𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 | 𝐒. 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✔️

Chapter VII

I stare up at the ceiling. I've been lying on the floor for at least an hour and a half now. Books are scattered everywhere, crumpled balls of paper surround me like a bad attempt at modern art, and the few tears that escaped earlier are now dry on my cheeks.

I've been searching for answers—anything that might lead me to how I can go back to my body—but it's all in vain. Every idea, every thought feels like a dead end. Slowly, the thought is creeping in: What if I never leave this body?

The idea makes my stomach turn, and I groan, tossing another paper ball toward the trash can. It misses, just like the rest, rolling under the bed to join the growing pile of failures.

"This sucks," I mutter to no one, dragging a hand down my face. Gojo's face. It feels foreign every time I touch it. It's hard to come to terms with this new reality—his hair, his skin, his everything. It doesn't feel like mine, no matter how much I move or act. It's like wearing a costume I can't take off.

I sit up slowly, glaring at the mess around me. "How does he even function?" I grumble, pushing a stack of books aside. "He probably doesn't even do his own homework. Bet he just wings everything."

The thought makes me laugh bitterly. Of course he wings it. Gojo Satoru's whole life is a breeze, while I'm stuck here struggling to figure out how to live as him.

And now, I'm not just fighting for a way out of this mess—I'm fighting not to lose myself in the process.

I grab my phone—my actual phone, not Gojo's—and unlock it. It feels strangely comforting holding it, like a tiny piece of familiarity in this insane situation. I scroll to his number, hesitating for a moment before typing out a message.

Me: How's it going?
I pause, delete it, and type again.

Me: You alive over there?

I hit send and stare at the screen, waiting for a reply. It doesn't take long before the typing bubbles appear, and then his response comes through:

Gojo : Surviving. Barely. Your dad asked me to help him move some furniture, and I swear I pulled a muscle. Is this what normal people do for fun?

I roll my eyes, already annoyed.

Me: Yes, it's called helping out. Welcome to my life. Did you at least manage to make lunch?

Gojo: ...Does throwing some eggs on toast count?

I groan, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.

Me: Did Dad eat it?

Gojo: He said, and I quote, "Not bad, kiddo." So I think I nailed it.

I don't know whether to laugh or scream.

Me: Great. Just don't burn the house down.

Gojo: No promises. Btw, what's with your mom yelling about some shirt?

I freeze for a second. Oh, no.

Me: What shirt?

Gojo: Something about leaving your laundry in the machine too long?

I slap a hand over my face. Of course. She hates when I forget to switch the laundry over.

Me: Apologize. Like, a lot.

Gojo: Ugh, fine. But you owe me for this.

I toss the phone down beside me and let out a long sigh. He's still alive, and so is my house—barely. That's a win, I guess.

Still, the idea of Gojo navigating my life makes my anxiety spike. If he messes up too much, it's going to make switching back even harder.

The phone buzzes again, and I groan before grabbing it. Another message from Gojo.