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Gojo's POV:
At lunchtime—the central cafeteria is crowded, noisy and squalid; buzzing with a lot of students walking around, laughing loudly amongst themselves, chattering about what they're going to get up to on the weekend, slamming metal trays down on the tables.
I stand in the cafeteria doorway; eyes darting from one line to the next. The drool-worthy smell of greasy pizza wafts from the entryway that everyone is jammed into. Stick figures line both sides of the salad bar. Nothing but the rustle of plastic sounds from the right-hand line; chocolate wrappers, potato chips, candy. I glance at my wristwatch and internally growl. If they were going to give us so many choices, we should really get more than just twenty-five minutes for lunch. I make a mental note in my mind to mention this to Principal Yaga, later.
As I walk into the cafeteria, I notice that the lines are far too long. I'm really not willing to wait in any of them, because I simply cannot be bothered to converse with students I don't even know the names of. I have no interest in learning them, either. If they're not Itadori, Megumi and Nobara, or even my second-year students for that matter, then I just don't give a shit. I have also never been a patient man. I believe a lot of people would vouch for that.
With my hands resting in my pockets—I let out a hefty exhale. I can't stop thinking about the interaction I had with my ex-girlfriend yesterday. I can't seem to stop thinking about the fact that she's on Tinder now. Fucking Tinder. I know that I have Tinder, too—and the last thing I want to sound is hypocritical, but she's way too good for the guys on there. They're vultures, all they want is to get into a woman's pants. She definitely isn't going to find her Prince Charming on a deplorable app like that—all she will find are paupers and jesters. None that are worthy of her.
I shake my head from side to side. I don't know why I'm even talking like this. What she does now is none of my fucking business. We are broken up. If she wants to go on Tinder, then she has every right to explore the world of men who probably still live in their mother's basement. I am not part of that category, of course. Anyone who matches with me on Tinder has undoubtedly found the mythical pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
I notice that all of the Jujutsu Tech High staff are sitting around a long table; the table situated in the very far corner of the cafeteria—close enough to keep an eye on the students, but far enough to not be disrupted. [Y/N] is there, too; looking as radiant as ever, sitting next to Nanami. She's wearing a silky red blouse—make-me-sin red, matching the colour painting her lips; she looks equal parts seductive and innocent. It's fairly modest, all the buttons are done up, yet I can faintly see a tiny triangle of shadowed cleavage. Nobara is sitting opposite her, which she really shouldn't be, since she's not a fucking teacher.
I hook my thumbs into my pockets as I rock up to the table. Everyone stops what they're doing to look up at me, except Nanami, who appears to be scouring through his emails on his phone to even bother taking any notice of my presence. Right now, everyone is as significant as specks of dust lingering in the air to him, even [Y/N], and she has the ability to make everyone else in the room feel insignificant. On one end of the table are all the senior staff—teachers who are over the age of forty, on the other end are all the younger staff, which is where I belong. I won't deny that it's pretty segregated, but realistically, it's probably better this way. I don't think any of the older members of staff want to hear about the raunchy shit we get up to on the weekends, and I don't think we want to hear about how difficult the crossword puzzles were that morning. I clear my throat, standing behind Nobara, towering over her small frame.
