Chapter Text
***
Utahime saw herself seated at the back of the classroom, chin cradled in one palm, the other hand tracing idle loops with her pen across a nearly blank notepad. Her posture said it all—an artful kind of detachment.
But there was something different about this other version of her. Something not immediately noticeable—like a shift in the light you only recognize once it’s gone. Her skin had a quiet luminescence, as though lit from within. Her features looked finer somehow, sculpted. The line of her jaw, the taper of her cheek—softened and sharpened all at once. She was glowing, in the way dusk glows just before surrendering to night.
Strange.
Utahime watched as her few-months-younger self looked up, her gaze drifting toward someone seated a few chairs away—slouched low in his seat, legs sprawled as if he owned the very floor, one foot toying with the chair in front of him, nudging it just close enough to collapse without toppling it.
Gojo.
His head was already turned, eyes fixed on her. And on his face was the oddest expression—like the stunned wonder of a man stumbling upon a wildflower blooming in the ashes of a battlefield. It didn’t suit the room, or the meeting, or the topic at hand.
He mocked a serious face, brow furrowed in exaggerated disapproval, and jabbed a stern finger at her notepad. The past Utahime squinted, her brows knitting in confusion.
He reached into his pocket, drew out his phone, and began typing. A second later, her screen blinked to life.
From behind him—here, in reality—Utahime’s voice broke through softly. “I remember what you had texted me. It was something like… ‘Why are you doodling?’”
Gojo didn’t look away from the memory. He spoke slowly, the words laced with a peculiar mix of melancholy and humor.
“Yeah. It was strange… seeing you like that. You weren’t listening to their presentation. You weren’t taking notes—which I thought was your idea of recreation—or jumping in with your suggestions…” he lifted his fingers in the air, quoting with dry irony, “‘to fix the strategy.’”
He let out a breath—a sound that flirted with laughter but never quite became one. “It was almost like looking at a new person.”
He turned to her as he said it, but she was already drawn back in, her gaze fixed on her past self—who was now doing something startlingly uncharacteristic, just as Gojo had said.
She glanced toward the front of the room, quick and discreet, checking to be sure no one was watching. Then, with a hesitation that gave it away as unnatural—almost like trying on mischief for the first time—she flicked her hand toward the group in a vague gesture and made a silent gagging face.
A sharp, barely-stifled snort burst from past Gojo, drawing a quick glare from Kusakabe, who turned in his seat just long enough to shoot him an annoyed look before facing forward again.
Gojo didn’t even notice. His face had lit up, more boyish than ever, his eyes narrowing with unguarded delight, burrowing deeper into Utahime.
And then—
It happened again.
This Utahime shimmered into clearer, more breathtaking focus—too breathtaking. It was as if some unseen hand were retouching her in real time: smoothing the light across the slope of her nose, refining the curve of her brows, deepening the color in her lips. Even the fall of her hair looked gorgeous, catching light like silk, framing her face with a precision that felt too perfect to be accidental. She looked unreal—like a portrait painted by someone hopelessly in love.
And then, stranger still, the rest of the classroom began to blur.
The lens of the world had suddenly shifted.
The small gathering at the front lost their edges first—then their voices, their words stretching into elongated echoes, distant and unintelligible.
Only she remained vivid.
A chill licked down the spine of the present-day Utahime. She whipped her head around.
Gojo was standing a few paces away, his long fingers trailing along the corner of a worn wooden bench. His eyes were fixed on something she couldn’t see. Beneath his hand, etched faintly into the grain, were the shallow scars of initials—old names carved in some long-forgotten bit of mischief.
“Gojo, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice low and wary.
He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicked toward his past self—the one still seated, phone in hand, thumbs moving. A second later, the past Utahime glanced at her own screen. Her expression barely changed. She simply slid toward the edge of her seat, quiet as a shadow, and slipped through the exit at the back of the room.
No one noticed.
A beat later, the other Gojo stood, pocketed his phone, and followed. And no one noticed that either.
Utahime asked again. “Why this memory? I remember it—nothing unusual happened. We just… talked. On the balcony.”
Once more, Gojo didn’t answer.
But his silence carried a different weight this time. It wasn’t brooding or heavy with thought, like in the other memories—it was almost bashful. The kind of silence born of too much awareness. A flush crept up his neck, blooming soft color beneath his cheekbones. His lashes flickered with nervous insistence, and his gaze wandered anywhere but to her face—as if even a glance might give something away.
“Let’s go,” he said at last, a little too quickly. It was all he could manage—and even that sounded like an escape.
Utahime didn’t press him further.
They followed their past versions—radiant with a kind of carefree ease that had no business belonging to that day, drifting toward the far balcony as if the sky weren’t about to fall.
From this third-person vantage, Utahime realized—startlingly—how absurd the entire scene felt.
Late-afternoon light slanted across the corridor, catching in her past self’s hair as she leaned over the railing, gazing out toward the training grounds below. A few feet away from her stood the memory-version of Gojo, his back pressed to the rail. His posture was as casual as ever—hands tucked into his pockets, one foot crossed loosely over the other—but his head was, once again, turned toward her.
Utahime paused beside the present-day Gojo, who now hovered silently near the corridor wall, his expression unreadable. Her gaze returned to his past self’s face—on the light in his eyes, the unmistakable glint of fascination. The thing she hadn’t seen the first time, because she’d been facing the horizon instead of him.
He spoke. “You don’t agree with the plan?” His voice was light—but beneath its practiced calm was a quiet insistence, as though he didn’t quite wish to reveal how much her answer mattered to him.
The past Utahime shook her head in an exaggerated arc. “No.”
It was a tease, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth—as if this were a game she knew how to win. And in saying no, she’d just claimed the first point.
Utahime—the real one—felt it before she saw it. His eyes—already brilliant—flared, as though threads of sunlight had been pulled through a summer sky, shimmering gold stitched through the blue.
He looked at her past self, truly looked, the way an artist might study the delicate contours of a beloved muse—committing every line to memory. His lips curved slightly at one corner, a half-smile so quiet it felt like a secret. And he looked—damn him—handsome. Not in that insufferably smug way he often was, but with a softness that disarmed.
Utahime’s pulse quickened.
But her other version remained entirely unaware, her gaze now watching the shifting hues of the late-afternoon sky.
Then his voice rose again, now pitched to match her mischief.
“Why?” he asked, the lilt in his tone a near echo of hers. “It’s a sound plan. They’re just trying to find ways to keep using my CT, in case, you know…”
“Well… I don’t think we’ll ever reach that point,” she said, a mild shrug accompanying the words.
Gojo tilted his head. “That’s awfully bold of you to assume. And here I thought I was the overconfident one.”
She turned toward him, one brow arching with a quiet sort of challenge. “Why are you so uninterested, then? If it’s such a sound plan, why haven’t you said a word since walking into the classroom? All you’ve done is stare at me. And text me.”
“Because,” he chuckled, the sound spilling out before he could dam it, “you’re the only thing in my life these days that makes me laugh.”
The words landed too fast, too true.
In an instant, the ease in him snapped taut. He cleared his throat—too briskly. His eyes darted elsewhere, fingers tugging at the cuff of his sleeve, as if it suddenly needed adjustment. It was pure instinct—his way of retreating behind the smirk before anyone could ask what those words might’ve meant.
“I’ve got a meeting with Yuta later,” he said, his voice sailing back into its usual irreverence. “We’ll run through the swapping again. I already know everything they’re going over in there.”
A lazy flick of his hand followed. “And if I miss something, Yuta’ll fill me in anyway. That kid doesn’t miss a beat—so serious. Takes notes and everything.”
A pause. Then a sideways glance, mischief blooming. “Are you sure you two aren’t related?”
She rolled her eyes in that slow, theatrical way that suggested she’d done it too many times to count where he was concerned.
Then he couldn’t help but ask again, curiosity bleeding through. “Do you really think I’d win?” His lips smiled, but there was no jest in his voice this time—only something quieter, more intent.
Utahime slowly nodded, her hands resting lightly on the railing. “I do.”
His brows lifted—just briefly. Then his gaze dropped again, settling on a loose thread caught on his uniform. He plucked at it absently, buying himself a breath.
“There’ll be surprises thrown at me,” he murmured. “And I’ll give it everything I’ve got, but… it’s better to be prepared.”
She watched him in profile—those sharp, reckless features drawn into an unusual solemnity. The shadows of late afternoon fell across his face like brushstrokes.
“Logically, yes,” she said quietly, “but do they have to talk about it in front of you like that? So casually?”
He blinked, turning toward her. “What do you mean?”
Honest confusion. And it almost broke her heart—both her present self and the one within the memory—to see how accustomed he was to it. The cold pragmatism of hearing about his own possible demise, as if it were just another bi-weekly meeting topic.
Her past self’s gaze didn’t waver. “Death,” she said, shaping the word gently, “is not a light subject to consider. Not for anyone.” Her voice slightly faltered, then steadied again. “Not even for you.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just the subtle movement of his throat as he swallowed, the faintest furrow between his brows. One hand curled around the railing, knuckles whitening.
“It is personal,” she went on, her voice low but firm. “The idea of it shouldn’t be so… clinical.”
“They asked for my permission,” Gojo tried to reason, attempting an even tone.
But she didn’t seem to hear him. Her hand moved in a sharp, impatient arc, as if brushing aside invisible dust.
“The repeated discussions,” she said tightly, “... are stripping the humanity out of it. The grief. The weight of what it means.”
His gaze flickered. “Utahime,” he said, voice a shade louder. “I agreed.”
That did it.
A muscle twitched in her jaw, a vein becoming visible near her temple. “That doesn’t mean you’ve forfeited the right to be flesh and blood.”
Her voice kept rising, “You are powerful, yes. You have great influence, yes. But that doesn’t say that you don’t feel fear. Or that you shouldn’t be allowed to.” She stepped closer, and though her hands stayed at her sides, her presence seemed to press against him like a force.
“You’re still a person. You still have them… fears, don’t you?” Her eyes searched his. “And I’m sure—no matter how casually you speak of it—death is one of them.”
Gojo looked as though he didn’t quite know what to do with the shape of her words—tender things strung with barbs and starlight. They came wrapped in a softness that could wound, and a danger that felt like mercy.
There was a twitch in his hands—half-formed muscle memory, seeking the safety of his pockets—but even that seemed oddly uncertain. His eyes blinked—once, twice, three times—too many for it to feel natural.
Just like a few minutes ago in the classroom, Utahime realized. That restless quiet. That same evasiveness. A man who could fracture the earth with a flick of his finger… now looking like he wanted to disappear into the seams of his uniform.
And then—again—the subtle shift in her other self.
Her long lashes had darkened, casting shadows across her cheeks like the sweep of wings passing over moonlight. And when her gaze met his again, the brown of her irises had molten. Like sunlight caught in syrup.
Gojo, scrambling for higher ground, finally managed to pull a grin. It limped across his mouth—half-born, all awkward angles.
“Aww,” he said, his voice dressed in a lightness, “you think this much about your idiot kouhai?” But there was that strange tremble, as if he were holding something in. Something she wasn't supposed to know.
She rolled her eyes again. Didn’t bother letting him interrupt. Just pressed on.
“And you’re only twenty-nine.”
He raised a brow at that, something in him lifting. “And what’s that got to do with anything?”
Utahime hesitated, her eyes lowering to the sliver of floor between them. “Well…” she said, “there must be things you still want to do in your life.”
“These conversations in your presence…” Her hands moved in the air, tracing her thoughts. “They steal those hopes from you.”
A pause.
“And I think everyone has the right to hope. Right until the moment they die.”
Her voice caught for a moment.
“Otherwise… what’s the point of living?”
Another beat passed.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” she said softly, “and I’ll stop talking. Right now.”
Gojo didn’t speak. Couldn’t, actually. A laugh tumbled from him instead—nervous, breathless, like it had tripped on the way out. His gaze grazed over her face again, and then just for a second—too quick for her past self to notice—it landed on her mouth.
The color of her lips deepened even more—suddenly looked... ruinous. The kind that made a man want to press his mouth to it, helpless and half out of his mind.
Utahime’s breath caught in her throat. Heat climbed from her collarbones, uninvited and all too alive. The wintry air no longer cooled her skin. She reached up, brushing her temple to wipe away the sweat that had begun to gather.
Almost out of reflex, she glanced at the real Gojo.
To her horror, he was already watching her. Anxiously. Measuring.
And the moment he realized she’d seen it—the change in her memory self—a muscle ticked at the corner of his jaw. His eyes slid shut like the world had just grown too bright. He tipped his head back against the wall with a quiet thud.
Then almost too low to hear: “I hate this curse.”
Utahime pulled her attention back to the memory, where her past self now tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she asked,
“Don’t you have things you want to do before you die? You know… other than this sorcery business?”
Gojo stilled.
He drew in a long breath—slow, deliberate—but the exhale came fractured, uneven. A swallow followed, dry and audible, as if even the air had turned treacherous in his throat.
And then, he shifted, edging closer to her. Something in him strained toward the narrowing space between them. His lips parted—hesitant, searching.
He was going to say something that needed courage.
Something that carried weight. And heart.
He stopped for a second, breath trembling, suspended between confession and retreat. Then his eyes softened—blue sky catching firelight, meeting honey lit from within.
But—
“Hey, Gojo!”
A voice cut clean through the air.
From the far end of the hallway stood Kusakabe, hands buried deep in his trench coat pockets. “Yuta was looking for you.”
He didn’t move on. Didn’t wave and leave.
He waited—rooted in place, one brow raised, clearly expecting Gojo to follow.
The moment cracked.
Whatever Gojo had meant to say… slipped back into silence, left unsaid.
Utahime watched, bewildered. The softness—so near, so startling just moments ago—vanished as if it had never existed. In its place rose a colder edge, the hard gleam of command settling over his features like armor snapping into place.
His posture straightened. Hands slipped from his pockets with deliberate ease.
And then—he grinned. That boyish flash.
“Duty calls, Senpai,” he said, his voice laced with age-old tease.
Before she could speak—he was already turning on his heel, striding toward Kusakabe with long, careless steps. The echo of his retreat rang louder than any goodbye.
Then—
The corridor began to dissolve, smoke curling around them like mist drawn back into the lungs of time. The light dimmed. The floor rippled.
And slowly, the classroom took shape again.
Desks. Chalkboard. That same small group gathered at the front—focused, intent on finding possible loopholes in their plan—while in the back corner, two rebellious figures sat, lost in their own little world.
Utahime threw Gojo a sharp look—one laced more with frustration than fury, but no less commanding.
“I need to speak with you.”
She didn’t wait for his response. Her steps were already carrying her toward the balcony—the quiet stretch of concrete where their conversation had once happened… or, in this new loop of memory, was about to happen again.
Gojo lingered for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. Reluctant. Then he followed.
They walked in silence. The sharp rhythm of her boots striking the concrete echoed her mood—clipped, troubled. His shoes made less noise—muted, hesitant, almost guilty.
She stopped a few feet short of where their past selves would soon appear and faced the skyline. The wind swept past her, tousling the ends of her hair, tugging gently at her coat.
“Why do I look like that,” she asked, voice low and taut, “in your memory?”
Gojo leaned against the railing. It was meant to be casual, but he didn’t quite pull it off.
“Because,” he said with a shrug, “that’s how you look.”
Her head snapped toward him. “Gojo.”
Just his name. But it landed like a warning shot.
He held her gaze for a moment. Then—
“Six Eyes,” he said, more gently now. “It has its perks. Seeing cursed energy isn’t its only job. It’s more like… one of those high-end lenses photographers use. It captures more. More light. More depth.”
He looked away then, his eyes drifting across the school grounds, as if he couldn’t quite bear to look at her for this part.
“And sometimes,” he added softly, “it sees in ways more complete—more true—than our ordinary sight ever could.”
Utahime looked contemplative for a moment, her gaze lingered on some invisible point in the distance. But then something surfaced in her memory—a flicker of doubt, sharp and swift. Her brows knit together, and she shook her head with visceral disbelief.
“That couldn’t be the reason,” she said. “Then why did everyone else look… normal? Just the way I remember seeing them.”
Gojo paused. Then let out a short, ironic laugh—more weary exhale than true amusement. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
Just then, their memory-selves slipped past them—caught in that breathless ease, as if the world weren’t teetering on the edge of destruction and they were simply out for a leisurely afternoon walk.
Utahime turned back to him, urgency tightening her voice.
“You know quite well by now that you have to be emotionally transparent to survive in here.”
And it dawned on Gojo then—there was no way left to dodge what was already exposed between them.
He drew in a slow, long breath.
“It’s tied to my emotions,” he finally said, his voice quiet with honesty. “It wasn’t like that at the beginning. I mean… back in the first memory, you saw yourself. And you didn’t look like… this.”
He flicked a glance at her face, then looked away again. “The Six Eyes evolved. The more I used it, the deeper it reached. Over time, it stopped just reading cursed energy and started… reflecting how I feel about the person I’m seeing.”
Utahime didn’t respond at first. Her expression was unreadable—still and distant, like she was holding something fragile in her mind and hadn’t yet decided whether to shelter it or speak it aloud.
Then, softly, she let it slip: “And what is it you felt… for me? In this memory?”
Gojo’s lips parted, then closed again. The silence hung—taut and trembling. And then, slowly, his gaze rose to meet hers, open—as if, in that single breath, he’d finally decided to set down every defense he’d ever worn.
“That you’re beautiful,” he said. “I’ve always thought you were. But this was… different.”
Utahime barely managed to hold back a gasp. “Different… in what way?”
He began, sifting through memories—
“I started noticing your discomfort in those meetings… when they first floated the body-swapping plan.”
He let out a soft, almost breathless laugh—more stunned than amused. “I don’t know how to explain it. I guess I felt… grateful.”
He halted, fingers curling by his sides.
“Everyone was uneasy about it, sure. But it was a rare chance—a wild possibility—so they had to weigh it for the greater good. But you…”
He tilted his head toward her, and for a moment, the quiet awe his past self had worn in the memory shimmered across his face too.
“… you didn’t even pretend to entertain it. You just sat there with that… look—like you’d already stepped away from the whole thing.”
Then—
A shadow passed through the blue of his gaze, something unguarded and aching—heartbreakingly tender, terribly human.
“And somehow, that… touched me.”
Utahime whispered, almost to herself, as if in a daze, “Then… this conversation happened.”
Gojo gave a small nod.
“Utahime…” Her name slipped from his mouth like a vow whispered in the dark—soft, reverent.
“Do you even know how intimate it feels—to be understood?”
Once again, his gaze drifted across her face like a breeze brushing over wind chimes—gentle, resonant—and something fluttered beneath her ribs, like a secret trying to take flight.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how relieved I was… when you said I was allowed to have… fears.”
A moment passed. He let out a breath through his nose, a sound carrying more grief than humor. “I’m the strongest, right? Untouchable. Fearless. Brave. That’s the story everyone tells.”
His fingers opened and clenched again where they hung beside his thighs.
“But people forget…” Something fractured—and achingly boyish—flickered through his face. “They forget that fear is just the other side of bravery.”
He drew in a deeper breath, steadying himself. And then, without flinching, he let it fall from his mouth:
“Do you know how scared I was during my first mission? I—” His voice caught, cracked like glass. “I peed my pants.”
A small, helpless laugh escaped him—half disbelief, half release—as he blinked fast. “I was eight. And that’s… a whole lot older than the age a kid usually does that.”
A silence bloomed. And gods—Utahime’s heart broke open at the seams. Something deep within her stirred—something that trembled with violent protectiveness for the frightened boy he’d once been… and the man who still carried that child inside.
“Gojo…”
At that, his lips curved into something crooked—wry, but touched with truth.
“And among all my fears,” he murmured, “death was always at the top.”
Then, softer, as if the thought had waited years to find voice:
“Yes. I am flesh and blood, Utahime. So painfully ordinary.”
The light in his eyes dimmed further, like the sun eclipsed, as he continued, “Do you know how heartbreaking it was… that I had to dissociate just to sit through those meetings—just so I wouldn’t lose my mind?” His voice began to tremble at the edges. “And then you came… and told me it was okay to be upset about it. I wanted to—”
Their surroundings suddenly blurred. The other versions of themselves evaporated like fog, the dusty smell of the classroom bleeding back into existence.
Another loop was beginning.
But Utahime didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.
She kept watching his face. Her eyes, steady. Her breath, shallow. The question smoldered on her tongue until it finally broke free—
“You wanted what?”
Gojo’s expression faltered, turning almost sheepish. His hand rose to the side of his neck, fingers grazing the skin where a deep flush had already crept in.
Utahime warned him again, her voice a careful contrast to the thunder of her own heartbeat. “The longer you resist,” she said evenly, “the longer the memory keeps going.”
A nervous laugh escaped him. His fingers drifted up to ruffle his already messy hair—an idle, futile gesture, like straightening pages in a burning book. He hesitated for a moment. Then—
“You asked me,” he said slowly, as though tasting each word before committing to it, “if I had things I wanted to do before I die.”
His eyes flicked toward her briefly, then dropped to the floor—uncertain, glassy with something raw. His mouth tugged faintly at one corner, attempting a smile.
“I wanted to ask you on a date.”
Utahime felt the world tip sideways, as if the very axis of her gravity had shifted.
After several silent beats, he finally dared to meet her gaze, and she was startled by the fear in it, as if his whole life were at stake.
When he spoke again, his voice was soft—half-laugh, half-apology, like a boy confessing mischief to a teacher he admired.
“I was… a bit overwhelmed by your compassion.”
Kusakabe turned to glare at the Gojo sitting at the back, his face drawn tight with irritation—but Utahime barely registered it. The world around her had faded. The people scattered across the memory—colleagues, students, even their other selves—receded like ghosts into mist.
All she could see was him.
The real Gojo.
The man standing mere feet away, watching her like the verdict of his whole heart rested in her eyes.
Her chest tightened, her skin burned. And then—without her mind’s permission—her lips parted.
“Why didn’t you?”
His brows furrowed. For a beat, he looked almost adorably baffled. “Huh?” was all he managed, blinking as if he hadn’t heard her right.
She took a step closer, her gaze unwavering, refusing to miss even the faintest flicker of emotion: the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tension that pulsed along his jaw.
Then, quietly—irrevocably—she tested the shape of a dangerous truth.
“Why didn’t you ask me then? On a date?”
A breath passed. Heavy. Awkward.
He still looked lost, even after she’d spelled it out for him. His hands balled into trembling fists—anchors for everything he couldn’t articulate. His mouth parted slightly, then shut again, as if the answer he meant to give had dissolved on his tongue at the last second. And finally, in a voice quieter than his usual bravado ever allowed, he said:
“I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”
A hollow laugh followed. “Kind of grateful he interrupted me at that moment, to be honest.” He tipped his head toward Kusakabe, still glowering up front like a stern drill sergeant waiting for a recruit to fall in line.
“You… deserved better than a man giving you false hope right before stepping off to a suicide mission.”
A brief silence stretched.
Then Utahime folded her arms, her posture firm, her head tilting with a glint in her eye that teetered between sass and affection.
“Well,” she said airily, “bold of you to assume I would’ve said yes.”
Gojo blinked, clearly not expecting that.
“And even bolder,” she pressed on, “to think I’d spiral into heartbreak after one date with you.”
Her lips finally curled into a smile—dry, but fond. “Please. Don’t make me laugh.”
His breath hitched—an incredulous, unguarded sound. And then he laughed. A low, almost disbelieving chuckle, like she’d plucked the tautest string in him and let it hum its way into release.
But the moment didn’t get to breathe.
Utahime’s brows knit as the edges of the classroom refused to disappear, as the memory pressed forward like a wave that hadn’t finished crashing.
She scanned their surroundings, tension inching up her spine. “Why is this loop still going?”
Gojo’s eyes flickered—as if the thought had just caught up with him, too.
A beat passed. Then he exhaled, hands rising slowly to cover his face. His fingers pressed hard against his eyes, dragging down his cheeks, as though physically trying to smother the inevitable—an inescapable truth clawing its way to the surface.
“I hate this curse,” he muttered again.
Utahime stepped toward him, instinct moving her where words could not. Her hand came to rest on his forearm—a light, grounding touch.
“What didn’t you say?” she asked gently, her voice threaded with kindness—the kind that didn’t demand answers, only made them safe to offer.
He drew in a breath—shallow and uneven—and when he lifted his head again, she saw it all on his face.
The wild, untended longing behind his eyes.
An old yearning that had grown delicate with time, brittle with silence. The helpless twist of his mouth. The tension in his jaw, trembling with the strain of everything he’d buried.
His throat worked once, twice, before the words found their way.
“The main reason I didn’t ask you…”
His gaze dropped to her hand, still resting on his arm, as if it both steadied and split him open.
“…was because a date with you wouldn’t have just been a date for me. It would’ve made… dying hard.”
For a moment, Utahime couldn’t breathe—the air felt stripped of all oxygen.
“It would’ve made me… want more. Made me regret what I couldn’t have.”
His eyes found her face again, and he almost exhaled the next words.
“Made me feel more… human. And, Utahime… I couldn’t afford that.”
The classroom didn’t shatter so much as soften.
The blackboard bled into gray. The sunlight slanting through the windows dulled. Desks blurred at the corners, their outlines seeping into the floor like watercolor left in the rain. Pages rustled without wind, and chalk dust rose like a departing breath.
And then—a soundless collapse. The room folded inward. The floor gave beneath their feet.
Stillness.
They stood once again in the hallway.
Only one door remained now, closed and silent at the end of the stretch.
They stood across from each other, backs against opposite walls. Utahime’s gaze lifted to him, while Gojo kept his eyes on the ground, lashes low, his jaw tense, clenching back things still too fresh.
The silence lingered—awkward, unkind.
Finally, Utahime let out a soft breath. With a small shrug, she said,
“Can’t think of a single funny thing to say to make you laugh.”
He blinked—then remembered.
Say something that’ll make me laugh.
The request he’d made after the second memory, spoken half in jest, half in desperation—to drown out the haunting thoughts that had tormented him, even after he'd safely reached the shore.
A chuckle broke from him, low and grateful. When he looked up, there was a glint of relief in his eyes.
“Well,” he said, pushing off the wall, his tone gradually smoothing out, “good thing is… we got out of this one before it started twisting the memory to mess with our heads.”
Utahime gave a small nod, but her gaze drifted past him, toward nothing. She was still somewhere inside that classroom. Still standing in the echo of his voice, of a truth laid bare—without charm, without irony.
It would’ve made me… want more. Made me regret what I couldn’t have.
His words still pulsed through her—not like sound, but like something elemental. Like the first tremor of a heartbeat long thought dormant. She could feel them threading through her—delicate and devastating all at once—like music too beautiful to endure.
Gojo tilted his head, watching her in silence. As if trying to catch the shape of her thoughts, but not daring to reach for them.
Instead, he gave her something gentler. Something to pull her back.
“Have you noticed,” he said, voice quieter now, “you’re the constant in every memory the curse chose?”
Utahime’s brows drew together in contemplation. She folded her arms across her chest as if bracing against something within. Her voice, when it came, was slow and pensive.
“What do you think the next memory will be?” Her eyes flicked toward the final door. “Nothing significant happened with both of us in it after that classroom, did it? Except that morning in Shinjuku, when I boosted your technique before the battle. But… we barely talked then.”
“No idea,” he murmured.
His gaze too shifted to the last door—hovering, unreadable—before returning to hers.
“Only one way to find out.”
Together, they walked toward the door.
No more words passed between them. The air felt heavier there—thick with anticipation. Or perhaps… dread.
Gojo’s hand reached for the knob first, his fingers hesitating for just a moment before turning it.
The door creaked open. And the world shifted again.
Muted light bathed the space beyond—diffused, artificial, too clean to be sunlight. They stepped through to find themselves on the edge of a wide concourse, flanked by rows of sleek, pale leather seats. Steel arms. The quiet hum of recycled air.
A soft murmur of conversation drifted from a scattering of strangers. A businessman cradled his phone. A woman in sunglasses flipped through a travel magazine. Children giggled over a shared snack.
Luggage rolled by, wheeled with urgency. Overhead, screens blinked with scrolling text—some in languages they didn’t recognize.
And beyond it all: a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, where a plane idled on the tarmac, its silver fuselage gleaming. The sky beyond was a bright, cloudless blue.
Then came the announcement.
A woman’s voice—smooth, rehearsed, almost bored—crackled through unseen speakers.
“Passengers traveling south, please proceed to the left lane. Northbound passengers, this way to the right.”
***