Dear Hamlet | YANDERE!GOJO SATORU/READER

THIRTEEN: ACROSS THE SEA.

You open a fresh new page and begin to write.

Dear Hamlet,

Today I discussed Sato with Gojo. He made me revisit the past, as he said, visit, not returning, but visit. It was as if I had shot an arrow and the past splattered across the walls as blood. I wish the target had been Sato. Maybe if he were dead I would have some closure. Seeing him and him admitting he was wrong isn't enough–I want him dead. I guess that in itself is a measurement of how much he hurt me.

Gojo's nice. We made a pinky promise that no matter how things change, he wouldn't leave me, like every man in my life. He's the strongest, so that should hold some weight, right?

You pause.

I hope he comes to me when I call his name.

Then you scribble it out. That was too sentimental. Too soft. Too mushy, something straight out of an old romance film, where being sappy and soppy was in.

I hope he stays.

You close the diary.

The night sighs under the oppressive light of the moon. Gojo is walking home, his hands in his pockets and his face tilted up to face the moon. He could easily warp there; but for once, he wanted to reflect under the moonlight, as the powerless do in the gutters. The moon must feel like some sort of God to the powerless, Gojo thinks, because it's so high up in the sky. The moon was different to the sun; it had a dark side, it had its own poison. They did, after all, call the crazy lunatics: luna, lunacy, lunatics.

He needed you to stay. He needs you like a blind man needs his walking cane. He needs you so desperately it is almost palpable. You filled the hole that Geto left behind. Geto's absence chilled the air in his heart; he rendered the ventricles of his heart cold and cheerless.

He thinks...Gojo thinks that he is in love with you but he doesn't know how to deal with it.

The winter chills him to the bone. No, he was wrong; it was the thought of you that chilled him to the bone. He's afraid of you leaving. He's afraid. His intrusive thoughts include you turning your back on him and leaving. And he's afraid to beg. He feels hallucinated; he felt himself not himself, wrenched from his own personality, watching this life from another place. He can't imagine a life where you're not in it. You've cursed him, he thinks to himself–some magical, romantical spell you've put him under. It felt like you were forcing his head underwater and gleefully watching the bubbles pop. Maybe that was love: it was trusting you enough to let go of him in time so that he didn't drown.

He thinks about your painful past with Sato. You must feel haunted. Dancing with the ghost of his past self, where he was loving and devoted. And the thought of undermining your innocence and trust like that made his vision red. His hands clenched into fists at the sight of your tears, crystalline and unlocking the locked door of his heart.

"I can only save those who are prepared to be saved," He says to the moon. He imagines it's you he's talking to. He's talking to the moon. He's going crazy. "Being the strongest isn't enough."

You weren't going to let him save you. You had made that clear: you were to save yourself. But by the looks of it, you were drowning in your own dark side: How could I have not seen this coming? To love is to be prepared to be hurt. Being the strongest wasn't enough for you. You needed to be strong, but by parading this face of being strong, you were letting your weaknesses slip in, like a sinister shadow, through the crack of the backdoor of your life. It was just a matter of when, now.

He scratches the back of his head in frustration. The effects you had on him was palpable: he could literally feel the dopamine swirling to his head when he lay his eyes on you. Even through the blindfold could he determine you by your soul.

He arrives home. His home was dreadfully unlived in: there was a stoicness to the kitchen that denoted a lack of domestic care, the living room consisted of beige loveseats and a couch and a TV that was dusty at the top, the bathroom cold and almost occultish the way it never warmed up, his bedroom filled with a slept-in bed and a bookshelf that was filled with books only for aesthetic reasons. There was a desk that was unused, paperwork undid and empty. A pen rolled by his foot as he entered his bedroom. Gojo picks it up. It reminded him of you. He wonders if you were writing in your diary right now.

Why were you so far away from him, both physically and mentally? It was as if you were across the sea. Words exchanged felt like letters, rather than oral speech.

He sighs and begins to undress himself. He takes a cold shower, hand against the wall as the water poured over his body and hair. His wet hair stuck to his nape as he towels himself off, throwing it into the laundry basket. Then he climbs into bed, turning the light off, flinging the room into darkness. The bedsheets shuffle as he crawls underneath. He lays his head on the pillow and watches the empty side of the bed longingly, imagining the smooth expanse of your naked back, scarcely covered by the blankets, and he feels himself getting hard.

'Damn it.'