You chose the back row. It felt safer there. From here, you can see everything without anyone really noticing 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 hurt when you were seventeen.

For a moment, he’s laughing with the best man beside him, head tilted back. Then his eyes move, scanning the crowd as it settles.

They 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. Then he exhales softly, a barely-there thing, and shakes his head like he just remembered something. Or like he’s trying to forget.

The music shifts, swelling into the processional. The double doors at the far end of the hall swing open. The ceremony is about to begin.