Satoru Gojo

The morning sun streamed in through the half-open blinds, painting soft golden stripes across the rumpled bed where Satoru lay sprawled on his stomach, one leg hanging off the side, hair a chaotic mess of snowy strands stuck out in all directions. The quiet hum of the city beyond the window was muffled by the walls of his apartment, but inside, everything was still—until the sharp buzz of his phone broke through the silence. It lit up once, twice, then your voice rang out from the speaker, lazy and amused.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” you purred, smugness laced in every syllable. “Let me guess—you’re still wrapped up in bed like a lazy burrito, aren’t you?”

Satoru groaned in response, a sound low and pitiful as he squinted one eye open against the bright light. His arm reached out blindly, flopping across the mattress in search of his phone like a man dying in the desert grasping for water. “Ugh… shut up,” he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep, but the barest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. He finally managed to grab the phone, dragging it under him as he rolled onto his back with a dramatic grunt, the blanket tangling around his waist. “You enjoy bullying the weak, huh?” he mumbled, voice half-lost in a yawn.

He winced as he tried to sit up, the soreness in his legs making itself known with a vengeance. “My thighs are dying,”

---

The court echoed with the sharp rhythm of sneakers against polished wood, the thump of basketballs punctuating the air. Sweat clung to Satoru’s temples, but he barely noticed. His teammates were scattered around the court, laughing and bantering as they took a break, but Satoru leaned against the padded wall, phone pressed snug against his ear, grinning like a fool.

Your voice filtered through the speaker, warm and teasing, “Any plans today? Or are you just gonna keep pretending to be the busiest man alive?”

Satoru chuckled, the sound low and breathy. He tipped his head back against the wall, lazy eyes drifting to the ceiling lights. “Friday. There’s a match. Gotta stay on top,” he muttered, eyes following the lazy arc of a ball being thrown across the court.

You laughed softly, a sound that tugged at the corners of his smile. He shifted his weight, one hand absently gripping the hem of his jersey while the other kept the phone tucked securely against his ear. The conversation didn’t need to be long. You never did. Just a few words, your voice, and suddenly practice didn’t feel like a chore.

A teammate called his name, motioning for him to rejoin the scrimmage. Satoru gave a small nod, murmuring something into the phone—something half-assed and fond—before slipping it into his pocket like it was something fragile, something worth keeping close. Then, he jogged back into the game, heart just a little lighter.

---

The sky was already burning orange when Satoru stepped out of the gym, sweat clinging to his neck and shirt, his hair a tousled mess under the glow of the setting sun. Laughter still lingered in his lungs from whatever dumb joke Suguru cracked during cool-downs, but it faded quickly as his attention shifted. His teammates' voices became background noise—familiar, but distant. His phone was already in his hand, pressed loosely to his ear, fingers curling around it like second nature. He wasn’t watching where he walked, just idly tracking the way his sneakers scuffed the pavement, his pace slowing the moment your voice slid into his ear.

“You didn’t forget to eat again, did you?” you said, playful but with that pointed edge he’d come to know—and maybe even look forward to. “Don’t make me drag myself over there and force-feed you like a damn child.”

Satoru let out a quiet scoff, his lips tugging into a tired, lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t,” he said, swerving absentmindedly to dodge a pothole. But his voice softened, betraying the truth underneath all his bravado. “I’m gonna eat, okay? Stop being so dramatic.”

---

It was late. The street lamps cast long shadows across the sidewalk, golden light flickering against the edges of Satoru’s jacket as he walked alone. His teammates had long since peeled off in different directions, their laughter fading into the night, but he hadn’t gone home yet. In his hand, his phone stayed pressed loosely against his palm—not to call, not to text, just… there. Like a lifeline. His steps were slow, half-dragging, but not from the exhaustion of practice.

A soft voice crackled from the speaker. Your voice. “Hmm... I guess that’s all I wanted to say today. I ended up rambling again, didn’t I?”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh like he usually would. He just walked, his other hand tucked into his pocket, eyes downcast.

Your voice carried on, lighthearted but growing fainter somehow, like you were already slipping away. “You’ve always been a terrible listener, but... I still liked talking to you.” A pause, soft static. “Then, I guess... this is it. Goodnight, Satoru.”

He stopped walking. The audio clicked to an end.

“Wait,” Satoru said suddenly, sharply, like his voice had leapt out before he could catch it. But there was no one on the other end. Just the screen, black and still, a single timestamp beneath the voice memo. His thumb hovered for a moment. Then, slowly, he tapped it again.

From the beginning, your voice chirped out bright and sleepy: “Morning, sleepyhead, let me guess—you’re still wrapped up in bed like a lazy burrito, aren’t you?” He said nothing. But this time, his lips parted like he was about to answer.

And then closed again.

A few steps away, just outside the convenience store doors, you froze. You hadn’t meant to linger—you’d just walked out with a cold drink in hand and caught a glimpse of white hair down the block. You were going to leave. You really were. But then… you heard your own voice. Familiar. Soft. Echoing faintly through the quiet street.

Your voice. On his phone. And then, again. And again.

Satoru didn’t even notice you standing there. He was too busy listening. Rewinding. Pressing play. Head slightly bowed like he was trying to pull your voice from the wind, from memory, from time. The world around him kept moving, cars passing, neon signs blinking, but he was somewhere else entirely—with you. Or the version of you in that recording.

You didn’t call his name. Didn’t move.

You just stood there, fingers tightening around your drink, as your voice filled the air between you once more.