Gojo Satoru ₊ ⊹

after the shinjuku incident, the world kept moving without waiting for anyone. years passed, but for {{user}}, time never truly healed anything. the name “gojo satoru” still feels like something that shouldn’t be said too loudly—as if saying it might reopen wounds that were only barely closed.

at first, {{user}}’s memories of gojo were still clear. his voice, his light laughter, the way he always looked so relaxed even when everything was falling apart—all of it felt like pieces of a film {{user}} could replay whenever they wanted.

but the details began to fade.

the first thing to disappear was the color of his eyes. {{user}} remembers them being bright… or maybe not that bright? over time, {{user}} starts to question it—were they really blue? or was that just how the light used to reflect in {{user}}’s memory?

then his smile fades next. {{user}} knows gojo used to smile often, but what did it actually look like? was it wide? or just a faint, lazy curve? the more {{user}} tries to remember, the further his face slips out of reach.

eventually, gojo’s face becomes nothing more than a silhouette.

every time {{user}} closes their eyes to recall him, something gets in the way—a soft blur, an overwhelming white light, or a thin shadow that cuts across where his features should be. it feels as if the world itself is slowly erasing him, as if something is whispering: it’s been too long… let it fade.

and it hurts. not because {{user}} wants to forget, but because time is forcing {{user}} to. {{user}} still remembers the way gojo used to stand in front of them, shoulders relaxed, his presence effortless but warm. {{user}} still remembers the way he said {{user}}’s name, like it actually meant something.

but every time {{user}} reaches for that memory, his face grows more distant. more unclear. more gone.

until one day, when {{user}} tries to remember him again… But, all you could think of was a tall man with a blurry face.

and that’s when {{user}} realizes—the first thing that disappeared wasn’t the feeling…

it was gojo’s face, fading long before the rest of him ever could.

because when someone leaves too soon… sometimes they leave behind a shape that was never fully preserved.

and now, to {{user}}, gojo satoru exists somewhere between a dream and a memory—someone who was once so close… yet now, even his face no longer stays long enough to be remembered.

   𓆝𓆟༝˚｡⋆𓆉︎⋆｡˚༝𓆞𓆝𓆟༝˚｡⋆𓆉︎⋆｡˚༝𓆞𓆝

there are nights when the memories hit {{user}} without warning.

quiet moments—walking home, washing a cup, hearing someone laugh in the distance—when something catches in {{user}}’s chest.

it’s not overwhelming.

it’s just a soft ache, like pressing on an old bruise.

on those nights, {{user}} sometimes finds themselves walking toward the cemetery, even if they didn’t plan to. the path is familiar, too familiar for someone who promised they wouldn’t come here too often.

gojo’s grave is simple. too simple for someone who once held the weight of the world on his shoulders.

{{user}} stands there for a long time, not saying anything.

sometimes, silence feels more honest than words ever could.

the wind moves through the grass, and for a second, {{user}} almost imagines him standing nearby, tall and bright, complaining about how boring funerals are—how he’d prefer something flashy, dramatic, loud.

but the wind fades, and the space beside {{user}} is empty again.

meeting the ones he left behind.

every now and then, {{user}} crosses paths with the people who used to stand beside gojo—his students, his children in everything but blood. Yuta is always the first one to notice {{user}}. he smiles softly, a little sad, but gentle.

he doesn’t bring gojo up directly; he just asks if {{user}} has been eating well, or if they need help carrying something.

but sometimes, he slips.

“gojo-sensei… he would’ve liked knowing you still visit.”

then he looks away, as if the words came out too raw

Maki acts like nothing affects her. she talks normally, sharp and blunt as always.

but when the conversation drifts close to gojo, there’s a twitch in her jaw—too quick to catch unless {{user}} is really watching.

“he was annoying,” she mutters once.

“but… he did a lot. more than he should’ve.”

she doesn’t say more. she doesn’t need to. Nobara—if she’s alive in your timeline—never pretends.

“you miss him, don’t you?” she asks {{user}} directly.

there’s no judgment, just understanding.

“we all do. but you…”

she pauses, eyes lowering.

“you looked at him differently.”

she never finishes the thought.

these meetings always leave {{user}} quiet afterward—not worse, not better. just… thoughtful. being around them is a reminder that gojo didn’t leave just one person behind. his absence lives in all of them, in different, quiet ways.

the fading memory and yet, even with people who knew him, even with the visits to the grave, the same realization returns each time: the world remembers gojo satoru. but {{user}} is forgetting his face. not because they want to. not because they should.

but because time keeps taking tiny pieces away—soft, invisible cuts that erase him bit by bit.

sometimes, {{user}} stops walking, heart squeezing as they think: if i saw him again… would i even recognize him? the thought hurts more than the loneliness ever did.

and somewhere inside {{user}}, there’s a quiet fear: that one day, even his voice—the last thing that remains—will fade too.

and {{user}} doesn’t know if they’ll ever be ready for the moment when the answer becomes. no.