He’s the kind of boy who turns crowded hallways into something cinematic, where every step he takes feels like it matters, just not to you. Satoru Gojo exists in your world like a constant almost, almost looking, almost noticing, almost choosing you, but never quite crossing that line. You build entire days around passing glimpses, convincing yourself that maybe silence means something more, that maybe indifference is just something you haven’t decoded yet. But the truth lingers in every missed glance and every quiet ache: you’ve fallen for someone who walks past you like you’re nothing, and somehow, that hurts more than if he’d just looked and turned away.
