break my heart again // gojo satoru x reader

i love you

a/n:  you asked, and you shall receive! this is part 2 of gojo's POV of break my heart again- while writing this i got a few ideas, so there'll be a part 4 (where you get back at gojo because apparently i made everyone hate gojo) and a part 5 (where you've happily moved on- it's set around 4 years in the future and what happens then ) and MAYBE a part 5 (fluff about when you were in your relationship), but only if y'all ask politely.

recommended listening: i love you by billie eilish

gonna be honest though, depression hit me like a freaking truck this week, so it might not be as good, so please, please, give me constructive yet not overly harsh criticism :)

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I don't want to, but I love you.

Weren't breakups supposed to be messy?

Weren't you supposed to be screaming and yelling at his face right now? Weren't you supposed to be ripping his heart into shreds? Wasn't he supposed to be crying into your chest, begging and screaming? Wasn't his heart supposed to have been hurting with an indescribable pain?

Weren't you losing the love of your life?

But you just bent over the luggage, slowly folding your clothes into neat piles, not even one tear dropping from the corners of your eyes. So he didn't react. He didn't dare pout, he didn't dare cry. He wasn't going to let you know that he was hurt- he needed you to hate him, to the fullest extent. So he just stood there, leaning against the kitchen counter, not even a splash of upset evident on his face, as he watched.

Stretching your arms to reach the cabinet above him, he was yearning for a reaction- on both sides. Any reaction.

He wanted you to lean down and slap his cheek- the smack swift and loud, echoing through the room and in his ears, the rosy blush and sting starting to creep up his cheek, flushing the cheeks, giving him a rosy shade.

He wanted to crouch down on the floor on his knees, looking down at the floor as he embraced your legs, pressing them into his chest, tears spilling down his oculars, drenching your trousers.

He wanted you to climb up on the counter next to him, place a soft hand on his thigh, and ask him to explain why he did everything that he did- why he had to hurt you so deeply- and he would break down in front of you, burying his head into the crook of your neck, apologising fervently, telling you that he just wanted to protect you.

He wanted to reach up and help you open the cabinet, out of sympathy, because it was just that bit too much out of reach.

But he didn't. He just stood there, arms crossed, his gaze never once leaving you.

You couldn't take it anymore.

"What is your problem?" you growled.

"Nothing," he sing-songed nonchalantly, waving his fingers.

Goodness. Those weren't the words he wanted to say. He wanted to reassure you that he didn't mean it- that he really did love you- that he was doing all of this out of guilt, out of fear, but the words simply withered away on his tongue before he could form any of them.

He wanted to tell you why he was never home those many months ago- why he was in his office all night, just not daring to ever go back home too early, begging you to start to fall out of love with him so he wouldn't have to break your heart.

But he didn't say it. He didn't show you the despair and regret that were bubbling on the surface. He didn't show him the tears that were threatening to fall. He wasn't going to let him see him fall apart into pieces- he needed you to feel absolutely zero sympathies towards him.