𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫 | 𝐒. 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 ✔️

Chapter XV

"Get in," he whispers.

I don't hesitate. I climb through the window, my movements clumsy as I stumble over the ledge and land on the floor with a dull thud. "Smooth," he mutters from behind me, but I ignore him.

The moment I'm inside, the world seems to pause. I stare at my room—my room—like it's some strange artifact from a life I don't recognize anymore.

The walls are the same pale shade of blue, my old posters still taped up crookedly, the desk cluttered with knickknacks I used to care about.

It feels... warm. Familiar, but distant, like it belongs to someone else now.

I sink to the floor, leaning against the bed frame, and close my eyes for a second. Just a second. I breathe in deeply, the scent of home flooding my senses. It smells like dust and lavender, and it makes something ache deep in my chest.

"You good?" he whispers, still crouched by the window. His tone is softer now, cautious, like he's afraid to disrupt the fragile moment.

"Yeah," I say, but my voice cracks. I don't open my eyes. If I do, I might lose this fleeting sense of peace, and I can't afford that. Not yet.

He doesn't say anything else. For once, he just lets me be.

I run my fingers over the edge of the carpet, the worn texture grounding me. It's been so long since I've been here. Too long. I feel like a stranger in my own life, in my own space.

The warmth of the room wraps around me, but it doesn't erase the weight sitting heavy in my chest. I let my head fall back against the bed frame, exhaling shakily.

"I shouldn't have come back," I whisper, barely audible.

But part of me knows I needed to. Even if it hurts, even if it's suffocating, I needed this.

"Well, too late for that," Gojo says, smirking as he strides over to lock the door. "If your parents find a good-looking teenage boy in your room, they'll freeeak out," he adds with a laugh. "But hey, your mom's been in a good mood for the past 48 hours, so we can throw in the classic 'we're working on a project' excuse if things go south."

He flops down on my bed, sprawling out like he owns the place.

"Ugh, my bed!" I groan dramatically, quickly getting up from the floor and jumping onto it. The familiar plushness envelops me, and I let out a satisfied sigh. "So much better than someone's," I add with a playful grin, giving him a pointed look.

Gojo raises an eyebrow, catching on immediately. "Excuse me? Are you insulting my bed?"

"Calling it a bed is generous," I tease, fluffing the pillow under my head. "It's a glorified slab of foam. I don't know how you sleep on that thing."

He scoffs, sitting up and leaning on his elbows. "Oh, please. I'm starting to think you're just spoiled. My bed is perfectly fine. Comfortable, even."

"Comfortable for a rock, maybe," I shoot back, rolling onto my stomach and resting my chin on my hands. "This, though," I gesture dramatically to my bed, "is what dreams are made of."

Gojo rolls his eyes but grins. "You're so dramatic. It's just a bed."

"It's not just a bed. It's my sanctuary. My fortress of solitude. My—"

"Alright, alright," he interrupts, laughing as he raises his hands in mock surrender. "You win. Your bed is superior. Happy now?"

"Very," I say smugly, shifting to make myself even more comfortable.

He flops back down beside me, his head hanging slightly off the edge of the bed. "You're lucky your parents are nice."

I don't respond immediately, my eyes drifting to the untouched whiteboard leaning against the wall. My chest tightens when I see it.