left. That smile—the one that made Satoru’s heartbeat flutter—now feels like a lie, a cruel joke. Did Suguru already know he was leaving? Was that why he smiled so warmly? Did he already plan this goodbye while pretending everything was normal?
Were any of their moments together real? Did Suguru ever mean it, or was he just playing along?
When he reaches the front entrance of Jujutsu Tech after two days of being out, the weight of it all crashes over him. His limbs drag like lead, his head aches from lack of sleep, and every part of him screams to just collapse right there on the concrete stairs. If Suguru were here, he would’ve wanted his arms around him, steadying him, holding him up.
But Suguru isn’t.
Why would Suguru—
Satoru straightens abruptly.
A sharp, electric prickle surges at the back of his head. His breath catches. That familiar Cursed Energy hums in his bones, undeniable.
Suguru.
The world bends, warps, snaps, until the outside blurs out of existence and he’s suddenly standing in Suguru’s room. The shock of teleporting right for the first time doesn’t even register; his chest is too tight, his pulse too wild.
His eyes land on Suguru instantly.
Suguru sits on the bed like he hasn’t been gone at all. Hair undone, loose on his shoulders. Surprise flickers over his face for an instant before he offers Satoru a small, soft smile, like Satoru hasn’t spent the past few nights wondering what the hell happened to him.
“Sa—”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Satoru’s voice cracks. His fists clench, his whole body wound so tight he’s practically vibrating. He can’t breathe.
Suguru blinks, taken aback. His small smile falters. “Satoru, what—”
“Suguru, why did—“ His chest heaves. “Why are you here right now?”
All week, he’s been desperate to see Suguru. To talk, just one more time. Yet, now that he’s here, Satoru can’t even figure out how to stand upright.
“Satoru—“
“Where the hell have you been? Why are you back after—”
Suguru rises quickly from the bed, both hands up, careful, like he’s afraid to startle him further. “Satoru, hey—hey. Slow down. Talk to me. What happened?”
Satoru staggers back a step. “You couldn’t just say it to my face? You had to leave me a fucking letter? I thought—”
“Letter?” Suguru echoes, brows furrowing. “What are you talking about? Satoru—”
“You couldn’t even call me? You had to—” Satoru’s throat closes up; he swallows hard against it. “Why are you back here now?”
“Call—? My phone—” Suguru shakes his head quickly, words tumbling out. “The curse wrecked it, I couldn’t—”
“Then what the fuck was the letter?”
“What letter—? Satoru, please, breathe—”
“The letter.” Satoru’s voice wavers. “The one you left for me. The one that says you’re leaving.”
“Leaving—? Why would I—” Suguru’s brows knit deeper, his gaze flicking over Satoru’s face, down his shaking hands, back up again. “Satoru, why the hell would I ever want to leave?”
Something inside Satoru snaps. A sound slips out of him, half-laugh, half-sob, ugly and broken. He’s so tired he could collapse right there. “Don’t—don’t play with me right now. I can’t—”
He strides to the desk before he loses the rest of his composure. His hand yanks open the drawer, pulling out the sheet of paper that’s faintly crumpled from the way Satoru’s been gripping it these past few days.
He doesn’t speak. He can’t. He just thrusts it out, shoving it against Suguru’s chest.
Suguru catches it clumsily, eyes darting over the page. His mouth presses into a thin line. For a second—just a second—a flicker of recognition shadows his face.
And that’s all the confirmation Satoru needs. He sinks onto Suguru’s desk chair, hand tugging at the roots of his hair.
For a long moment, the room is silent except for Satoru’s ragged breaths and the faint rustle of the letter in his hand.
“Oh,” Suguru exhales.
Satoru’s eyes burn instantly. His throat tightens. The letter had already gutted him, and now, hearing Suguru’s voice, feels like it’s grinding the blade in deeper.
Suguru looks down at the paper in his hand, fingers tightening around it. Then he crumples it slowly, deliberately. “Satoru, I wrote this… a while ago.”
Satoru blinks hard, forcing air into his lungs. His voice scrapes raw on the way out. “A while ago…? What the hell does that even mean?”
So Suguru did write the letter. This past week wasn’t some nightmare or some cruel joke. Suguru meant everything he wrote. Suguru had really wanted to leave.
Suguru’s jaw tightens.
Silence stretches between them, dragging Satoru’s thoughts into darker corners until it’s unbearable.
Finally, Suguru starts again, voice low, “After—” He swallows, gaze flickering away. “Last summer.”
Satoru’s throat works. “Last summer?”
Suguru nods slowly, lifting his eyes to meet Satoru’s. “Yeah… I wrote it then.”
Satoru knows what he’s saying. He remembers.
He remembers Suguru in those days—the hollow look in his eyes, the way he spoke like every word was a chore. He remembers one night, half-asleep on the common room couch, Suguru muttering that he didn’t think there was a point to being a jujutsu sorcerer anymore. Satoru thought he had misheard at first, but Suguru didn’t correct himself.
They argued. Satoru couldn’t accept it, not from Suguru of all people. Suguru had been the one to tell him jujutsu exists to protect non-jujutsu sorcerers, that the strong were supposed to protect the weak.
Hearing him doubt that—hearing him strip away his own humanity—shook Satoru more than any curse could.
He remembers the hours after, pacing the room, pressing Suguru for answers, refusing to let him slip away into silence again. He remembers the way Suguru’s mask cracked, how the fight ended not in anger but in Suguru shutting down entirely, withdrawing so far that Satoru could barely reach him.
That was the moment Satoru found just how bad it was. How close Suguru had come to vanishing. Not just from his life, but from himself, from everything that made him Suguru. The thought terrified Satoru.
He swore then, to keep Suguru tethered in any way he was able to. He pushed when Suguru withdrew, sat with him through the silences, did whatever he could to drag him out of his own head. And slowly, painfully, Suguru had clawed his way back.
Now, sitting in front of him, those memories crash back all at once.
Satoru drops the hand tugging on his hair. His throat feels tight. “You… you were really going to leave? Just like that?”
Suguru doesn’t deny it. “I thought about it.”
Satoru presses his lips into a line.
Suguru crouches slowly in front of him, reaching for one of Satoru’s hands. His fingers are warm, grounding, rough against Satoru’s palm.
“I’m not that person anymore,” he says quietly. “I’m here now, Satoru. I’m not going anywhere. I swear.”
“…Why do you still have it?”
“I forgot about it. Honestly.” Suguru swallows hard, his gaze flicking to the crumpled paper clenched in his other hand. “I didn’t want you to see it. I’m not proud of it. But I don’t think like that anymore. Not with you. You—” he shakes his head, searching for words. “You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Being with you… that’s the only thing I’m sure of.”
“God, you’re—” Satoru’s voice cuts off. He meets Suguru’s gaze, the fight bleeding out of him. “You mean it?”
Suguru nods without hesitation. The paper slips from his hand as he lifts his palm to cup Satoru’s jaw. “I do.”
Something cracks in Satoru’s chest. He presses his hand over Suguru’s, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you left.”
“I didn’t.” Suguru exhales, thumb brushing gently beneath Satoru’s eye. “I’m right here.”
Satoru leans in, closing the space between them. “I love you,” he breathes against Suguru’s lips. He’d say it as many times as he needs to to have Suguru understand the sheer depth of what he feels for him. “I love you—so much.”
Then his mouth is back on Suguru’s, hard and rough, all the ache of his absence spilling out in a desperate kiss.
“I’m here, Satoru,” Suguru murmurs.
Satoru’s laugh is half a sob. “Don’t do that to me again.”
His lips find Suguru’s again, urgent, needy—like he’s trying to make up for all the days of silence, all the nights spent replaying Suguru’s words in his mind. He doesn’t want even an inch of space between them, not even for a second. Not now. Not ever.
Suguru responds immediately, lips warm, firm, and insistent against his own.
A low sound rumbles at the back of Suguru’s throat, and Satoru swallows it down like oxygen. It grounds him, it proves Suguru is here, solid and warm and in his grasp. He didn’t leave.
Satoru fists his hands in the front of Suguru’s shirt, then his hair, then his shoulders, everywhere he can reach, desperate to anchor himself.
That night, he doesn’t let Suguru go. He couldn’t, even if he tried.
Suguru could have walked away. If Satoru hadn’t confronted him back then, maybe he would have.
Suguru brushes a hand over Satoru’s cheek, murmuring that he looks exhausted, urging him to wash up, to rest. The words are gentle, but there’s no space to argue. Satoru doesn’t try. He goes through the motions only because Suguru stays beside him the whole time, a steady shadow at his back, a quiet reassurance.
Later, in the dark of Suguru’s room, the last of Satoru’s fight finally ebbs. Suguru slips an arm around him, drawing him close. Satoru buries his face against Suguru’s shoulder, breathing in that familiar, clean scent, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.
Suguru’s fingers trace gentle circles along Satoru’s back, soothing, careful, almost hypnotic. Satoru closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm of Suguru’s heartbeat, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest. The steady warmth, the quiet presence—it’s everything he’s been aching for all week.
For the first time in days, Satoru finally relaxes. He drifts to sleep pressed against Suguru, letting go of every fear, every worry, every doubt. He knows Suguru is here with him. He hasn’t left. He won’t leave.
And in this moment, holding Suguru is all that matters.