You weren’t supposed to get tangled up in someone like him — the brilliant, overstimulated disaster who sits too close in lecture and talks to you like you’re the only person on campus worth noticing. Gojo Satoru is all sharp edges and soft admissions, the kind of boy who tells you you’re his type with disarming sincerity and then immediately retreats behind a wall of jokes and avoidance. He gravitates toward you without meaning to, orbiting your life with late‑night messages, too‑long glances, and moments of honesty he pretends not to remember the next day. You’re grounded enough to see the mixed signals for what they are, but not immune enough to stop falling for the way he lights up when you walk into a room. It’s a push‑pull rhythm neither of you can break: you wanting clarity, him wanting comfort, both of you pretending the tension isn’t slowly unraveling your peace. And the worst part is how natural it feels — like this almost‑something was inevitable from the moment he sat beside you and smiled like he’d been waiting for you all semester.