𝑭𝒂𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒆 | 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘬.

𝟐𝟓

The air was heavy with the significance of the moment. The courtyard, filled with the hum of excited conversation, seemed to pulse with the weight of goodbyes, of endings and beginnings. Rows of chairs stretched across the space, filled with students in their caps and gowns, each face reflecting a mix of anticipation and bittersweet emotion. Today wasn’t just a ceremony — it was the closing of a chapter, a farewell to years spent together, and the quiet, unspoken fears of what lay beyond.

Nanami Kento stood at the podium, his posture perfect, as always — composed, almost stoic. But those who knew him best would see the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his hand briefly tightened around the edges of the podium. This was his moment to speak, his moment to represent his class, to encapsulate years of memories and shared experiences into a few carefully chosen words. But more than that, there was something personal woven into his speech, something that only one person in the crowd would truly understand.

As he began, his voice was steady, smooth — the kind of voice that naturally commanded attention.

“Today, we stand at a crossroads, looking back at everything we’ve been through and looking ahead to what we can become,” he started, his words reverberating through the crowd. “For some of us, these past few years have been filled with triumphs, for others, challenges. But through it all, we’ve had one another. We’ve grown together, learned together, and now, we’ll move forward together.”

His gaze flicked across the crowd, but only briefly, because after those first few moments, his eyes found you — and held there. The crowd was vast, faces blending into one another, but when he looked at you, it was as though the world around him dimmed, and it was only the two of you. He continued, but there was something different in his tone now, something more vulnerable.

“Some of us,” he said, his voice softening ever so slightly, “have found people along the way who shaped our journey in ways we could never have predicted. People who became our anchors in times of doubt. People who gave us courage when we felt uncertain.”

His words hung in the air, and though they were spoken to the entire audience, you felt them like a gentle hand on your heart. There was a shift in the energy between you, a quiet intimacy forming even in the midst of this public setting. Your breath caught as his gaze lingered on you, his unspoken message clear: you were the anchor in his journey.

Nanami had never been one for grand declarations, but this moment — this was his way of expressing the depth of what you meant to him. His voice never wavered, never faltered, but you could feel the raw honesty beneath the surface, the way he allowed his heart to speak in a way only you could hear.

“Graduation is more than an ending,” he continued, tearing his eyes away to address the audience again, “it’s a promise. A promise to ourselves that we will take what we’ve learned and become something greater. That we will honor the people who stood by us, who pushed us to be better. And that we will carry their influence with us wherever we go.”

The crowd erupted in applause as Nanami stepped away from the podium, but even in that moment of collective celebration, all you could think about was him — the way he had looked at you, the way his words had felt like they were spoken only for you. When the applause died down and the ceremony continued, you caught his eyes across the space again, and in that brief exchange of smiles, a world of emotions passed between you. This was right. You had both made the right choice.

But then, a shadow appeared beside you, tall and familiar. Gojo Satoru.

You turned to face him, already sensing the weight of what was about to happen. Gojo had always been a larger-than-life figure in your life — his charisma, his wit, the effortless way he moved through the world. But now, there was a quietness in him that felt foreign, a depth to his expression that seemed to make time slow around you.