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yxtoru · 9 days ago

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೯⠀⁺ Stillness to Ripples ᰋ

୨ৎ summary . . . Ambitious, you dared to dream that your arranged marriage to the Shogun could bloom like the storybooks that coaxed you to bed in your childhood. But dreams don't always come true. Not when he is as still as lake water, surrounded by willow trees-concubines-who draw the glow from your moonlit heart. His stillness lay below you, and you wonder if the light of your moon can cause a ripple in his stillness, if some dreams do come true. ୨ৎ pairing . . . gojo satoru / female reader.

── .✦ contains hints of infidelity on gojo's side, heavily implied perfectionism on both reader and gojo, purposeful ambiguity mostly on gojo (?), reader being traumatised/having ptsd, eating disorder (purging), and slight (?) angst. proceed with caution, 17+. ── .✦ 8.8k words. i'm sorry this took so long :c

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Your heart hammers within your chest as the norimono, a lacquered transportation cage of black silk and gold patterns, finally stills. It signalled your arrival at the Edo Castle, a setting of power, politics, and soon, your new home. In mere hours, you will be Seishitsu of the Shogun, the wife of the most powerful man in the country.

You should be trembling, but instead, excitement and dream-drappled anticipation bubbles within you, born from childhood tales that put you to slumber. Tales where noble daughters like you find not just duty, but affection in the arms of mighty men like him, and you naively cling to those tales.

No doubt you have heard of your soon-to-be husband, his power, and his strength, but you are mystified when it comes to his physical and personality traits. All they say is that he is beautiful beyond belief. Not handsome. Beautiful. As if whoever or whatever carved him loved him deeply. The imagination of him makes your hammering heart flutter briefly, along with another imagination of him being a soft-spoken man, perhaps lonely beneath his facade, waiting to find love in you.

And yet, anxiety laces within your excitement and dream-drappled anticipation and imagination. What if he is not soft-spoken? What if he would rather be alone? What if he is not waiting for love from you? Much like your father and mother.

You are of the Momonaga clan, a proud daimyo clan line with feudal lords, ink-thick blood, and reserved courtesy. You have seen what arranged marriages are, being an offspring of one: minimal affection, formal, siblings born from duty rather than desire.

It was this black and white that drove you to find the greys in stories. Stories of love blooming like a lotus in a political pond. You dreamed, no, you dared to believe that your marriage would be different. That Tokugawa Gojo would converse with you, choose you, and cherish you.

Your heart hammers tenfold as the norimono is gently lowered to the ground. A moment later, its hatch opens, elegant in motion, revealing your most trusted servant. She wears a small, comforting smile on her lowered face, a gesture that slightly eases your pounding chest. With practised care, she arranges the layered folds of your formal kimono before offering her hand to help you step out.

You step out cautiously, the weight of the kimono tugging at your balance, before you straighten your posture genteely, adopting the poise expected of a high-born bride. Then, your eyes lift to take in the foreign environment.

The castle looms atop a rise, its foundation carved from massive stones and its perimeter protected by wide, still moats. Pale walls stretch forward, crowned with dark-tiled roofs that stretch into the horizon. Layers of arched bridges and heavy gates, a samurai guard seemingly visible at each post, but the outer gates hinder your vision. The castle is power and prestige itself, making the premises of your Momonaga residence feel like a child’s playground in comparison.

Then, your gaze finds the people who await you. A small group of senior male retainers, dressed in formal kamishimo, bows in acknowledgement. They confirm your presence and escort your past security away, catching your eyes and heart. You have always carried a tenderness others deemed a flaw, a softness your parents chastised. “A daughter of rank must not lower herself to empathy,” they would reprimand, but you never listen.

Samurai guards line the pathway along the outer gate for your arrival, silent and still, a reminder of the scale of power and security this place holds. Every necessary person is present, except the one you hoped to see.

Gojo Satoru is absent.

Your pulse relaxes, not in disappointment, but in momentary relief because you may not be ready, or it may be unhealthy for your heart. Yet, the corner of your heart cracks, just a tad bit.

An appointed herald from the shougnate steps forward from the row of samurai, “We have awaited your arrival, Lady…” he says your name, “…Princess of the Momonaga Clan. You honour Edo Castle with your presence,” he earns your sweet smile that pauses him. He knows you should not smile so openly, being the noble woman and bride under scrutiny you are. You know, too, but you do not care.

The herald bows deeply that you worry for his spine, before beginning to escort you from outside the outer gates to the inside, leaving your norimono and loyal servant. You step through the Otemon gate, a passage reserved for those of your rank.

The two of you move through a series of winding paths, inner gates, and bridges. You walk in silence beside the herald, admiring the scenery offered by the castle. All while your heart and mind flurries with each step that brings you closer to your marriage.

Eventually, you reach the secluded, gated premises of the Ōoku compound, the Inner Chambers for the women in the castle. You stop before the gate, the Ōoku-mon, where a samurai stands in silent vigilance, prompting the herald to speak. “This is where I must take my leave, my lady,” he turns to you with a smile that crinkles his eyes, “for beyond this point lies the residence of the ladies, and only selected men by the shogunate may trespass here.” You offer him a grateful smile in return, one last kindness before parting ways.

As you step forward, the samurai bows deeply upon recognising you, so deeply that you worry again his spine may never forgive him. Your heart and mind flurry again, anxious thoughts gathering like clouds. You glance back over your shoulder one last time, catching the herald’s parting bow before he turns away.

His departure did not soothe you; in fact, it deepened your unease. Plus, the walls that surround and taunt you, white clay topped with dark grey kawara tiles, are too high for comfort, too silent for ease. The patrolling Onna bugyōs add to the taunt, halting, bowing, and continuing if they see you. It puzzles you how everyone already knows you are, but then again, perhaps it should not.

The onna bugyōs are the female guards of the compound, suggesting that this is the one place in the castle governed by women. Uplifting, yes, but you could not feel that as you continue to step into their world with your thoughts and emotions in disarray.

The outer courtyard opens before you, with carefully swept gravel paths, moss-covered stepping stones, and seasonal plantings. Plum trees bloom shyly, their fragrance soft but fleeting. The beauty calms you for a moment.

But serenity fades as you approach the covered engawa walkways that snake between the compound’s wings. There, waiting patiently for you is your loyal servant, hands folded with an amused expression, waiting—no, expecting—you to step up the planked walkway. Another step that brings you closer to your marriage that has your nerves in shambles.

“Why, Izumi,” you ask, breathlessly, “how ever did you arrive before me?” Anxiety laces with your voice, holding your feet back from taking the step.

She replies, “I used the servants’ way, my lady,” she replies with a gentle smile, “and I made good pace,” her voice is a familiar balm, sweet and grounding. Over the years, she has become more than a servant, become your companion. Perhaps even something like family. Your parents would frown upon this closeness, of course. But then again, your parents have frowned upon most things that make you happy and highlight your uniqueness.

“Anxious, my lady?” she asks, noticing the sheen of sweat on your palms before you do. She takes your hands delicately, as if holding a glass.

“I am indeed, very much so,” you exhale your nerves, but it does so little. “Might I… might I have a moment of solitude, just for a while, before I ready myself?” you request softly, and she sighs.

“Time won’t wait, my lady. They’ve given you little more than an hour to be ready for the ceremony,” you panic then, before you borderline beg, “Pray, grant me a moment, I shall be swift!” she gives you a look of sympathy, and you know she is very close to granting your request, “I shall also be swift in adjusting my toilette and changing into my ceremonial kimono,” she sighs in surrender.

She caresses your sweaty palms, “Very well, my lady, go on then,” you give her the biggest smile you can manage before breaking free from her gentle hold, fast-walking to the garden you had spotted earlier. “Do remember to be swift, my lady!” she calls after you, half in jest. You glance back, nodding once, your smile still on your face.

You reach the garden shortly, a haven you have marked in your mind during your walk with the herald. Even now, it welcomes you like an old friend.

You have always loved gardens as they have always held a language you understood: peace and solitude, a kind of quiet you could never find in your family or people, for that matter. As a child, you spent your leisure time among flowers and trees reading your storybooks, writing your poetry, and much more. If your family would allow you to eat, sleep, and bake there, you would. Yes, you bake as well. That, too, your parents scolded, but eventually they learned that there were parts of you they could not reforge into the mould of a perfect noblewoman.

Before Izumi, it was the flowers and shrubs you trusted. You spoke to them, cared for them, and asked the gardener to chase the bugs away. You named them, called them friends.

When Izumi entered your life during adolescence, she came something close to your garden: safe, soft, and true. But not even she could replace it. Nothing or no one could.

You crouch in a way a woman should, your fingers hovering just above the soil. You wonder if this castle’s garden will grow to know you like your home’s garden. To accept you, to become your sanctuary in a place that feels anything but.

That is when you hear it, a woman’s controlled laughter, poised and confident. Curiosity draws you from your thoughts, and you rise from where you had crouched. You wander with soft footsteps on the garden’s moss-lined pavers, determined to find the source.

Nearer now, you hear the murmur of a man’s voice. Smooth and warm, the kind of voice meant to be listened to, meant to linger in the ear, meant to capture a woman’s heart. “You have a sharp tongue, I must say, Ami.”

Ami giggles, and you peer through a tall camellia bush. There he stands. Tall, graceful, dressed not in a samurai or servant’s garb, but in deep indigo silks embroidered with silver accents that suggest superiority, snow as his hair. He walks beside a woman, smaller in stature, who reaches slightly above his shoulder. Their posture suggests familiarity.

“My sentiments on the matter of—” he stops mid-sentence, his instincts elevated. His gaze lifts, sharp and immediate, locking straight onto yours.

You freeze, heart caught in your throat. His eyes are ice blue, brilliant, and hold you in place. You duck instinctively behind the bush, but it is too late.

“Woman, come forth at once,” his voice is commanding, not hostile. Your breath remains as you step into view.

The way he noticed you so swiftly, the way he identified you as female by presence alone, there is doubt in your mind. This man is the Shogun.

His gaze sweeps over you, curious, amused, but not unkind. Beside him, the woman, Ami. Presumably, eyes you with barely concealed annoyance. “You intrude upon a private discourse, woman,” he says plainly. Not scolding, but firm.

He studies your attire, the soft white and pink layers of your formal kimono, embroidered with delicate threads of gold that gleam in soft light. His eyes narrow slightly. “Who might you be? You wear neither the garb of a servant nor a concubine,” he notes.

The implication unsettles Ami, whose robes are more vivid but lack the grandeur of yours. You catch the way she stiffens at the comparison, before you state your name, “of the Momonaga clan.”

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, “You are she? The one I am to wed?” So he is Gojo Satoru. Your intended. The man whose name haunts your thoughts and dreams. They spoke the truth: he is beautiful beyond belief. Yet, the reality of him standing before you with another woman discomforts you.

You glance between him and Ami, uncertain. Fortunately, Gojo senses this and clears his throat. “My lady, this is Ami. She is… my appointed concubine.” He says it casually, as if you are expected to understand.

Ami curtises just enough to be polite, her eyes cold as flint. He then turns to her, a polite smile on his lips, “Forgive me, Ami, but I must ask you to take your leave.

“If that is your wish, my lord, I will not linger,” her voice is smooth, practised. She departs with grace, only faltering when her gaze cuts toward you. You offer a small bow in return, unsure of what is appropriate. She does not respond.

When the silence falls between you and the Shogun, you gather your courage. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but the word ‘concubine’, what does it mean precisely?” He blinks, then frowns at your uninformed curiosity. “You do not know?” You shake your head.

He thought that you had known what it is the entire so now he thinks that this is a growing, terrible first impression, “A concubine is…” he pauses when he realises something else.

“Ought you not be preparing yourself for our wedding, my lady?” he asks, “or do you mean to run from me, is that it?” his voice sharpens at the accusation that startles you, unable to make sense of your presence in the garden instead of the compound.

“Heavens, no, my lord!” you reply, too quickly. “I desired a brief respite before our wedding… to calm my nerves,” you explain, and he nods, neither amused nor irritated.

“…You are far too handsome a man to flee from, my lord,” you murmur sheepishly. He accepts the compliment without reaction. Used to it, perhaps even tired of it. Is that all people see in him?

“If only I had the same cause to speak so kindly,” he says. His tone is blunt. Honest.

Did he not prefer your looks? Sure, your face is covered in pale white face powder, your lips subtly rouged, eyebrows darkened, all of it far from your natural beauty, but it was meant to enhance your beauty, was it not?

The words sting more than you expect. You hide your reaction behind a demure nod, but he notices. Sees the slight stiffness in your smile. The flicker of hurt in your eyes.

He clears his throat again, this time awkwardly. “I meant no offence. I speak only the truth. I do not flatter.”

“I comprehend, my lord.” Your heart feels heavy as you speak ever so softly.

“Go now,” he says again, “attire yourself as befits a bride. The hour of our marriage draws near.”

“Very well, I shall, my lord,” your voice hints disappointment hidden behind softness as you withdraw. For the solitude you had sought has unravelled into something else: disappointment.

You had prepared for this moment for years: how to speak, how to look, how to act, and still, it was not enough. Your mother would say it is your fault. That you should have tried harder. But no matter how hard you try, you cannot stop being… you, or magically become his preferred woman, for that matter.

The garden feels colder as you turn your back on it. Your feet trace the same moss-lined paths you once followed with wonder, though your pace is quicker now, your thoughts unspooling like thread on a loom.

Gojo Satoru

The name that once existed in your thoughts, calligraphy, and whispered voices has now taken shape, and he is nothing like you imagined. Beautiful, yes, but not gentle. Honest but not tender. His words were not cruel, but they cut like your mother’s words would have. You wonder if the distance in his gaze is by design, or merely the armour of a man who has grown tired of being seen but never known.

You retrace your way beneath the soft-filtered light of the wooden cloisters. The polished planks of engawa creak lightly beneath your feet as you finally hone the courage to step up the walkway. The tatami-smelling air grows warmer, touched with the faint perfume of incense and sakura petals that were born to soothe nerves, perhaps. You have no such luck.

As you near the central corridor, several attendants in muted lavender and dove-grey kosode appear. They bow in unison and one steps forward with her hands folded respectfully.

“My lady, the inner chamber awaits,” she says, voice gentle, gesturing ahead.

You recognise none of them. They are not yours—not Izumi—not familiar, not home. Appointed by the palace, their roles are ceremonial, practised, and silent. You wonder if they can sense how afraid you are or if they would even care, if they did.

Inside, the dressing chamber is wide, its pale wood floors gleaming beneath the glow of paper lanterns. Shoji screens filter sunlight into golden lattice shapes across the floor. The ceiling beams are lacquered dark and polished to mirror sheen, reflecting movement below.

A folding screen painted with cranes and chrysanthemums hides the corner where your wedding garments are already laid out.

“You will need assistance to dress, my lady,” says one of the women gently, bowing. Another arrives bearing a basin of warm water steeped with sakura and yuzu. “But first, the cleansing.”

You nod and step behind the screen. Your garments fall away one by one—first, your formal and travelling kimono, then the modest white layers beneath. Each fold carries a symbol: your clan, your station, your past. And as they are peeled from you, the girl you were feels like she is being erased.

A soft cotton yukata is offered in modesty, but you still feel exposed. Cold not in body, but in spirit. It is always Izumi who does this, not strangers with perfumed hands and empty expressions.

They begin to cleanse you. Cloth soaked in floral water traces your skin—shoulders, arms, back—but never your face. It feels like a ritual, like less than preparation and more like erasure. But your resolve is strong.

As they work, you try to still your thoughts, but they spill over.

You think of your mother’s strict voice: “Stand tall. Speak softly. Smile, but not with teeth.” A woman must be composed, a bride must be perfect. You think of Izumi, who never asked you to be anything but yourself. And you think of Gojo’s voice again: “If only I had the same cause to speak so kindly.”

He does not find you beautiful.

And to someone raised to shape herself into beauty, who was told it was her only coin in this world, that is cruel, even if unintended.

You inhale, shaky. You are tired. Tired of being tailored to someone else’s desire: your mother’s, your father’s, your siblings’ (who felt like competitors rather than family), and now a groom who is painfully truthful.

When the cleansing ends, they help you into your ceremonial kimono. Then, they seat you before a lacquered vanity. Another woman approaches with delicate brushes and bowls of pigment.

Your reflection stares back at you from a polished bronze mirror. They affix your coiffure. Your skin is retouched: face a pale white rice powder, your eyebrows darkened, lip crimson, and no rouge. The image is elegant, striking, and beautiful, but it is not yours. It is a mask. One that he will not admire.

Your chest tightens. Tighter now that a fist knocks softly against the screen.

“My lady?” comes a familiar voice, warm and sweet as red bean paste. Your chest feels looser now. Izumi peeks in, and her smile, wide and bright, feels like sunlight after days of rain.

“You bear the face of a poem,” she says.

You blink. Your vision blurs. “Do I? You know my fondness for poetry.”

“A poem,” she nods, her gaze fond, “of your composition, not one penned by your family.”

You reach for her hand. It is warm and grounding.

“Time draws near, my lady,” one of the attendants murmurs and catches your gaze and smile.

You glance back at Izumi. “Before I take my leave, I must ask—what, pray, is a concubine?”

Izumi’s expression softens, but sadness flickers in her eyes. She had hoped to shield you from the word. But you are a bride now, and brides must know the world as it is. “Forgive me, I should have spoken of it prior to our arrival here,” she begins gently, but you shake your head and interrupt. “Think nothing of it, for my parents have said little… and I find myself embarrassed by my ignorance.”

“A concubine, my lady, is a woman who shares a man’s bed, though she is not his lawful wife. She lives under his protection, yet she holds no claim to marriage or title.” Izumi’s explanation is respectful and euphemistic.

You blink, stunned. “You meant to say, only for his pleasure? And nothing more is expected of her?”

Ami. That is what she is to him. And they know each other that way?

Your cheeks flush, pale powder unable to hide the heat of shame and heartbreak.

“Gracious… such arrangements are permitted? Without marriage? I can scarcely believe it.” Your voice hints at your heartbreak. “…I had thought such affections were meant for one alone—for me.”

“I know it seems unkind, my lady… but such is the custom, especially for one as high as the Shogun. A concubine’s purpose beyond his pleasure is to bear children; after that, nothing more. It is a matter of securing his heirs and legacy, not affection. It does not lessen your place.” She tries to comfort you. Of course she does.

“If heirs are what he seeks, I am more than capable; I would give him many. Why must my worth be divided with another?” Your voice breaks on the word. You bite your lip, but not too hard to ruin the pigment. Your dark eyebrows contour into the heaviest frown.

Izumi’s expression falls, aching for you. “Again, my lady, your worth is not lessened. You are his bride—the one who stands beside him before all others. A concubine bears children, yes, but she does not hold your place in his palace or heart.”

“It sickens me to think of it, and he does not admire me. I cannot hope to hold any part of his heart.” Izumi frowns, then, “You’ve met him already? And he had a concubine by his side? Is that why you speak so?”

“Yes… I encountered him whilst seeking solitude in the garden. But I departed with nothing but a bruised heart.”

She sighs deeply, then her voice lowers, as if wishing she could spare you this. “Then, I will say only this, my lady: the first meeting is not the whole of him. Men are not poems. They are chapters. And this is only your first.”

The attendant interrupts the conversation, polite but urgent, “Time draws near, my lady,” she repeats, “The wedding ceremony is soon to begin. Might I suggest continuing this conversation another hour?”

Izumi turns to you, squeezes your hand. “If I could mend your heart this very moment, I would… but time has come, my lady. You must go.”

And so you do.

You walk toward your wedding like one walks toward winter: wrapped in silk and ceremony, but inside, trembling.

You do not carry joy in your heart, only silence and unmet hopes.

But still, you walk forward. Farther and farther from the inner chambers of the Ōoku compound until you reach where your wedding will occur.

The ceremonial kimono you wear shimmers like moonlight on a lake, an elaborate shiromuku. White from head to toe, threads of sapphire blue—a shade of your groom’s eyes—and gold brocade run like veins through its silken folds. The long furisode sleeves brush against the stretched tatami mats with each measured step you take, trailing elegance behind you along with two of your attendants.

Gojo, seated at the far end beneath the painted screen of cranes and pine, lifts his gaze at last. His eyes, paler than sapphire blue, fix upon you. He observes the embroidered chrysanthemum and trailing vines blooming across the hem in glinting gold thread. Then, his gaze lingers on your tsunokakushi, the while silk headpiece that veiled your orante adorned with sapphire blue lacquered kanzashi and combs shaped like delicate peonies. His eyes reach your waist, an obi layered with a dark brocade pattern tied with an intricate cord, trailing tassels that sway with your breath.

“Who knew she could be radiant? That wedding kimono does all the work.” Gojo thinks, then pushes the thought away as soon as it comes.

By the time your anxious, disheartened eyes reach him, he is already looking elsewhere. You observe his robes that are of the hitatare, a ceremonial garb reserved for those of the highest rank. Sapphire blue silk drapes his strong shoulders like the falling dusk, dyed in a shade both noble and subdued, rich with the weight of ancestral formality. The sleeves hug long and full, fastened with sodekukuri cords at the arms, lending the garment its stately silhouette. Across his broad chest, tied neatly beneath the collar, lay the munahimo, the chest cord, binding the layers of fabric in place like a warrior’s vow. Resting upon his brow is the eboshi, a black lacquered cap shaped with folded wings, its peak turned gracefully to the left, that a sign of his office. At his waist tucks the chisagatana, a ceremonial short blade that is of symbol, not a weapon. Yet, its presence reminds all that your groom is a ruler and a protector with incomparable power and strength.

“Such a shame he is not fond of me. He is every inch the gentleman I once dreamed of,” you think, and that plagues your mind as soon as it comes.

The marriage hall in the Edo Castle lay in profound stillness, gold-leaf fusama screens framed the room with images of cranes taking flight over pine and plum, an auspicious symbol of longevity and fidelity. The scent of camellia oil and freshly laid straw mingles with the faint smoke of ceremonial incense. Those of his family stood in their appointed places at the periphery, their robes still as the painted trees on the walls. Beyond the hall is the unseen garden, a winding path stirring through the pines, but here within, time itself seemed to hold its breath.

The silence deepens as the shrine official steps forward, dressed in layered robes of white and vermilion. His presence is humble, but when he speaks, his voice cuts through the hush like the distant toll of a temple bell. The san-san-kudo is brought forth, along with three nested sakazuki lacquered sake cups that are sapphire blue and gold, and the size of a plum blossom, placed between you and your groom. The shrine official bows low and begins the intonation: solemn, ancient words calling upon the kami to bless this union with peace, harmony, and perseverance through the changing seasons of life.

You kneel, and Gojo mirrors the motion, casting only a glance in your direction. The ritual is deliberate. You take three sips from each of the three cups, alternating—first he drinks, then you. The sake is faintly warm, carrying a bitter sweetness that lingers like unspoken hopes on your tongue.

Nine sips. Three times three. A sacred number, a binding.

When your fingers brush his as you pass the second cup, a quiet jolt runs through your veins. He does not react, but you wonder if he felt it too. When the final cup is emptied, the official declares what everyone already knows, “By the sacred rite of san-san-kudo and the will of the gods, this union is sealed. May the spirits of your ancestors bear witness. From this day forward, you are husband and wife under heaven,” he bows, deep and slow. Those of the family, still as lacquered dolls until now, bow in unison, the air shifting. Then, another silence, longer this time.

Gojo rises first. He does not offer you his hand, though you feel the weight of his gaze as he walks past. There is no smile or a whisper of congratulations, only a quiet nod. It is not unkind, as you are getting accustomed to, but it is unreadable.

Your attendants help you to your feet, the furisode sleeveless trailing like mist behind you as you follow him out of the hall. Through the painted gold fusuma doors, into the long corridor of pine-shadowed lacquer and faint incense.

No one speaks. You have married a man of legend, and he has married a stranger. The corridor stretches ahead like the path of your new life—polished, gleaming, and lined with closed doors. Yet you do not know which of them he will open to you.

You are brought to the inner quarters through a corridor illuminated only by paper lanterns. The hush deepens as the world outside fades behind you, the faint murmurs of distant attendants replaced by the soft shuffle of your geta and the sigh of silk brushing lacquered wood.

Inside, the bridal chamber is a sanctuary of stillness. Gold-painted fusuma screens depict red-crowned cranes among pine branches and layered clouds. A brazier warms the air faintly, and the scent of white camellia oil lingers, soothing but sharp. Tatami mats stretch beneath a lacquered frame supporting the bedding, a layered silk futon arranged with ceremonial precision, and a sapphire blue brocade pillow placed at one end.

Your attendants follow after you quietly. With them comes a warmed bowl of water scented with sakura and yuzu, along with a folded hemp cloth, a nuka bag, and drops of camellia oil. They prepare the folding screen shield, and soon it stands for you. Then, they bow and leave you, Izumi replacing them soon enough.

She helps you disrobe from the white shiromuku with careful reverence, folding the heavy fabric as if laying aside a scared chrysalis. A fresh garment awaits, a soft sapphire kakeshita patterned with flying cranes and blossoms, the hem padded and edged in gold. A warmer tone now, less celestial, more feminine, more intimate.

You sit as she adjusts your obi and gathers your hair again. Simpler now, though the lacquered kanzashi remain. This time, shaped like plum petals and irises instead of peonies. Your mask of white powder, darkened eyebrows, and red-tinted lips is removed with the hemp cloth and nuka bag provided. Drops of camellia oil are massaged into your skin to restore its original softness and scent.

You feel exposed, not physically but inwardly, like a poem written without a metaphor. However, you do feel true to yourself.

“I shall take my leave now, my lady. Your husband will be here shortly to share the night with you.”

You stop her with a question on your heavy heart. “You speak though as it is certain… but how can it be, when he sees no beauty in me?” she sighs, her sadness for you resuming within herself.

But she speaks with quiet hope, encouraging you to feel the same, “Have a little faith, my lady. I pray that he will.”

“…Very well. You may take your leave now…” You give her a melancholic smile, your voice soft, and she returns your smile.

“Izumi?” you call out to her one last time for today in a whisper before she withdraws.

“My lady?”

“Your presence—especially today—means more to me than you know,” the smile she returned seconds ago returns.

“I am simply glad to be of comfort to you. Serving you has always been my greatest honour,” you smile again, only this time, it is more genuine than melancholic.

She smiles for the last time, then she leaves.

You are alone.

You wait.

The candle burns lower in its dish, and a single moth flutters near the lamp, then disappears.

When the door finally shifts open, it does so without formality. No herald, no attendants, just him. Your husband.

Gojo enters, clad in a deep navy sleeping robe that parts at the collar, tied with a plain slash. He is bare of ornament, the polished veneer of office stripped down. Though that does not make him less imposing, no.

He says nothing for a long time, his eyes move from the futon to your sapphire robes, then to your face. “You are newly dressed,” he observes, his tone unreadable.

But beneath the tone hides awe for your natural beauty. “She needs no paint… her beauty is far more striking when left untouched,” he thinks—and quietly regrets his words in the garden.

“As tradition dictates,” you answer, hands resting on your lap, and he nods, pushing away the thoughts he found ridiculous.

Another silence that prompts you to wonder if he will reach for the ties of your obi.

He does not.

He walks to the inner alcove where the incense burner rests, adjusts the wick, and breathes in the scent.

“You ought to rest now,” he says, “the day has been lengthy for you.” Just like that, he turns, walks to the opposite side of the room, and kneels beside a folded bedding mat placed discreetly against the wall. He lies down with his back facing you.

You remain kneeling a while longer.

There is no rejection, no cruelty. Just space made by one heart—his. While yours ached to close it.

“You do not intend to claim your rights as my husband?” you speak up before biting your lip, your voice a whisper, and shivering.

Your words briefly catch him off guard. He did not expect you to speak up, and it made his strong body tense slightly. “Such pursuits do not occupy my mind,” he answers simply, devoid of any emotion.

“Even if tradition dictates it? Am I that displeasing to you, my lord?” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

That made him shift on the folded bedding mat, finally turning to face you while lying down still. “Foolish, you are adequate,” he answers. The kindest thing he has said.

He is not unwilling to call you beautiful, but unpracticed in expressing it. And his earlier, regrettable words still sit like tones on his tongue.

“No more than adequate?” you continue to whisper, wounded by his restraint.

Radiant is what he wanted to say. However, his nature as a layered and reserved man prevented him from voicing his thoughts. He sighs, standing up from the mat, making his way to the ceremonially arranged futon where you are still kneeling.

“I shall share this futon with you tonight,” he says, surprising you. He lies down on his side while you adjust to yours, his back to you. “In hopes that you might not feel the need to ask such questions,” he finalises.

You think of Izumi, and the name Ami stirs on your lips—but you hold it back.

You finally lie on your back.

One hand aching to hold him.

The candle flickers once, then dies.

He is so close yet so far.

And so your first night as husband and wife passes without passion and with a simple conversation between two strangers.

The room is steeped with stillness, the kind that only arrives deep into the night when even insects seem too weary to sing. The candle has no life, and the chamber is dark. Only the moon, veiled in a thin silken mist, casts a silver lattice across the tatami mats and onto the futon where two bodies lie.

Gojo Satoru awakens.

He lies awake on his back, his snowy-white hair dishevelled against the pillow, his breath deep but measured. The pulse in his throat beats visibly. The room is too quiet for comfort, even if he is used to silence. His skin itches with the weight of a dozen unsaid things.

The woman beside him—you, his bride—sleeps curled on your side, your back to him. Your breathing is soft, steady. You sleep like someone unaccustomed to rest and exhausted by the ceremony—it is peaceful. He does not know that kind of sleep.

His cerulean eyes shift to your outline in the dark. The space between you and him remains distant.

He refused passion earlier. He has that awkwardness so thick it clings to his mouth like lacquer. He had not touched you in the way you asked for, for the air between you two is too raw, too unfamiliar. The conversation was over quickly, like a storm that left behind neither destruction nor renewal… only silence.

And now, the silence gnaws at him. When, for so long, it was his solace.

Gojo presses a hand to his forehead, thumb brushing the bridge of his nose. It should have felt like a triumph—securing a noble bride, performing the sacred rites, following in his father’s (the previous Shogun whom he had surpassed) path—but all it did was hollow him further.

He rises slowly, pushing back the futon covers with careful restraint, unwilling to wake you. He shifts a little to your side. He eyes your alluring sleeping figure, his hand grazing your hip, his mind wondering what it would be like if he kissed your cheek.

He does not. His hand pulls back.

The wooden floor is cool beneath his feet as he kneels by the edge of the room, sliding the shogi screen open just enough to see a pocket garden bathed in moonlight.

The wind smells of dew and earth. The koi pond glimmers faintly.

He exhales.

There is a heaviness on his chest, one that no armour can shield, no sword can vanquish. Not even this marriage, politically perfect, ceremonially ordained, could ease it. If anything, it worsened it.

Because Gojo Satoru, for his brilliance and beauty, is unbearably alone. Regardless of his newfound wife and his concubines.

He is the Shogun, a title lacquered in power, prestige, and isolation. Everyone bows. Everyone obeys. But no one sees. Not truly.

He has grown tired of being adorned from a distance. Tired of being called divine, untouchable, magnificent. Of walking corridors filled with respectful whispers but no voices brave enough to converse with him.

The country rests on his shoulders like an invisible yoke. The feudal lords demand decisions. The court expects omniscience. His late father, perhaps even his mother, expects monstrous sword skills. Even his concubines perform with masks so practised that he cannot tell what is real.

And now, his wife—his lawful wife—lies on the futon he just left, and he does not even know what your laughter sounds like. He does not know what makes you cry, what kind of food you prefer, your favourite thing to do, and so much more.

What kind of husband is that?

His hands curl into loose fists on his knees.

He recalls the way you looked at him earlier that day—how your voice faltered after he made that careless remark. “If only I had the same cause to speak so kindly…”

He regrets it now. For he did not know the beauty you are underneath the ludicrous makeup.

The truth is, you unsettled him.

Not because you are radiant, though you are, but because you did not ‘worship’ him. You looked at him like a man, not a god. And he does not know how to be that anymore. He does not even recall being a boy.

Something shifts behind him. A rustle of bedding. He half-turns.

You stir slightly but do not rise. Your head shifts on the pillow, facing his side of the futon, though your eyes remain closed.

Gojo watches you a moment longer, then pulls the screen closed again. The pocket garden disappears from view.

He returns to the futon silently, his movement almost reverent. He lies down again, this time, closer. Not touching, but near enough to feel your warmth.

In the dark, his voice is barely a whisper. Not meant to wake her, not meant for anyone to hear.

“…My words were false…you looked lovely today.”

The words hand in the dark like incense smoke, unsensed but lingering.

He closes his eyes, and for a while, just listens to your breath. It is the only sound in the world that does not demand anything from him.

It does not put him back to sleep. But it is enough for him to linger with you until he must rise.

The first thing you feel is absence.

A stillness in the futon beside you: no warmth, nor rustle of breath. The heavy silence that once comforted you now pressed like a weight upon your chest.

You open your eyes.

Soft daylight seeps through the shoji, casting pale latticework onto the floor. The incense has long died, the candle is burned to the stub, and the bedclothes beside you are perfectly undisturbed.

As if he had never lain there at all.

Doubt settles within you.

Did he lie with you just for show? Then left as soon as you fell asleep?

You sit up slowly, your limbs heavy with the fatigue of ceremony and longing. The sapphire kakeshita still wraps around you, its inner lining faintly creased. You trace the fold where your obi was tied, now loose, askew. A single plum-blossom kanzashi lies beside your pillow, its golden stem slightly bent, dislodged, perhaps, as you turned toward where he had once been.

But he is no longer here.

Besides, if he followed tradition, you should have been undressed right now, kanzashi put away somewhere, bare from head to toe. Instead of having your robes and ornaments askew.

You rise, half-expecting the door to open, half-hoping this is merely a moment between breaths and he will return with some quiet apology, or even nothing at all. You would accept nothing. You would accept silence if only he stayed.

This begs the question of whether you are that naive to long for a stranger, the same stranger who thinks you are no more than adequate, the same stranger who seems to prefer his concubine over his wife—wife on ink, that is.

Maybe it was your childhood fairy tales that had brainwashed you into your longing. After all, you came here expecting the opposite of what he has shown you. You came here thinking your marriage would be different from your parents’, and it seems it would not be.

The door slides open.

You expected Gojo, but it is Izumi instead. You are not entirely disappointed, though.

She steps inside with careful grace, her hands folded, eyes lowered as if she already knows.

You force composure into your voice. “He has gone… far, has he not?”

“My lady, the Shogun is presently engaged in training in the swordsmanship hall.”

You nod slowly. “Did he… say anything before he left?”

Izumi shakes her head. “His lord said you were not to be disturbed, my lady—that you should rest well.”

And there it is again—that gentle cruelty. The kindness that spares you confrontation, but not the ache.

You press your palms into your lap. “I see.”

Izumi begins to gather the bedding with quiet efficiency, but you remain seated on the edge, unmoving. Your gaze lingers on the place where he had lain. Where, for a brief moment, you had imagined—hoped—that something between you might take root.

But the morning after is colder than the night before.

Another servant enters respectfully with a tray: green tea, warm rice, umeboshi, and a single preserved sakura flower in honey. Your breakfast is bittersweet, so is your marriage.

You take the teacup with trembling hands.

So this is how an arranged marriage begins—not with closeness, but with ritual emptiness. A space where something sacred should be. A futon is cold on one side. A husband is already gone.

You wonder if he even looked back.

Then, slowly, you begin to sip.

The hour of the horse had come: midday. And by this hour, you had been moved from the bridal chamber and back to the ladies’ compound.

The sun spills over the pale shoji screens, softening the lacquered edges of the Ōoku’s private dining chamber with filtered warmth. You are escorted from your quarters by two silent attendants, their heads bowed the entire time, not once daring to meet your eyes. The corridor had been long, lined with finely tended pines and winding stone paths glimpsed through half-open panels, but the hush of the Ōoku remains thick as water, oppressive despite its beauty.

The women had already begun to gather when you entered.

There were eight of them, not including yourself, dressed in hues of spring: cherry blossom pinks, iris blues, pale celadons. Their garments shimmered faintly under the daylight, a subtle reminder of their ranks, appointments, and proximity to the shogun’s attention. Most of them glance at you with careful eyes: neither welcoming nor cold, but measured, as one would asses a procelain figure placed on the same shelf.

A lacquered tray had already been placed at your assigned seat, beside a small painted screen featuring cranes among reeds. The tatami beneath you is soft, freshly brushed, and your cushion bears the mon of your family—evidence of the power you once held before being given to the shogun. Power that the concubines did not possess.

You bow slightly and sit with quiet grace. No one speaks to you. Not yet.

The midday meal is presented by servants in a quiet procession: five small courses are placed with ceremonial precision. Each dish in a black-lacquered bento compartment, the gold leaf trimming flickering in the soft light.

There is a clear dashi broth with shimeji mushrooms and slices of yuzu peel—fragrant and light. Next to it, a small rectangle of tamagoyaki, sweet and delicately layered, its warmth still lingering as if it had been made minutes before. A serving of grilled ayu, its skin crisped and brushed with soy glaze, is presented with a tiny wedge of sudachi and a pinch of sansho pepper. Pickled lotus root, cut into floral shapes, nestled besieged a bowl of steamed rice flecked with sesame seeds and green tea salt. And for the final dish: a trio of wagashi sweets—azuki bean yokan, a delicate sakura mochi wrapped in a salted cherry leaf, and a bite-sized yuzu manju.

You take your first bite of the tamagoyaki, savouring its comforting sweetness. Then a sip of broth. It is warm, tender, and for the first time that day, you feel a breath inside your chest ease. The taste brings you to a place outside of duty, outside of silence and courtly restraint. You let yourself eat slowly, savouring the textures, the intricacies of flavour, the careful harmony of it all.

Across the room, a soft murmur begins between two women seated near the corner.

You recognise one immediately.

Ami.

The other name haunting your thoughts and feelings.

She wore a violet kimon patterned with wisteria vines and a silver obi that caught light like moonlit water. Her hair was done in an elaborate shimada, adorned with ornamental pins shaped like peacock feathers. She leaned close to another concubine, a woman with a sharp nose and narrow mouth, whose name you have yet to learn. They whisper low, but not too low.

“It was my quarters he visited first, you should know,” Ami says with a hushed thrill, her fan hiding the lower curve of her smirk.

The other woman raises her brows, tone equally hushed. “So soon after the wedding rites? One would think the morning belonged to the bride,” she glances at you briefly, hoping you do not feel her glance. You do.

Ami gives her a small, silken laugh. “It seems he left the marriage bed unsatisfied—justice for our lord. Fortunately, he knows where to be truly pleased.”

“A bold claim, considering his visits did not end with you.” Ami’s eye twitches, but she lets it go quickly as she seems close to this nameless woman.

You do not look at them. You keep your gaze fixed on the bowl of rice, the gentle specks of sesame and green tea salt now suddenly alien. It is foolish to be affected—he is the shogun, and she is a concubine long before you became his wife. Of course, he would visit her. And you had already talked to Izumi about this matter, so you should be stronger now.

Still, the air shifts in your lungs. You swallow, but the tamagoyaki now tastes dry.

So he can spend a morning with Ami, the rest of his concubines, but not a night with you?

Ami voices again, this time a touch louder. “It is well we know of our station. The lady is most refined, yes—but refinement, as you know, is for spectacle, not for pleasure.”

You force a serene expression, lifting your teacup as if to disguise the sting her words delivered.

“Do you notice the way she takes her meal?” Ami continues, tone still light, as if you are not across from her. “One might think she’d never been taught temperance at the table. Her poor obi is holding on for dear life.”

You lower your cup then.

And for a brief moment, you are no longer in the Ōoku. You are in your childhood garden again, sitting beneath the plum blossoms, while your mother’s voice hissed like wind through the branches after quite the midday meal.

“A lady’s refinement begins at the table. If one cannot master her own appetite, how might she govern a household?!”

Shame creeps like vines under your skin. You usually eat delicately—small bites, slow pace—but in your first moments of comfort, perhaps you show too much ease. Or worse, enjoyment.

The rice in your mouth turns to ash. You press your chopsticks gently on the edge of the tray and fold your hands in your lap.

You would not eat another bite.

The meal continues around her. The women laugh softly at inside jokes and shared compliments on the sakura mochi, but their words sound distant now, muffled by the dull thrum rising in your chest.

You smile, faint and practised. When you finally stand up to excuse yourself, you bow with the poise of a statue carved from moonstone.

Your attendants await you silently outside. You walk back to your quarters like a shadow, soundless through the corridors, eyes fixed on the polished wood at your feet.

The door slides shut behind you, and you are alone.

Your quarter had been tidied in your absence. The brazier refuelled, the futon folded, the inkstone and brush beside a fresh parchment of washi paper placed upon your writing table. A small vase of roses remains by the window, their petals still stiff with morning bloom.

You walk to the vanity first. With practised fingers, you remove the kanzashi from your hair, each pin sliding free like a sigh. Then, you kneel by the basin, dip a cloth in the water bowl, and press it to your lips.

You do not cry.

You kneel for a long time before standing and walking to the inner corner, where the brazier and waste basin stood beside the partitioning screen.

You bend over, slow and quiet. Two fingers down your throat. A shudder. Then, everything you have eaten, every precious bite, rises and leaves you.

The taste of rice and tea salt burns against your throat. Your ribs ache. Your eyes water, but still, no tears. You are used to it anyway.

When it is over, you rinse your mouth with yuzu water, wipe your lips with another cloth, this time, and head back to your writing table.

The poem comes slowly, drawn from the well of silence inside you.

Aside from gardens, you indeed love poems. For while the gardens provided you solitude, poems helped you express every thought and feeling you could not.

You dip your brush in ink, and with careful strokes, write:

宝永四年三月二十七日 Hōei 4, 3rd month, 27th day

吾（われ）、御伽噺（おとぎばなし）を恨（うら）まず…。 I do not blame the fairy tales…

されど、物語（ものがたり）は紗（しゃ）の帳（とばり）に隠（かく）る。 But the tales are in veils.

墨（すみ）を交（まじ）へしとき、花嫁（はなよめ）は婿（むこ）の懐（ふところ）を望（のぞ）むべからず。 When ink is involved, the bride must not expect to be held by her groom.

婿（むこ）は翳（かげ）にして、寂（さび）しき影（かげ）なり。 For he is a gloom.

その心（こころ）と身（み）は他処（よそ）にあり、 For his heart and body are elsewhere,

我（われ）が胸（むね）を責（せ）む、まことに誓（ちか）ふ。 And it pains me, I swear.

母（はは）の影（かげ）より逃（のが）れしと思（おも）ふや否（いな）、また我（われ）を追（お）ふなり。 Beyond that, just when I thought I’d escaped my mother’s shadow, she follows me.

今度（こんど）は異（こと）なる貌（かお）、異（こと）なる姿（すがた）、異（こと）なる独言（ひとりごと）にて。 This time in another face, in another shape, in another soliloquy.

嗚呼（ああ）、命（いのち）、御伽噺（おとぎばなし）の如（ごと）くあらんことを祈（いの）る。 Oh, I pray that life is like a fairy tale.

You place the brush down. The ink smudges slightly, but you do not fix it.

You stare at the poem instead.

Not as a work of beauty.

But as a stitched wound unstitched, with a drop of salt peppering it.

And you finally cry.

꣑ৎ chapter two coming soon | liked this? check out my mlist!

── .✦ likes & reblogs appreciated <3 | © yxtoru | do not plagiarise. ── .✦ dividers by honeyluvsw & sweetmelodygraphics | recoloured fanart by me ── .✦ taglist: @sadmonke @viiennie @bunheadusa @amesenseii @rh-tg1 @aestheticghoul @loopypoopysblog @purplefluffycows @usbrous @emochosoluvr @rcveriees (want to get tagged? click here)

#yuna writes 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 gojo #jjk fanfic #jjk au #jjk x fem!reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #gojo fanfic #gojo au #gojo x female reader #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #gojo fluff #gojo angst

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yxtoru · 19 days ago

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೯⠀⁺ Mr. Perfectly Fine ᰋ

۶ৎ summary . . . a tragic love story between a celebrity boyfriend and his non-celebrity girlfriend. ۶ৎ pairing . . . gojo satoru / female reader.

── .✦ contains angst, depression, eating disorder, self-harm, and insomnia. proceed with caution, 17+ only. ── .✦ 2.6k words. inspired by taylor swift's mr. perfectly fine.

Mr. "Perfect Face" That is who your boyfriend, Gojo Satoru, is. The embodiment of perfection. Snow-white hair that shimmered under any light, sapphire eyes that gleamed like they held constellations, a nose carved by a sculptor, lips tainted baby pink and always glossy. His body: tall, lean, but muscular in a way that made even his co-models self-conscious. God, he is perfect. Too perfect.

Mr. "Here to stay" That is what he said when he asked you to be his. You, a nobody, an ordinary woman with no fame, no pedigree, were chosen by him. The golden boy of the acting and modelling world. He found you. He wanted you. He stayed with you.

Mr. "Looked me in the eye and told me you would never go away" It was not like you had history with him. You were just another fan at a crowded meet-and-greet, one face among thousands. But somehow, you caught his attention. He looked in your eyes like he already knew you. When it was your turn, he signed your postcard, writing his number and a note, 'Meet me backstage, beautiful,' along with his signature. He smiled at you like you were his secret from the start, leaving you feeling not just starstruck but chosen when you left the venue.

Everything was right, Mr. "I've been waitin' for you all my life" It started with late-night texts. Then phone calls. Then stolen moments in trailers, quiet cafés, private rooftops. He snuck away from filming his scenes and photoshoots just to see you. Then, he eventually kissed you, softly and reverently. Suddenly, you were his. His secret. His non-celebrity girlfriend the world was desperate to identify.

Mr. "Every single day until the end, I will be by your side" He said that night he proposed. You wore no makeup, had not even washed your hair, but he knelt in his penthouse (you moved into) and offered you the world. A diamond and a promise. You became his hidden fiancée, and people even went out of their way to try and identify you when the news came out.

But that was when I got to know Mr. "Change of heart" You felt the shift long before he said anything. The good morning texts stopped. The kisses faded. He always looked tired or distracted, or somewhere else entirely. Your wedding plans sat untouched. The 'I love you's' stopped, and when you would say it, he only smiled.

Mr. "Leaves me all alone," I fall apart It was a Friday night, two months before the wedding. He comes home, eyes dull, voice distant. He took back the ring. Told you it wasn't working, told you he could not see you fitting into his world. The weight of hiding you became too much. Every time he had to film a kiss scene or hold a co-model's ass, he felt smothered by your presence even in its absence. You begged him to stay, swore you would never complain again, and promised you would adapt. He said he did not want you to, and that he truly fell out of love. You fell apart.

It takes everything in me just to get up each day Sleep became impossible. Food nauseated you. The shower felt like punishment. You took a leave from work, lay in bed for days, even weeks. Socialising with anyone felt like a drag. You went back to your apartment, now that he had kicked you out of his penthouse, and it smelled like silence and rot.

But it's wonderful to see you're okay He was not crumbling. He smiled in interviews. Starred in movies. Posed on the cover of magazines. On your late-night walks, so you may rot somewhere else, you would walk by billboards of his face that is perfect and untouched, and you would have to sit down somewhere because your lungs refused to keep working.

Hello, Mr. "Perfectly fine" He chuckled in interviews when they asked about the breakup. "I've moved on," he said, like your love was a temporary scratch on his polished life.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? You wanted to scream. While he was out there picking co-stars to star with for his next movie, attires for his next photoshoot, you were picking up the pieces of a future that would never exist.

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby The universe mocked you by placing him in your path again. The coffee shop where you had your first date. You did not recognise him at first as he wore those dark, circular glasses he always wore, a mask, and a cap to hide his striking snow-hair. But his voice when he said your name was unmistakable.

Hello, Mr. "Casually cruel" You tried to ignore him and leave, but he gently caught your wrist. His voice was soft, concerned, "Have you been eating?" he asked like he had not wrecked you, "Have you been taking care of yourself?" Like he had not built and burned you in the same breath.

Mr. "Everything revolves around you" You pulled away, cold and changed. "That's none of your business," you said harsher than intended, and it struck him. You were not soft anymore, at least, not for him. You walked out before he could see the tears.

I've been Miss Misery since your goodbye You were. Everything you were disappeared the day he let you go. You did not know how to live without him.

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" He kept rising. Higher. Happier. Untouched.

Mr. "Never told me why," Except he did, and you wished he had not. Would that have hurt less?

Mr. "Never had to see me cry" He never saw the nights you screamed into your pillow with tears. The mornings you could not rise. The cuts you hid. The food you forced down and ended up vomiting.

Mr. "Insincere apology, so he doesn't look like the bad guy" Two weeks after that encounter at the coffee shop, he texted you from a new number since you blocked the one you remember. He sent a "I'm sorry if you're not taking yourself or eating properly because of me. Please change that," then he sent money and food. You sent it back without a word.

He goes about his day, forgets he ever even heard my name He did not text anymore after that. He went back to what was mundane for him. Acting, photoshoots, interviews, and get-togethers for celebrities. You became a ghost in his world, but he haunted every inch of yours.

Well, I thought you might be different than the rest, I guess you're all the same You believed he would be different. The way he talked to you, kissed you, spent time with you, and made love to you. It was all so different until it wasn't. Until he was just another heartbreak wrapped around a pretty face and a good start.

Because I hear he's got his arm 'round a brand new girl The co-star. The one everyone had shipped him with. Dating rumours about them spread quickly, and neither of them denied it. Just six months later, and their chemistry is undeniable. The timing? Unbearable.

I've been pickin' up my heart, he's been pickin' up her She was the girl you wished to be, the girl you wish he had dated and proposed to instead. She fit the mould, you did not, and people celebrated their pairing like you never existed.

And I never got past what you put me through Bad turned into worse, worse turned into the worst since those dating rumours spread. You lost your job because you either were not performing well or showing up. Food nauseated you always, so you developed an eating disorder. Sleep was so impossible that insomnia grew in you. Showering once every week became a miracle. You kept yourself behind your apartment's door so much that you lost your friends. The way you cut yourself had more fervour. You did not want to exist anymore.

But it's wonderful to see that it never phased you He lived,

Hello, Mr. "Perfectly fine" while you bled.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? In tack. Yours? In ashes.

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby A year and a few months later, you ran into him again. The same café. The same place of tragedy.

Hello, Mr. "Casually cruel" This time, he did not allow you to ignore, leave, or push him away, not when you looked worse than the last time he saw you. He dragged you to his car with his unyielding grip on his wrist and noticed the way you winced at it. Eventually, he saw the scars you have done on yourself, previously hidden underneath the sleeves of your hoodie. He paused, devastated.

Mr. "Everything revolves around you" You snap. "Everything must always go your way, doesn't it?" you cry and yell at him, "Can you not read the room? I don't want to see you, talk to you, or any of that shit!"

I've been Miss Misery since your goodbye Your anger dies down, but your sobs grow, "You're killing me here."

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" "While you're living life, it's unfair." He stayed silent, but you saw guilt carve into his flawless face.

So dignified in your well-pressed suit "I can't even get myself to shower every day, but you, you're always dressed up for something."

So strategised, all the eyes on you "I don't even talk to anyone anymore, but you, you're out there, so out there."

Sashay your way to your seat "I can't even get up and eat something."

It's the best seat in the best room "I lost my job, I'm running out of money..."

Oh, he's so smug, Mr. "Always wins" "...but you, I'm sure you just keep getting richer every day."

So far above me in every sense "How do you do it, Satoru? How are you so happy? So alive?"

So far above feelin' anything "All while I'm in an endless loop of dying and crying."

And it's really such a shame "Shame on me, that I can't forget us. While you? It's like we never existed, like I never existed to you."

It's such a shame "Shame on me for loving someone who never looked back."

'Cause I was Miss "Here to stay" You were gonna continue talking—sobbing your words out—but he finally spoke.

"That's not true. Fuck, that's not true," he says your name, his voice so tender it made your sobs pause.

"I loved you, so, so much. I loved us, so, so much. I wanted to marry you, so, so badly."

"Why didn't you?" you sniff, heartbroken all over again with his words.

"Let me finish," he says as he struggles to keep his tears in check, like this is the first time he has ever let his feelings register since he left you.

"I cried too. I lost my appetite too, maybe not as bad as yours, but I did. I struggled to wake up and keep going with my job every day, to keep plastering that fake smile everywhere—that fake joy. Every time I touched Suzu," Suzu is the co-star he has dating rumours with, "or another co-star, I felt like I was cheating on you."

"I want you back, us back, so badly," your breath hitched at his words, and for a moment, you stopped crying.

"But how can I go back to us when I truly don't feel our spark anymore? How can I go back to you when I can't feel that burning love for you anymore? When I can't see a future with you anymore," you begin to sob again, and he adds the cherry on top," Sure, I am a mess without you—I'm barely making it out alive with this stupid facade—but that doesn't mean I can not be a mess with you."

"You could have tried fixing that with me before you left, you know. You could have told me, communicated—" violent sobs took over you, so violent that he had to embrace you.

His embrace felt like home, but that home did not welcome you any longer. He says your name like it is glass, "I know. I'm sorry. I truly am."

Now I'm Miss "Gonna be alright someday" Months passed. That conversation left both of you on a thread, on a cliff. As if neither of you deserved closure from each other.

But healing started. Living without him for the first time started. Slowly. You fell asleep, even if it's fleeting. Food barely nauseated you, and you ate at least one meal a day. You showered two to three times a week instead of once. You applied for jobs. You started talking to people again. You thought about your cutter but avoided it.

And someday, maybe you'll miss me Six months later, you were sleeping and eating well. You showered every day and got a job. You regained your old friends and gained new ones. You threw your cutter away.

And Satoru? He seemed okay, at least on the outside. But he had been replaying every word he said, reflecting on whether they were actually true. Then, it started to feel untrue. Like his feelings all along were a scam.

But by then, you'll be Mr. "Too late" Three years later and you have managed to heal almost completely. You've managed to open your heart to a new guy.

And Satoru? He texted for the first time since that conversation, saying he wanted coffee at that coffee shop. You were strong enough—healed enough—to say yes.

He thought you were single; technically, you are since you were not officially dating the guy, so you did not correct him.

Goodbye, Mr. "Perfectly fine" So, another year later, he was devastated when he found out you were taken. Devastated that he thought by taking it slow, he was repairing everything, healing the two of you, so that in time, you two would be in a relationship again.

How's your heart after breakin' mine? His heart broke like never before when he reached out to you again, discovering you are engaged, another year later. He hoped by this time, you would have broken up with your partner, that it was his time to take you back, his time to make you his again, his time to make everything right. Was he too late?

Mr. "Always at the right place at the right time," baby Just two months before your wedding, you saw him again, at the same coffee shop. It broke him further to know that your fiancé did not cancel your wedding at this point, like he did. Still, he wanted to see you in that wedding dress, see what could have been his, see you for the last time. So, he asked to be invited to your wedding. Shocked you are, you said yes. He is, in fact, too late.

Goodbye, Mr. "Casually cruel" It was so cruel, seeing you walk down the aisle when he is not the man at the altar.

Mr. Everything revolves around you So cruel when his everything said her vows to her everything, and it was not him.

I've been Miss Misery for the last time So cruel that the tables have turned, that he is Mr. Misery and you are Ms. Perfectly fine.

And you're Mr. "Perfectly fine" You are so perfect, so fine—beautiful—even if you kissed your husband, that is not him.

You're perfectly fine You are, indeed, and he is not. Not when he left after that gut-wrenching kiss. He did not even say goodbye when he intended to because it hurt that much.

Mr. "Looked me in the eye and told me you would never go away" He should have looked you in the eye the night he left you and never gone away, no matter the mess he was. He only realised it now: that if he never left, he would fall in love with you again, feel that spark with you again, want to marry you again.

You said you'd never go away And you never did, at least not in his head and heart. But he let you go, and that is a heartbreak he will carry until his grave.

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