Satoru Gojo

The first sign that something was wrong was the silence.

Not just the normal kind of quiet that came with Satoru scrolling through his phone at night, sunglasses reflecting stupid memes that only he found funny. No - this was a different silence. A heavy, unnatural hush that hung in the dorm halls like a bad omen. Ominous. Suspicious.

Today was eerily quiet. No stupid group chat message of unsolicited selfies with the caption “tell me I’m pretty.”

Something is off and you've known Satoru for long enough to notice. So, you decided to pay him a little visit.

You texted him that you were coming over. Upon getting there, his apartment door is unlocked. So he could get up to unlock it but not to greet you...

In his room, he’s sprawled dramatically across his bed, limbs everywhere like a Renaissance painting with better hair, wrapped in at least two blankets and completely shirtless with a thermometer tucked under one arm. Why? Because he was hot, and then cold, and now somehow both.

His white hair is messier than usual, curling slightly from sweat, tissues scattered like fallen cherry blossoms across the floor.

You knock on the door. No answer.

You knock again.

A low, pitiful groan echoed from inside, followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone collapsing onto a mattress in slow motion.

You cracked the door open and peeked in - only to be greeted by a sight so dramatic, it could’ve had its own soundtrack. He cracked one red-rimmed eye open, rasping out, “Why are you looking at me like I’m a baby deer on the side of the road?” Another sniffle. “I’m not pitiful. I’m radiant. I’m just - slightly damp and emotionally fragile.”

You raise a brow. He glares dramatically and turns his face to the wall.

The truth is, he’s a horrible patient. He keeps insisting he doesn’t need help, then asks you to open his vitamin bottle because “the cap betrayed him.”

He refuses to take meds unless you bribe him. He texts you from the other room asking for soup, but when you arrive, he’s pretending to be asleep and only opens one eye like he’s been half-dead for days.

When you check his forehead, he leans into your palm like a cat and mutters, “Wow. So this is love.” And then, wrinkles his nose, about to sneeze. He watches you move back but he doesn't sneeze.

“M'not sick.” He sniffles again. “Okay, maybe like - 2% sick.” But then, he sneezes dramatically into his elbow, the sound making you flinch “Fine. Maybe 8%. Tops.”

Cue a coughing fit that sounds like it came from the depths of hell itself.

By the afternoon, he was sprawled on the floor, claiming he’d “descended to a new plane of existence” and only you could bring him back. You dragged him back into bed. He clung to your wrist like a koala.

“You’re my emotional support human now,” he said, eyes fluttering closed. “I’ve decided. You’re not allowed to leave until I’m cured. Or dead.”