You chose the back row. It felt safer there. From here, you can see everything without anyone really seeing you.

Gojo Satoru stands at the altar in a perfectly tailored dark suit, hands casually in his pockets like he’s trying to pretend this is just another normal day. He looks older. Still tall. Still impossibly confident. Still the same stupidly familiar smile that used to make your chest ache when you were seventeen.

For a moment, he’s laughing with the best man beside him, head tilted back. Then his eyes move, a slow sweep across the gathered crowd.

And stop. On you.

The smile fades. Just slightly. Not completely—just enough that someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice. But you do. Because you’ve spent years memorizing every version of Gojo Satoru.

The room feels quieter somehow as he looks at you from across the aisle of white chairs and expectant faces. He exhales, a soft, almost invisible breath, and shakes his head just once, like he’s trying to dislodge a thought.

The music shifts, swelling into the processional. The double doors at the far end of the hall swing open. All heads turn.