Dear Hamlet | YANDERE!GOJO SATORU/READER

TWO: PICTURING IN DETAILS.

"–nd thus shows how setting impacts both Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and Shakespeare's Hamlet: through exemplifying internal struggles, illusion versus reality, and an environment of deception. Thank you."

Polite applause greets your ears as you wrap up your presentation, plugging out your computer and stepping away from the podium. You tuck your laptop under your arm and make your way back to your seat.

Unbeknownst to you, the same white-haired man was standing by the entrance of the classroom, his arms crossed over his and his back leaned against the wall.

"All right, I'll end our lesson here with (last name)'s presentation," The lecturer says, returning to the podium. "See you all next week."

The noise of students murmuring and packing their bags fills the classroom, yourself included, as you slide your laptop back into your bag. You zip it up and swing it over your shoulders, before your eyes settle on a familiar white mop of hair. It wasn't hard to notice him–for one, he was very tall, and secondly, girls were swooning over him, asking for a selfie. He obliged, slightly bending down to level with their heights. You deadpan, before sighing and walking towards him.

"What do you want?" You ask, pushing yourself through the crowd of girls and confronting him.

"How do you know I'm here for you?" He teases, lifting himself up to his full height. You quirk an eyebrow.

"So you came all the way here to watch some student's presentation? That's boring," You say. "Besides, you said to keep an eye out for you. That I did."

He chuckles. "You're a smart girl."

"Thanks, I try," You say, monotonously.

"Let's take our talk to the school cafe," He says, the crowd of girls dissipating like ants.

"Fine."

–

The school cafe looked like a regular cafe: there was jazz music playing in the background, baristas with green aprons, packaged coffee beans on display, round tables sleek mahogany. Grey sunlight fell through the windows, white butterflies drunkenly fluttering around and casting flickering shadows across the lit floor.

You take a seat in one of the corners of the cafe, with the white-haired man following suit. You scan through the laminated menu set on the table before hailing down a waitress.

"(Favourite drink), please."

"So boring. Cheer up a little. I'll have the strawberry parfait."

The waitress notes your orders before scurrying away. You cup your chin in your hand and look at him square in the eye, an almost schizophrenic mania gleaming in your eyes.

"So, your name." You begin.

"I'm Gojo Satoru. I already know yours," He says, pulling out a picture of you from his pocket. "This was in your father's wallet."

You take the picture. It was a photograph of you when you were a child, the film wrinkled and yellowing with age. The sight makes your heart throb painfully and your eyes sting, and you fold it up and pocket it. Best not to show emotion before a stranger. You could remember your father, strangely, in details: the Adam's apple going up and down when he swallowed, the ears backlit against the kitchen window, the left hand lying on the kitchen table, cut off by the shirt cuff. Your father was sort of a pastiche. Maybe you were so obsessed with finding out how and why he died that you could never get too far away from him to see all the parts at once.

"And this." He pulls out a familiar, red notebook, weathered down by age and rain. Your eyes widen at the sight.

"My diary? Where'd you find it?!" You reach over and try to snatch it from him, but he instead stretches it over his head so that it is out of reach. He opens it and reads one of the page's contents, tilting his head back.