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The ocean sound won't stop.
It's just—there's this constant rushing in my ears, and I can't tell if it's my technique acting up or something else. White noise that shouldn't be there when I'm sitting in this stupid meeting about curse classifications and budget allocations.
Blue. Why am I thinking about blue?
Not the blue of my eyes or my cursed energy, but something softer. Fabric blue. Cotton blue. The kind that fades after too many washes and smells like—
No, that's not right. I don't remember smells. Six Eyes doesn't work that way.
But there's sand. Definitely sand, somehow. Gritty between toes that aren't mine, because I'm wearing shoes right now, sitting in this conference room listening to some administrator drone on about something I stopped caring about twenty minutes ago. My feet are firmly planted on polished floor, not—
Not what?
The rushing sound gets louder. Waves, maybe. Or blood in my ears. Hard to tell the difference sometimes when everything gets too quiet, too still. When the world stops making sense for just a second and I'm somewhere else entirely, watching someone who—
Dark hair. Always with the dark hair.
It's moving in wind that tastes like salt, and there are clouds the color of... what do you call that pink? Salmon? Coral? Suguru would know. He always paid attention to things like that, the names of colors, the way light—
Wait.
When did I—? I wasn't thinking about him. I don't think about him. There's no reason to think about him, especially not standing somewhere with his back to me, wearing something blue and soft and familiar in a way that makes my chest feel too small.
Someone's calling my name. The administrator, probably. Asking for my input on something that doesn't matter.
But when I reach for the sound, for the voice, it dissolves like seafoam. The conference room flickers at the edges, and suddenly I can't remember what meeting I'm supposed to be in, or when it started, or why the walls feel so close and so far away at the same time.
The silence presses in from all sides. Heavy. Absolute.
There are no fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. No papers scattered across tables. No administrators with their endless bureaucratic concerns.
Just this endless, suffocating quiet, and the ghost of salt air that might not be real at all.
I try to move, but my body feels distant, disconnected. Like I'm floating in something thick and dark and patient.
The ocean sound returns, but it's not waves anymore.
*
*
*
The ocean sound returns, but it's not waves anymore.
It's time, moving without me.
And then—
Laughter.
The sound cuts through the suffocating quiet like sunlight through water, and suddenly I'm not floating in nothingness anymore. I'm standing, and there's sand between my toes—real sand this time, warm and shifting beneath my feet. The horizon stretches endless and blue, painted with clouds that catch the dying light.
But it's not the horizon I'm looking at.
It's him, and he's laughing at something I must have said, though I can't remember what. His dark hair whips around his face in the sea breeze, and his hands are warm where they grip mine. When did we start holding hands? When did we get so close I can count his eyelashes, see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners?
"Satoru," he says, and his voice sounds like home in a way that makes my chest ache. "You're ridiculous."
Am I? I want to ask, but the words stick in my throat because this feels too fragile, too precious to risk breaking with my usual jokes. Instead, I just hold on tighter, memorizing the calluses on his palms, the way his thumb traces circles against my knuckles without him even realizing.
The sun hangs low and pale in the sky, casting everything in soft pastels. We're swaying slightly, like we're dancing to music only we can hear, and for once I'm not thinking about technique or strength or the weight of being the strongest.
I'm just here, with him, in this perfect moment that feels stolen from time itself.
But something's wrong with the edges of the scene. They're too bright, too sharp, like looking through glass that's starting to crack. The laughter echoes strangely, bouncing back from walls that shouldn't exist on an endless beach.
This isn't real.
The thought hits like ice water, and I try to pull away, but Suguru's grip tightens.
"Don't," he whispers, and his voice is desperate now, pleading. "Not yet."
But I'm already fading, already sinking back into that heavy, patient darkness where time moves without me and memories bleed into dreams into nothing at all.
The last thing I see is his face, turned toward mine like he's trying to tell me something important.
The last thing I feel is his hands, slipping through my fingers like water.
Then there's only silence again, and the terrible understanding that even my dreams are a prison now.
The silence stretches.
How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Years? In this place, time doesn't follow the rules I used to know. It pools and eddies around me like thick honey, sometimes rushing forward in a torrent of half-remembered faces and voices, sometimes crawling so slowly I can feel each second like a physical weight.
I try to hold onto the dream—the warmth of his hands, the sound of his laughter, the way the light caught in his hair. But it's slipping away already, dissolving like sea foam.
I think about the students sometimes. Yuji's probably gotten even stronger. And Megumi, stubborn little boy, has probably figured out ten new ways to use his technique by now. Nobara's definitely giving everyone hell.
They don't need me anymore. The thought brings a sharp, satisfied feeling all over. Perfect. That was always the point, wasn't it? The world doesn't need Satoru Gojo to save it.
Suguru would be proud of them too. The thought comes unbidden, and I almost laugh at the irony. Even now, even after everything, I'm still looking for him in the spaces between thoughts.
Maybe that's all I have left—these fragments of light in an endless night. The ghost of laughter on a beach that might never have existed. The phantom touch of hands that chose a different path.
Maybe that's enough.
Maybe it has to be.
The darkness presses closer, patient as death, and I let it. Because fighting it means letting go of the dreams, and the dreams are all I have left of him.
All I have left of us.
*
*
*
"Satoru..."
The voice is soft, and I realize I've been quiet for too long. When I look up, Suguru's watching me with that expression he gets when he's worried but trying not to show it.
"You sure you don't want me to get you an ice pack?"
For your eyes, I mean.
The unspoken words hang between us, gentle and understanding. He knows. Of course he knows—he always could read me better than anyone else, even when I thought I was being subtle about the headaches, the strain, the way my technique sometimes felt like it was eating me alive from the inside out.
"Nah..." I say, but there's no real conviction in it. The exhaustion is bone-deep, a weariness that has nothing to do with physical pain.
But then his hand is cool against my forehead, fingers threading through my hair with a tenderness that makes my chest tight. There's no technique here, no cursed energy or special properties, just an offer of relief without being asked.
I close my eyes and lean into it, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, the constant pressure behind my eyes begins to ease.
"This is perfect," I whisper, and I mean it.
*
*
*
The darkness shifts, and suddenly there's sound again—not the ocean this time, but something softer. The gentle patter of rain against... what? Glass? Fabric?
I'm somewhere else now, somewhere that smells like petrichor and wet pavement. There's a canopy above us, transparent and fragile, and the world beyond it is a watercolor blur of grey and blue. Rain drums steadily overhead, creating a cocoon of white noise that drowns out everything else.
Suguru's shoulder is warm against mine. When did we get so close? We're pressed together under this pathetic excuse for an umbrella—probably something I grabbed from a convenience store without thinking, the kind that breaks after one good gust of wind. But it's holding for now, keeping us dry in our own little bubble while the world melts around us.
His hair is damp anyway, dark strands clinging to his forehead, and there are droplets caught in his eyelashes that make him look impossibly young. We're both in our school uniforms still, though I can't remember what we were doing before the rain started.
"Your umbrella sucks," he says, but there's no real complaint in his voice. If anything, he sounds... content. Like he doesn't mind being trapped in this small space with me, our shoulders touching, our breath mixing in the humid air between us.
"Hey, it's doing its job," I protest, though I can feel water starting to drip through a weak spot near the handle. "We're not drowning, are we?"
He laughs—soft and quiet. "Yet."
The rain keeps falling, and neither of us moves to leave. We could. We could make a run for the station, or I could use my technique to keep us dry, or a dozen other practical solutions. But instead we just stand there, watching the world wash clean around us, and for once I'm not in a hurry to be anywhere else.
This is what I miss most, I think. Not the big moments, not the dramatic declarations or life-changing conversations. Just this—standing in the rain with someone who gets my terrible jokes and doesn't mind when I buy the cheapest umbrella in the store.
But the edges are getting soft again, bleeding into grey that has nothing to do with the rain. The warmth of his shoulder fades, and the sound of water becomes something else entirely—time, flowing around me like a river I can't cross.
I'm sinking again, but this time I'm smiling.
*
*
*
The darkness settles around me again, but it's different now. Softer, maybe. Like it's gotten tired of being so hostile, so absolute. Or maybe I'm just getting used to it.
Time moves strangely here. Sometimes I think I can feel seasons changing somewhere far above me, the world spinning through its cycles while I stay frozen in this moment between moments. And in the spaces between thoughts, I catch myself wondering...
What if we'd had more time?
The question floats in the void, unanswered and unanswerable. But my mind, treacherous thing that it is, can't help but spin out the possibilities anyway.
My birthday. The date feels important somehow, like it should mean something in this place where nothing means anything. I wonder if he would have remembered. Probably would have pretended to forget, just to see me pout about it, then surprise me with something ridiculous.
In my head we're standing under the eaves of some temple, watching snow fall in the lamplight. He's got a cake balanced in his hands, store-bought and slightly lopsided because neither of us can bake worth a damn, but the candles are lit and flickering in the cold air.
"Make a wish," he'd say, and his breath would puff white in the winter air.
I wish we had more time.
I blow out the candles and the smoke rises into the night sky, carrying wishes to whatever gods still listen to fools like me. Suguru would laugh at my expression—probably something stupidly sentimental because birthdays always made me weird—and then we'd eat terrible cake and talk about nothing until the snow stopped falling.
We'd have all the time in the world.
But the candles flicker out, and the temple fades. Some things you only get to want in the dark.
*
*
*
It's white. Blinding, impossible white that should hurt but doesn't, like snow in sunlight or the flash of technique meeting technique. And there's sound again—not the ocean, not rain, not the hollow echo of my own thoughts bouncing around an empty prison.
Laughter.
Real laughter this time, bright and startling, and when I turn toward it I see—
Oh.
There's no pain, no dramatic revelation, just the realization that spreads through me like relief, like settling into warm water after being cold for too long
I look down at myself—whole, unhurt, younger somehow.
"You look confused," a familiar voice says, and when I look up, he's there.
Suguru. But not the Suguru I fought, not the one who chose a different path and made me choose too. This is my Suguru, the one from before everything went wrong, bundled up in scarves and looking exactly like he did at seventeen, when the world still made sense and we thought we could save everyone.
"Am I dead?" I ask, which seems like the kind of question you should probably ask in a situation like this.
He tilts his head, considering. "Does it matter?"
And you know what? It really doesn't. Because he's right there, solid and real and smiling at me like I haven't seen him smile in years. There are leaves falling around us—when did we end up somewhere with trees?—and the air smells like autumn.
"Your hair's gotten longer," I say instead of answering, because that's easier than thinking about what this place means.
"Yours is still ridiculous," he shoots back without missing a beat, reaching over to tug at a strand that's fallen across my forehead. "Did you ever learn to use a comb?"
"Combs are for people who care about looking professional." I duck away from his hand, grinning. "I'm naturally gorgeous."
"Naturally something," he mutters, but he's smiling too, that fond expression I remember from a thousand stupid arguments about nothing at all.
We fall into step together like no time has passed, like we're still teenagers walking back from some mission or another. His shoulder bumps mine every few steps, and I bump back, and it's so normal it makes my chest ache in the best way.
The silence between us is comfortable, filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the crunch of them under our feet. I steal glances at him from the corner of my eye—the way his scarf is wrapped a little too tight, how he keeps pushing his hair out of his face even though it just falls back again.
"Warm enough?" I ask, nodding at all the layers he's bundled up in.
"I'm fine," he says, but there's something in his voice, something soft and almost shy. "It's nice, actually. Feeling cold again."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. Just keep walking beside him through this strange, bright place where everything feels possible and nothing hurts anymore.
The path curves ahead of us, disappearing into soft white light that doesn't hurt to look at. There's no urgency here, no missions waiting or students to train or curses to exorcise. Just the quiet crunch of leaves underfoot and the steady rhythm of our breathing in the cool air.
"Remember that winter when we got snowed in at the dorms?" Suguru says suddenly, his voice cutting through the peaceful quiet.
I do remember. We'd been stuck inside for three days, bored out of our minds, surviving on convenience store ramen and whatever snacks we could pilfer from the vending machines. "You made me watch all those terrible movies."
"They weren't terrible," he protests, but he's grinning. "You just have no appreciation for classic cinema."
"Classic cinema doesn't include giant robots fighting monsters in Tokyo Bay."
"That was one movie."
"It was three movies, Suguru. Three very long movies."
He laughs, and the sound carries in the still air. "You fell asleep during the second one anyway."
"Because it was boring!" But I'm laughing too, because I remember waking up with my head on his shoulder, how he'd thrown a blanket over me without saying anything about it. How warm and safe it felt, even though I'd never admit it out loud.
The memory settles between us, comfortable and bittersweet. All those small moments we never thought to treasure, thinking we'd have forever to make more of them.
"I should have stayed awake," I say quietly.
"For the movie?"
"For all of it."
He stops walking, and I stop too, turning to face him. His expression is soft, understanding in that way that always made me feel seen straight through to my bones.
"You did fine, Satoru," he says simply.
I want to argued but for once I don't have the energy to fight him on it.
Maybe he's right this time.