Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Depression is often assumed to be the result of identifiable causes. . . trauma, loss, chronic stress, or life altering events. And while these are valid and common triggers, there exists another form of depression that is less understood, more difficult to articulate, and often overlooked. . . the kind that arises without a clear reason.

"Here's your medication. . ." 

My eyes remained outside the window. The sky is blue. The clear road is calming. The humming birds, the barking dogs, the meowing cats are music to me. The green field is now blanketed by a light snowfall, each flake settling gently on the grass, making it shimmer faintly under the pale light. 

I closed my eyes willfully. . .  as if doing so could summon something real. Something has passed. . . something I know I can never reclaim, even if time itself longed to return to yesterday, even if time begged to rewind itself.

And for a moment, it did. I was back in that open field, breathless and laughing, running after snowflakes with outstretched hands, trying to catch them before they melted on my skin. Before all of this.

But the memory slipped through me like cold wind through broken windows. I swallowed hard. My throat burning, like I’d been holding back too many things for too long. My eyes began to blur as the memories sting badly. 

The nurse is now contacting me with a sign language which I don't know why people around me bother to use that. They clearly don't understand me. It’s not like they ever tried to know me. Not like it matters anymore. No one here recognizes me. Not my voice, not my silence. Not even the weight I carry just to stay upright. No one even bothers to witness the slow unraveling of whatever’s left of me in this institution.

They cannot contact my relatives because I have none. They cannot contact anyone I am related to, to file my documents. . . to make my diagnosis clear. So they'll identify me.

They only know my name. That’s the only part they’re allowed to touch.

I looked away, back at the wind. I heard the long deep gasp from the nurse.

"I'll come back once you're checked by the doctor, Geto. . ."

How annoying the humans are. They rely so heavily on their voices, as if constant talking alone proves their usefulness. . . as if words are the only function they know how to perform. As if they are, in the end, indeed helpful if the person didn't die. . .  even if the person lived. As if the soul had drowned beneath the shore. . . yet they still label them helpful- just because they once all stood for her. . . or for him. 

The next day, still the usual. Nothing's new. They'll serve me a tray of few slices of fruit, a small portion of rice, and rationed dishes, that even against my will, I'll eat them all. I don't wanna be skinny. It'll make me ugly.

I was served differently from others. I don’t think they knew what to do with me. I wasn’t the worst patient they’d ever had. . . but I was the one that made them worried and struggle a lot. Like I was the last person they wanted to be responsible for.

I sneaked out to steal something sharp from the private facility. I wasn’t supposed to be here wandering beyond the monitored corridors of the private facility, but desperation has a way of making silence feel sharp and necessary. Luckily, I'd been observant for so long that I'm enough knowledgeable about the patients, nurses, doctor's usual routine. I’d memorized the nurses’ shifts, the way the doctors took their coffee breaks at exactly the same time, the routes the other patients followed during their daily routines. No one noticed me much, and I used that to my advantage.

By now, they were probably all gathered in the private counseling room wherein they're in the circle to share thoughts to connect with other people. I couldn’t believe they were capable of doing that, especially after everything they’ve been through. After all the trauma, all the breakdowns, everything that landed them here in the first place.

I hate it. I hate people. I hate how dumb they are. . . how clueless they are. . . how helpless they are. 

I fucking hate it. 

"I heard there's a new patient admitted. His parents chose to abandon him. If his condition doesn't improve, and he didn't somehow manage to show a progress. . . have you thought about how you’ll manage his care in the long run?"

The blood stained my white partnered clothes. I stopped from cutting my wrist when a few doctors passed by my room. I closed my eyes, stopping myself to whimper from the sting I felt from the cut in my wrist. I watched it slowly flow down to my elbow. 

The conversation made my heart cold. The same situation made my mind drowned by painful memories. The similar event in my life made the cut that bleeds numb and pain-free.

"What is his name again?"

My heart nearly dropped to the floor as my vision blurred around the edges, a dizzying wave crashing over me. I could barely feel my legs. I could barely see the white long hallway. A cold rush surged through my veins, and my knees buckled beneath me. I could barely see how the light is steady before and now they're eaten by the darkness of my thought.

Just exact where I almost faint, my eyes dropped to the patient display name.

"Satoru. . . Gojo."

Satoru. . .  Gojo?

"Geto!" 

I couldn’t respond. My mouth wouldn’t open, as if it had locked itself shut. But I really won't. . . I don't ask for help, or even a hand. I don't ask anyone to be with me.

My hand nearly touched the wall for support, but I lost consciousness before I could steady myself. 

"Geto!" Other doctors shouted, horrified.

Most of the patient looked at me pitifully. But they're not one of my concerns anymore. Their eyes were full of emotions but but only his held me still.

Because just before the sliding door closed, his blue eyes landed on mine. . . emotionless.

The dawn. The daybreak. . . The enlightenment. 

I don't see any of it on his eyes.

Chapter Text

I never expected that I’d still be living life with this much fullness.

"Suguru. . . " Nanami’s stern expression made it clear that he had just diagnosed a serious patient.

Behind him is Haibara, busy scrolling through his phone but manage to greet a cheerful wave.

Istiffened as I watched the patients’ guardians file into the emergency room. Some of them greeted me, and I returned their kindness with a small smile and a respectful bow, my hand absently scratching the back of my head.

"Suguru! How's life? I'm glad the director didn't kick you out." Haibara giggled, still focused on his phone.

I went straight to the vending machine, searching for something to drink.

I shook my head as I pressed the button for a cola on the vending machine. Nanami shook his head understandably, since his usual go-to drinks are hard liquor and beer. I glanced at Haibara, still scrolling through his phone like an idiot. He doesn’t like sugary drinks, so I figured I wouldn’t bother picking one for him.

All of us went to the quiet lounging area.

I rested my head and eased the stiffness in my neck. Twelve consecutive hours on duty had taken a significant toll. It was a heavy-duty shift I had just pulled off. This one hour was all I had to eat my packaged bento, a small celebration of a rare break. Most of the time, I don’t even get a chance to grab a simple Subway burger or sip iced coffee to stay awake during the long hours. This is especially true at night, when urgent emergencies often come in waves.

"Good. . ." I simply replied.

"What the hell happened when you vanished?" Nanami asked.

I watched my empty cola.

"Nothing. . ."

Haibara sank into the lounge Nanami crouched down, searching for a pillow while massaging his furrowed forehead. Haibara’s own brow tightened as he watched Nanami’s movements. After a moment, he put down his phone and turned his attention toward him.

"I heard you went to the children's orphanage. . ."

I nodded.

"Yeah. I'm donating something. . . uh. . ."

He nodded. Haibara's still doing the thing. His eyes landed on mine.

“Didn’t know you’re into such a thing. We could’ve come.”

“I’m not allowed. I’m not Christian.”

“What a full of crap, Christian or not, if you have a heart, you’ll go. It’s not a church, it’s an orphanage.”

Haibara laughed at Nanami’s mockery.

After an hour break, my duty continued. Haibara waved his hands on us as he slowly stepped up to catch up in his assigned area. Nanami and I went to the emergency area, accepting admitted patients. After a long overdue day, we both had our way downtown to our apartment, and presumably tomorrow will be a hectic to deal.

I was on-call when Nanami contacted me.

Nanami was already inside, standing stiffly beside the bed. His back straight, clipboard in one hand. He was sitting with the boy who refused to speak for the past couple of days.

His body was still, as if he had already given up. His left forearm had been amputated below the elbow. The bandage was neat, but the absence was noticeable. He looked miserable, too. His right hand lay limp by his side, fingers twitching now.

Nanami glanced at me as I enter.

“You’re late.”

“Didn’t realize it was a scheduled sermon,” I said, stepping in and closing the sliding door behind me. “What’s the gospel today?”

He dismissed me with his silence.

I leaned against the wall near the bed. My eyes went to the boy who was in the bend. The boy’s awake but barely moves. His eyes were on the white ceiling.

My heart froze.

“I take it he’s not one of your miracles?” I said, voice low. “He hasn’t spoken much?”

“Not since yesterday,” Nanami said. “He refused to take his medication and threw away every meal that was served for him. We’re considering a feeding tube.”

“Wow, this boy has gthe uts to serve the death now.”

Nanami glared at me.

I tilted my head and shrugged. “And his family?”

“They left.”

I let a bitter smile touched my lips.

“Of course they did, how characteristically human. Present in anticipation of recovery, absent at the first sign of permanence.”

Nanami’s grip on the clipboard tightened, just a little. “Claimed they weren’t prepared for this. Assumed he’d be fine. One visit after the operation, then nothing.”

I clapped my hands.

Same situation, different timeline.

“What a noble humanity. . . So quick to run when there's no more benefit to staying. Always the first to vanish when things get inconvenient.”

Nanami finally looked at me. “He was working two jobs before the accident. Supporting his mother and little sister. Things went wrong—"

“And now he’s a financial sinkhole. Guess affection expires when the income stream dries up. Hard to love someone who can’t pay their way, isn’t it?"

Nanami stood up and faced me.

“Why are you here, Suguru? You hate this kind of case.”

"They’re all the same to me," I said flatly. "But this one doesn’t waste energy on false hope. That makes him easier to tolerate.”

Nanami’s eyes were cold. “You prefer the ones who are ready to die.”

I shrugged.

“Because they understand something you don’t.”

“And what’s that?”

“That not all lives are meant to be saved.”

He sighs. I put both of my hands in my pockets.

“I still think he has a chance,” Nanami said after a beat.

I scoffed at his hopeful thoughts.

“A chance for what?” I asked. “For a life of daily reminders that he’s now defective and unwanted? Waking up in a body that doesn't work, knowing the people who once relied on you don’t even care if you exist? His body is broken, and the people who were meant to love him have already moved on.”

I uncontrollably scoffed bitterly. Memories are at the edge of my mind.

“Sounds like something worth waking up for.”

“The boy can hear you. . .” He whispered sorrowfully. “I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen people with less find a way back.”

“You wish.”

I walked closer to the bed. The boy’s eyes flicked to mine for a second. I saw the hollow gleam in him.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Yuta. . .” Answer by Nanami.

“You’re the one I’m asking now---”

“I wanted to die. . .” His unconsciousness cut me off.

He gained my interest.

Nanami set the clipboard down. “You think that’s the only option?”

“They left because I was just going to drain them. That I can’t work anymore. That I can’t provide. That I’ll empty their pockets for endless therapies and search for prosthetics. For the bills. They can’t provide that. . . so they left. So, what am I even supposed to do? Observing my situation, I know I won’t be able to wipe even my ass ever again.”

Yuta's emotionless eyes felt so familiar. . . as the way I could still recall what I was before.

“You’ll learn.”

Nanami’s optimism had always sounded more like duty than faith. I sneered. Just what a load of crap.

“You know,” I said to Yuta, stepping closer, “. . . people are disgustingly good at leaving. It’s the one thing they never need training for. But since you’re here, that’s the best revenge you could’ve had. That will piss them off more than you think.”

The boy paid attention to me. I smirked.

“Live just to spite them,” I said as encouragingly as I could tell. “Survival is a middle finger to them.”

“That’s your encouragement?” Nanami asked, the end of his lips in the fall of beaming.

I stepped back. The boy’s eyes lingered on mine. I shot up my brow at him, and he simply looked away and cleared his throat.

“It’s more honest than yours.” I tapped his shoulders. “I’ll go now. Get yourself a drink.”

I was about to go outside when a nurse called me. My eyes narrowed as she approached me nonchalantly, but the worry in her eyes was visible.

“Geto-san, someone’s trying to contact you, but you’re not answering.” She said, gasping.

My brow rose.

“He said he’s your doctor. . .”

“Huh?”

“Geto-san,” she said. “He’s in your office.”

“You let him in?”

She nervously looked at me. I shook my head, dismayed.

I barged into my office in a beat. As expected, he was sitting in my swivel chair, his elbow resting on the table, chin propped on his palm, eyes glinting as they met mine.

But before he could’ve noticed my entrance, his playful tone toward the nurse caught me. What the hell? They think my

“After this little chat with Geto, I’ll make sure to head straight to your place.” He added a playful wink.

“This is a private premises, not used for some flirtatious antics you disguise with that provocative body of yours.”

I could still see how his blue eyes turned to me despite his round glasses with blue-colored lenses. His shaved undercut layered white hair was disheveled, so different from my neatly combed black hair, slicked back to maintain a clean, polished look.

My eyes flicked to the nameplate.

Satoru Gojo

Board Certified Psychologist

Satoru Gojo. . . ? It tickled something in my memory. And a psychologist. . .

“Oh. . . Suguru-san!” He waved his outstretched right hand to me, like we’re close. How dare this little shit call me confidently?

My brow furrowed, stepping forward intimidatingly. But his outstretched smile says he’s not intimidated otherwise. 

His smirk is annoying. . . like he was offering a fist fight.

“I'm afraid that's not permitted under current policy,” I stated, domineering.

“That’s why I’m asking her out after her duties. . .”

"Gojo, snap out of it and make it fast.” The young lady in a white clinical uniform boredly said. A psychiatrist.

"Aw. . . Shoko-chan’s impatient, eh?" He said, still eyeing me.

“Get out of my office.”

This is driving me nuts!

I heard a little teasing from the girl named Shoko.

"What a day," he said cockily.

He stopped me from standing up, his gaze locking onto mine with quiet amusement. He purposely licked his lower lip, knowing exactly what he was doing.

I clenched my jaw.

"Weren’t you taught how to give a proper greeting?”

His eyes didn’t give anything away, but they didn’t shut anything out, either. They lingered, just long enough to feel deliberate. Familiar in a way I couldn’t place, and yet distant enough to keep me uncertain.

“You’ll wave a hand or bow. . .” He pouted his lips. “Not barge. You greet them well.”

He quietly took a few steps to approach me. My eyes widened when he moved his face closer to the side of my cheeks, enough to whisper a secret so no one could ever hear it. His lips almost touched the back of my ears when he whispered.

I gritted my teeth.

“Suguru Geto, 27, lives in Tokyo, escaped from a mental health institution a decade.”

It made my brow furrow.

“Diagnosed with MDD.” He added.

Before. . .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about--”

“His family abandoned him right after his diagnosis, labeling him a burden and using it as an excuse to escape their responsibilities.”

A flicker of anger rose in me the moment I heard it. Before I could think twice, my hand shot out and grabbed his collar, tension tightening my grip as if my body was bracing to throw a punch.

He clenched his jaw, still smirking. Don’t you just fucking dare mention it. . .

"What makes you think you can fix me when you couldn’t even fix yourself? You're just a ruin pretending to rebuild someone else.”

Gojo’s lip parted. It seems like I have reached and pulled an inch of the trigger. But when a smirk formed on his lips, my heart almost fell.

What the hell. . .

"Interesting," his hoarse, cold tone shot back.

“I don’t think you’ll be much help to anyone if you already see yourself as a burden,” I added.

My fist itched before I let it go slowly, as if I was doing him a favor. Because apparently, restraint counts as maturity these days. He fixed his clinical gown and watched me intently.

“We’ve met before. . . didn’t we?” His raspy tone raised my brows.

I buried them years ago. I buried those drowning memories years ago. And no matter how visible the damage is, I won’t give them the satisfaction of killing me twice.

I remember how I fainted the first time I heard his diagnosis and condition. . . the same one I have. I just couldn’t believe how a psychologist. . . of all people. The fact that he endured what I did, while I remained frozen. I couldn’t even take a single step to run from mine.

“Too bad you’re as helpless as I,” I added fuel.

But when I was about to turn my gaze away, his low baritone echoed like an alarm in my ears.

I stepped back when he tried to get closer. I’m glaring so bad, as if my eyes were sharp enough to kill him.

"If I have to rip apart every thread that's keeping you here just to take you with me, then I’d do it. I'd do everything in a heartbeat." He whispered, raspy.

A chuckle escaped from his mouth, eyes still on me.

“What do you mean---”

“Your demons are still up into your tiny little head, hmm. . . Suguru?”

“Fuck off.” I gritted my teeth.

He laughed teasingly.

“Don’t be too pissed, you still have remaining days to feel them.”

My brow narrowed.

He smirked.

“I’ll see you, Suguru.”

Chapter Text

"Tsk, Geto Suguru, 27, lives in Tokyo, . That's a good start as a greeting, Shoko-san?"

"Stop asking me nonsense, Satoru. . . I've already given you a favor, stop asking more."

I flicked the cigarette between her two fingers. I smiled awkwardly and give a peace sign.

"Eh!?"

She smacked me hard on the head the moment she realized what I had done. She gave me a sharp glare, as if a smoke was about to come out of his nose.

"The hell was that?!" I scratched the part she hit.

"That’s expensive, and you just flicked it and threw it away?! Buy me a new one!" She stormed out.

I rolled my eyes and stretched my body from squatting. I frowned. 

"You know that's not allowed, and you're still doing it? What if a patient sees you and reports it!"

"This is a restricted and abandoned area, no one will see it! As if patients are allowed to go outside. Thinking is free, idiot."

I scoffed. "Stubborn."

"Tell it yourself. . ."

It made me squat it. 

"You bet he got mad?"

"I bet he's absolutely raging furious."

"Don't be ridiculous, I only stated his background story." I said under my breath.

"You're triggering him. How the hell did you pass the licensure acting like you're fresh out of daycare?"

"So I could assure it still holds. . ." I sighed. "He attempted weeks ago. . . in the orphanages. They told me."

Shoko nudged me using her free. "Geez," I reacted.

"You have been following traces?" 

I nodded.

"The director doesn't have an idea about that." She added. 

"Whatever."

I could still clearly recall it.

"Geto!"

My eyes remained in the fainted body. 

"Geto?"

The nurse looked at me, shocked.

"You talk?"

I was a freshman student at the University of Tokyo. II can’t quite trace where it all began. . . maybe it was the exhaustion. I pushed myself to stay awake longer, to study harder, convincing myself that sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Over time, fatigue stopped being temporary. It became constant.  

I kept trying, kept showing up, even when my hands trembled from the lack of rest, even when my eyes burned from hours of silent weeping. But every failed test, every botched practical exam, earned me another round of his barely restrained disdain. His words didn’t just critique my performance, they slowly chipped away at my sense of worth. That I'm not meant to strive harder.

And slowly, I started to believe it.

I failed a subject in the spring semester which led me to have irregular classes and units. 

"Geto. . . who?"

"Geto Suguru. . . He has been admitted here for a few months now."

I nodded.

After the incident, the nurses are more focused on him. He became the institution’s top priority, ever since the day he tried to end his life with a cutter blade. They said the blade nearly nicked one of the main nerves in his wrist; had it gone a millimeter deeper, he wouldn’t have made it.

I haven’t seen him roam the hallways like they told me not to expect. I am not really used to communicating with other people, socializing wasn’t my cup of tea. Everything that needs to be done inside the institution is against my heart’s will. But when the nurse who I always talk about Geto Suguru said he doesn’t go out often, I remained that way, too.

He’s mute, they say. He doesn’t even gaze at the sight of people like they’re kind of nonsense. He always has the empty pitch black on his eyes, and his lips don’t work.

Ever since last winter, he’s spent most of his time by the window, staring out in silence. He didn't even bother to join in the Christmas tree lighting. He doesn’t eat the meal that was served to him. He’s more likely into fruits and vegetables. . . and also in mango juice.

One time, I intentionally walked past his room. The door was slightly ajar, and curiosity got the better of me, and I found myself peeking in to see what he was doing. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering bluish light of the television. He sat back against the headrest, remote in hands, eyes fixed on the screen quietly. He was watching a program documentary, one of those well-produced specials on military tactics and martial arts history.

“In environments like this,” the voice said, “reaction time must be automatic. There's no room for hesitation. The first to act often dictates the outcome.”

But he was not paying attention, his eyes weren’t there.

“Gojo?” The usual nurse came in.

I startled.

“What are you doing?”

I shook my head.

As I looked back at him, his eyes were on me now. I tried to raise my hand to begin with a wave but his eyes diverted away that left my hand hanging from a wave. I swallowed hard, then pouted my lips.

“He was sent here by his family, we don’t know if he was abandoned or thrown out after the diagnosis. There’s no clarification or clear diagnosis that he’s not speaking. But they suspected he has selective mutism.”

Selective mutation, at least in the way I’ve come to understand it, aside from being a physical or genetic shift is also deeply psychological. It’s the body adapting in a way that almost mirrors the mind under trauma. Just as the brain learns to compartmentalize, suppress, or rewire itself to survive extreme stress, the body, too, seems to choose what it needs to change to endure. As though the mutation is responding not just to threats in my environment, but to fear, anxiety, and unresolved trauma.

“Don’t ever tell other nurses I’m telling you this! I am doing you a favor.” The nurse groaned silently, as she set out my medication from a tray.

I nodded.

“He’s taking his pre-med at Keio University. I saw how we once watched a filmed operation on the TV as I took his laundry out of his room.”

“I heard his family abandoned him, too.”

She looked at me.

“They left a few documents about him, everything was spoon-fed to the department. They aren’t even sure if it’s his real name signed there. Because there’s a possibility that these people. . . his family, left him without a notice. Where he tried to kill himself.”

“So, there’s no good reason behind him being mute?”

“He has had a social anxiety disorder before, according to his records from Sunville. According to his mother, he witnessed violence happening in Tokyo. . . and tried to blame himself just because he couldn’t help the other life. He was just a kid, but somehow, he still blames himself.”

After that, my attention always focuses on him. Nothing’s new, always the usual one.

He loves mango juice. He frequently watched combat documentaries and films. Even in the darkness, his window is wide open so he’ll be able to see outside the institution. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it. If I were in his place, I think I’d shut down completely. I’ll be numb forever.

He rarely speaks to anyone. Or he never. No one sees him part his lips or even hears his tone. It’s like he’s built an invisible barrier around himself. . . and somehow, no one dares to cross it.

It became a quiet habit of mine. To sit just outside his room, leaning against the wall beside his door. Other patients would pass by and glance at me with pity in their eyes, not understanding what I was doing or why. I know it probably looked strange. Maybe even a little pathetic.

But for reasons I can’t fully explain, it brought me a strange sense of peace. Just hearing him sigh, or cough, or yawn. Listening to the low hum of the television playing yet another martial arts documentary, the faint sounds of punches landing or war drums echoing in the background. . . it grounded me.

That’s what they never saw. The parts of him that existed in silence.

It’s enough.

I still attend activities, counselling, and celebrations. I still allow myself to communicate and share my thoughts, my funny side, my experiences. It helped me build myself again. Not until I hoped. Not until I believed I could be better. Not until I wanted to be the one to fix him, to console him, to soothe him.

He doesn’t talk, that’s for sure. I never heard him. Despite being alone, he doesn’t talk.

What shocks me is. . .

“This is a private premises, not used for some flirtatious antics you disguise with that provocative body of yours.”

I stood there for a second, kind of frozen because of his shocking action. It’s been so long since I patiently prayed to hear his voice. . . And now that I finally was hearing it. It wasn’t what I imagined. I had almost forgotten the sound of it in my mind. Or maybe I just never expected it to sound so harsh, so impatient, so. . . alive.

He’s talking. . .  now? He’s talking to me, he’s not mute anymore.

His eyes still have that empty pitch-black look, like the universe forgot to light them up again. But he’s talking. He had found his voice again. And all I could do was hope he’d never lose it again.

His hair was longer now. His frame is thinner. Taller, maybe. And his eyes... they weren’t as empty as they used to be.

And damn, I’ve missed that.

I cleared my throat, trying to collect the storm of thoughts crashing inside me. Who helped him? Who was there for him when I wasn’t? Who pulled him back from the brink?

After everything. . . after believing he’d never make it through his consultations or face his diagnosis, here he was, talking so harsh, so rude, so impatient. It hit me hard. He hadn’t changed. Not in the way I thought he would. He didn’t even change.

And yet, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. He was standing right in front of me now, after months of searching. . . after years of tracing digital breadcrumbs, searching old usernames, following dead-end leads since the day he vanished from the mental health facility.

“Geto Suguru has escaped. . .”

The words barely registered at first. But when they did, my eyes snapped to his bed. His clothes were folded neatly on the side, untouched. An empty mango juice carton lay discarded beside the nightstand.

But what really caught my eye was the journal. . . a worn, leather-bound book resting quietly near the pillow. I stepped forward instinctively, hand reaching for it, only for someone else to grab it first.

Panic crept up my spine.

His clothes are still here. Was he. . . was he naked when he escaped? That thought hit me like a slap. It didn’t make sense.

“Geto Suguru is nowhere to be found in the facility!” Someone shouted from down the hall. “Hasn’t anyone seen him leave?”

Footsteps stormed in behind me.

“Get him out of here,” the old man barked. “Has anyone even checked the surveillance cameras yet? What are the security staff doing, drinking coffee while a patient disappears into thin air!?”

Few securities were forced to get outside his room. My eyes didn’t leave his bed. Thoughts aren’t processed yet, his escape is impossibly believable. Why would Geto do that?

“He jumped out the window. . .”

I stood frozen, staring at the wide-open window, its curtain fluttering gently in the breeze. My heart went cold. Just after I stopped monitoring him, he escaped. Just right after I decided to let him live alone, he stepped out.

He was gone.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the old man muttered, turning to the nearest staff. “Didn’t I specifically order that the windows be locked at all times? I told you there was a risk! That he might use it to harm himself, and now. . . now he’s out there, God knows in what state!”

I had imagined this moment in a hundred different ways. But never like this.

I had imagined his return. I never imagined I’d lose him again.

“What makes you think you can fix me,” he said, staring straight through me, “when you couldn’t even fix yourself? You’re just a ruin pretending to rebuild someone else.”

That hit harder than anything else.

Interesting. . .

I chuckled to myself. I can’t believe he somehow remembers me. Had he always known? That I sat outside his door? That I was the one who watched over him from a distance? Has he been aware all along? Was he ever. . . been there? Was I been with him?

“Get out of my office now. . . before I could call the securities.”

My eyes widened. His voice sounds better. I didn’t know he could do something beyond I expected him to.

“Suguru?”

The man with eye-glasses appeared. Shoko started as she walked beside me. I clenched my jaw. My brows narrowed. He looked a little familiar. I tsked. Were they close, too?

“Doctor?” The eye-glasses man asked.  

Instead of answering, I let Geto do it.

“For crazy people.” Geto scoffed.

I giggled. Expect the unexpected ones.

He can be cruel at times, too. And it’s something I should get rid of from him.

“Your boyfriend?” I asked teasingly, tilting my head.

His eyes widened a bit. If I weren’t so controlled, I might’ve burst out laughing. Shoko’s observant eyes shot me a look of horror, trying, as always, to keep me professional. I chuckled softly and shook my head.

I can’t believe this. He’s in front of me now. . . after striving so hard by searching?

“None of your business.”

Aw. . . How cruel, Suguru, hmm?

Shoko smirked, clearly fed up with both of us. “I can see how defeated you are, Satoru. Let’s go,” she said, tossing a crumpled piece of paper at me. Then she turned to Geto and puckered her lips sarcastically before walking off.

Geto Suguru, staring at me as cold as fuck.

Oh, stop staring at me like that, I’m melting. I licked my lower lip. How could I be so gay!?

I clenched my jaw. Time’s already up? I groaned. This isn’t enough. This will never be the last. I promised that.

I steady my posture and face him. His eyes still hunting me, I smirked evilly at him. Curious much? Don’t worry, I’ll give you a month to get to know me. . . or to be pissed and upset by my presence.

I turned, just before walking out, and threw one last glance over my shoulder.

“This is not the last we’ll see each other, Geto. . .” I winked, then looked at the eye-glasses man. “And make sure this man is not yours.”

Chapter Text

“He’s not thinking straight,” I said quietly, adjusting the sleeves of my coat as I exhaled, the weight of the moment pushing down on me more than I cared to admit.

Nanami didn’t immediately respond. Nanami wasn't the type to vocalize unwarranted paranoia. He rarely wasted words on people who, in his eyes, lacked logic or purpose. He stood there with his back turned slightly to the window, arms crossed, his jaw clenched in quiet contemplation. A rare tremor of uncertainty crossed his features, faint but not dismissible. It was as though Gojo Satoru’s single, pointed gesture, nothing more than a finger lifted in his direction that had branded him with responsibility he never agreed to carry. Gojo’s whimsical suspicions had no evidence, but Nanami bore them like inherited guilt.

The early afternoon sun bled through the blinds in angled slats, casting shadows across his crisp, beige dress shirt. Even in silence, he looked like a man trying to calculate variables that didn’t fit any known equation.

“There’s something off about him,” he finally said, his tone low and deliberate. There was a rare gravel in his baritone, one that only surfaced when something gnawed at him beneath the surface. “I’m not acquainted with him. We’ve never interacted. Still, there’s a certain hostility in his demeanor that I can’t disregard. Do you believe I should be concerned?”

Under typical circumstances, Nanami would not indulge in speculative thinking, particularly regarding individuals whose behavior lacked empirical basis or clarity. Nanami Kento didn’t let speculation rattle him. He dismissed irrationality the way a surgeon dismissed superstition, just like with a scalpel and a clean line. Yet here he was, visibly perturbed, as if a single look from Gojo Satoru had thrown him off balance.

I let out a huge sigh, ignoring a typical mindful day.

“I can tell he’s a doctor,” he murmured, changing tack as if to steady himself. “But what department? I’ve never seen him in any of the usual wings. Which department does he belong to? I haven’t encountered him during rotations. Is he a new hire, or possibly a visiting attendant?”

“You’re investing too much thought into someone you’ve barely met,” Haibara intervenes. "Just get out of it."

There was a beat of silence before I replied, stepping forward slightly to clarify.

“He’s a clinical psychologist,” I said, plainly, but in a matter-of-fact tone.

They both lifted their gaze to me, since it was unexpected.

“A psychologist?” Nanami echoed, brows knitting in disbelief. “Why would someone trained in cognitive and behavioral science be directly making casual rounds to a general surgeon, Suguru?"

I don't have an idea, too . Maybe he gave me a point, but not a good idea. I just can't believe that after all those years, he'd come after me, without a clean intention.

“Not to my knowledge,” I answered. “There’s been no formal referral. His engagement appears to be self-directed.”

"Don't tell me that," he said, not standing with my unreasonable statement. "He's definitely not a dummy or a senseless man on earth, he has a title . . . "

"Whatever his intention is. . . I don't care."

I arrived at the emergency department just past midday. The fluorescent lighting flickered slightly above, casting a sterile hue on the white-tiled corridors. A few attending physicians nodded in acknowledgment as I passed, and I returned the gesture with a slight bow of my head, as my habit. Well, it's efficient and wordless. Politeness was an economy I could afford.

There was little time for interaction. The morning had been occupied by two complex procedures and a case review that had overrun its scheduled hour. The residual tension of the operating theatre still lingered in my shoulders. I passed through triage, reviewed the board, then stepped out without fanfare.

I took the Marunouchi Line to Ueno, where I had a modest meal at Yabu Soba, a quiet restaurant tucked away between two alley corners where foot traffic slowed. Meanwhile, Nanami had gone to his favored bakery on Kichijoji Boulevard, a place he frequented with Haibara, our mutual colleague and one of the more reliable nurse assistants on the rotation.  

They had driven there directly. Nanami owned a vehicle and preferred to commute from his apartment in Shinjuku. I, on the other hand, lived within walking distance of the hospital. I minimized my daily expenses by reducing transport and accommodation costs. It was utilitarian, not sentimental.

We had agreed to meet later, back at the hospital. I arrived first and waited outside near the east-side staff entrance, where the benches overlooked a strip of landscaped greenery. The summer heat had tapered, but the pavement still held onto the warmth of the noon sun.

To pass the time, I unlocked my phone and opened my social media accounts for the first time that day. The notifications had accumulated . Messages , updates, the usual digital noise. I scrolled absently. My attention was divided, however, as the previous hours had been consumed by surgical procedures, one of which had extended longer than expected due to vascular complications. I hadn’t rested since 7:00 a.m., and the fatigue was beginning to crystallize behind my eyes.

Afterward, I returned to the hospital and took a brief detour to the staff lounge, where I poured myself a small cup of mango juice from the vending fridge. I consumed it quickly and made my way back to the emergency unit. As I stepped into the hall, I was intercepted.

Upon reentering, I was met at the threshold by the guardian of one of our patients. . . Fushiguro, who, without warning, approached me with a litany of dramatic statements. Her words, though rehearsed in kindness, were laced with performative sentimentality. Flattering, perhaps even moving to some, but in practice, they bore little relevance to the clinical protocol I was obligated to uphold.

I offered her a formal bow of acknowledgment, refrained from verbal engagement, and walked past without interruption. I had no interest in flattery. I resumed my tasks promptly.

Later, as I returned to the front desk area near the ambulance dock, I found Nanami standing beside his car, hands in the pockets of his trench coat. Haibara was a short distance away, seated on the low brick ledge, eyes locked onto his phone, earbuds in. His uniform was creased at the elbows, his nameplate slightly askew. The sun had begun to lower behind the glass wings of the upper surgical wing, casting long shadows across the pavement.

“Is he coming with you?” I asked, subtly inclining my head toward Haibara, whose focus remained fully absorbed in his screen.

Nanami didn’t need to glance over. “As always,” he replied.

I nodded once, acknowledging the routine.

“Are you heading home?” he asked.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll stay here a while longer. I plan to log out before four, if the caseload permits.”

Nanami’s response was a quiet nod. He never asked why I stayed behind. He understood that for some of us, remaining in the hospital wasn’t avoidance. It was an order.

“We’ll go ahead,” he said after a pause, then turned toward Haibara. “Haibara.”

He nodded. "As always."

I nodded back. 

"You going home?" He asked back.

I shook my head. "I'll probably stay here for a while. I'll log out earlier than four in the morning."

"We'll go ahead. Haibara. . . "

As I stepped into the lounge, the motion-sensor lights flickered softly to life, casting a pale hue across the tiled floor. The air was still, broken only by the gentle hum of the vending machine in the corner and the faint squeak of my shoes. I noticed my phone kept beeping. I reached into the pocket of my coat , pulled it out, and saw a cascade of notifications lighting up the screen.

I opened my Facebook, as it appears someone's flooding me with reactions in some of my old photos, as if they're still relevant now. My thumb hovered above the screen. I tapped into the notification. My eyes scanned faster than my brain could keep up. 

I squinted at the screen, my forehead drawing tight, brows knitted. My lips parted slightly before pressing shut again as I instinctively bit down on the lower one. It was as if my body were trying to mask my expression before I could decide how to feel. 

In his profile picture, he's in the white coat, his nameplate is visible, wearing his brightest smile. 

Dr. S. Gojo, Ph.D.

Licensed Psychologist

Live above your demons, mochi lover

My brow rose. Is that even needed to be in your bio?

Without thinking, I clicked to view my own profile. It had remained untouched for over a year. The photo was dated—my hair slightly longer, my expression more severe. I’d never cared much for digital self-presentation. Efficiency over aesthetics. Still, seeing it now beside his freshly updated image, I felt oddly... outdated.

It doesn't matter, though. Simplicity is beauty.

Geto Suguru

John 3:16

It wasn't awkward, though . I face-palmed.

Ha added me. Who told him he has the right to request that we be mutual? We never had a nice conversation before. 

Message Requested:

Gojo Satoru: This is Gojo. 

I stared at the message with measured disbelief. The time stamp glared back at me: 12:37 AM.

Really? Past midnight?

With a calm exhale, I placed the phone down on the stainless steel counter of the medication prep room, screen facing down. The blue notification badge pulsed faintly like a reminder I didn’t need. I had no intention of replying—not tonight . Especially not past midnight.

But the hospital had its own rhythms. I barely had time to gather myself before one of the interns approached, requesting my attention. A new patient had been admitted, short-stay observation, but was flagged for physician review due to mild complications. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t fall under my jurisdiction. But with half the department stretched thin, some staff studying for board exams, others called in for cross duty. I was needed beyond my usual shift boundaries.

I made my way back into the clinical bay, the artificial lights casting a pale glaze over every surface.  

The moment I stepped into the observation wing, my pace slowed.

I can't believe this man. My jaw almost dropped as soon as I realized it was really him.

This guy just texted me earlier! You've got to be kidding me, Gojo Satoru. 

I found him seated on the observation bed at the far end of the ward. His posture was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Eyes closed, arms folded behind his head, as if he were lounging in a waiting room and not occupying a bed in a high-volume trauma center. His chart sat untouched at the foot of the bed.

I exhaled quietly through my nose and walked over.

"What's his condition?"

The nurse stationed nearby caught my expression and lifted the chart. “Referral from urgent dental,” she reported, flipping through the intake notes. “Tooth extraction. Came in for pain management. Vitals are normal, no signs of infection.”

I glanced at Gojo. “He should’ve seen a dentist,” I muttered under my breath .

Before the nurse could reply, Gojo opened one eye lazily, his voice interrupting with a casual complaint.

"My head hurts, too. . ." It's he who talked for himself. "And my stomach."

"We don't make anyone's condition a joke, Mister." I plainly said.

He opened both eyes this time and let out a soft chuckle. “Didn’t know you were this intimidating up close.”

I gave him a shot of my brow. 

I raised an eyebrow in response, arms crossed. “And yet you keep talking.”

He smirked playfully. I don't think he's even feeling anything at all by now. 

"I know you wouldn't give a chance to my messages, so here I am appointing myself to you in a manner you'll respond."

I didn’t reply. I was too aware of the nurse glancing between us, eyebrows lifted ever so slightly in restrained confusion. I drew in a measured breath, but it didn’t help much. My chest had already gone tight. What the hell is he doing here? Couldn't wait til the sun rises so he'll be checked by the dentist ?!

“You really haven’t changed,” he said, with an edge I couldn’t decipher.

I kept my eyes on the clipboard. “And you still think charm substitutes for clinical treatment.”

He laughed under his breath. “It’s worked better than most therapies.”

I didn’t dignify the comment. Instead, I turned back to the nurse. “Administer 400mg ibuprofen. Observe for thirty minutes. If pain persists, refer back to the dentist. He doesn’t require admission.”

As I stepped away, I could still feel his eyes on me.

"Grumpy. Making me want to know you more."