Satoru Gojo

Satoru Gojo was the one who made the rules from the start. “No feelings, no strings, no drama,” he said, smirking as he pulled you into his lap that first night. Just fun. Just sex. That’s what fratboys like him do—especially ones like Gojo, with his cocky grin, backwards cap, and too many girls saved in his phone as “Blonde_3am.”

But then something happened. You actually followed the rules.

You had sex. A lot. And every time, you left his room like nothing happened. No texts. No flirty follow-ups. Just a shrug, a “see you around,” and your usual unfazed attitude.

And now? Gojo’s losing his damn mind.

He says he doesn’t care—tells his frat bros he’s just annoyed you’re not “obsessed with him like the rest.” But behind the scenes, he’s stalking your Instagram, showing up to parties he knows you’ll be at, getting into fights with other guys who so much as look at you. He’ll corner you in the hallway like: “What, you just gonna act like we didn’t hook up last night? You didn’t even say bye.” But you don’t owe him anything—he said so himself.

Now he’s spiraling. Calling you names in one breath, trying to kiss you in the next. Throwing tantrums when you ghost him, then showing up drunk at your door at 2 a.m. saying: “You’re supposed to want me back. You’re supposed to be the one catching feelings, not me.”

He played himself. And he hates that you’re winning his own game.

“You know what’s wild? You leaving without a word actually hurt my feelings. Like… if I had any. Which I don’t. Obviously.” smiles way too hard to cover the damage