Shattered | Gojo Satoru

𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭 : 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓎-𝑜𝓃𝑒

Gojo's body collapses into the futon, exhaustion dragging him down faster than gravity itself. His limbs ache, the physical toll of the day mingling with the emotional storm he'd been trying to suppress for hours. But even now, as his eyes flutter shut, the image of Miyu remains burned behind his eyelids, flickering in and out of his mind like a ghost he couldn't grasp.

Sleep, when it finally takes him, comes in a heavy wave, wrapping him in an embrace so thick, so suffocating, it feels like he's sinking into the earth itself.

And then, there is nothing.

Nothing but the cold.

The air is crisp, biting against his skin like tiny needles. Darkness spreads all around him—vast, suffocating, empty. It's a familiar kind of cold, the type that reaches deep into the bones and clings to the marrow. He's standing in an endless expanse of night, the silence around him unsettling. The chill in the air pricks at his skin, but he doesn't shiver. Not yet.

Then, a warm breath stirs the nape of his neck.

"Miyu?"

Her name leaves his lips, and it's like it summons her.

Suddenly, the darkness recedes, giving way to something softer. He blinks, and there she is—Miyu, standing before him, her silver hair cascading down her back, her violet eyes shimmering softly, full of warmth and familiarity. She's dressed in her usual simple gown, the one she often wore at home, not in battle. The sight of her like this, the version of her he always cherished, tightens something in his chest.

He doesn't move at first. He's terrified this is another trick, another nightmare born from his own guilt. But Miyu's smile... it's so genuine. So painfully real. She steps toward him slowly, her fingers brushing against his cheek, and he feels the warmth there, the soft, human warmth he's longed for.

"Hey," she whispers, her voice like honey melting over his frozen soul. "You look tired, Satoru."

Her hand lingers on his face, her thumb brushing over his cheek, and the warmth spreads from where she touches him. It's comforting, tender, as if all the icy despair that's been coiling inside him melts under her touch.

"Yeah, well," he breathes out, his voice raw. He tries to joke, but it falters. His throat tightens. "It's been... hard."

She smiles, a soft, knowing smile, as if she understands every bit of the struggle he's been through. "You always overwork yourself."

The cold around him seems to retreat further as her arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him into her warmth. It feels so real—too real. His arms instinctively come up to wrap around her, holding her close, afraid to let go. His nose presses into her hair, breathing in that familiar scent, that unique softness that he's missed for so long.

This is the Miyu he remembers. The Miyu who understands him, sees through his jokes and bravado. The one who used to nag him to eat after he missed breakfast, lunch, or dinner because he was too busy. The Miyu who made sure there was always tea waiting for him when he returned home late, even though she pretended not to wait up for him.

She looks up at him now, her eyes tender. "You never take care of yourself unless I'm there to remind you."

The words hit harder than they should. He swallows, his fingers tightening their grip around her waist, pulling her closer. He closes his eyes, burying his face in her shoulder, inhaling her presence, wishing this moment would last forever.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt. "I wasn't... I didn't come. I should've come sooner."

Her hands slide up to cradle his head, fingers threading through his white hair. "Shh. You're here now."

"No." His chest tightens. "I'm not. I... I don't know where you are. I don't know how to find you."

She pulls back just enough to look at him, her expression soft yet sad. "You're looking too hard, Satoru. You've always done that. Sometimes..." she trails off, her thumb gently brushing against his temple. "Sometimes, you just need to stop looking and listen."

"Listen?" He frowns, confused.

"To yourself," she says simply, pressing her forehead against his. "To what you already know."

He opens his mouth to respond, but something in her gaze quiets him. It's a look filled with understanding, with a kind of knowing that reaches far beyond words. She's always been able to do that—to see through him, past the strongest sorcerer in the world, and into the parts of him that were still just... him.

He closes his eyes, his breath slowing as he focuses on the feeling of her against him. He focuses on the softness of her touch, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in sync with him.

"I miss this," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "I miss you."

"I'm still here," she says, though the sadness in her tone betrays her. "I'll always be with you, Satoru."

His heart lurches painfully in his chest, and his grip on her tightens as if by holding her close, he can stop her from slipping away. But as the cold air around them thickens again, he knows what's coming. He knows, but he doesn't want to acknowledge it.

"You're not going to stay, are you?" he asks, though the answer is already lodged in his chest.

Miyu gives him a small, sad smile. "No. Not right now."

His throat closes up, and he struggles to breathe, to speak. "But I—"

"I need you to be strong, Satoru," she whispers, pressing her palm to his chest, right over his heart. "For me. And for you."

"I don't want to lose you again."

"You haven't lost me," she promises, though her form begins to flicker at the edges, her warmth beginning to slip from his hold. "I'm still here."

The chill starts to creep back in, and despite how hard he tries to hold on, she's slipping from his grasp. His fingers dig into her, but her form becomes intangible, like mist between his fingers.

"Miyu, please," he breathes, desperation clawing at his chest. "Don't go."

She places a gentle kiss on his forehead, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I'm sorry."

And just like that, she's gone.

Gojo wakes with a sharp gasp, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. The darkness of his room feels oppressive, too thick, too quiet. His arms reach out instinctively, but all he finds is the cold, empty space beside him.

She's gone.

Again.

And the ache in his chest is worse than before.