"How did you meet Sato, anyways?"
Gojo was leading you to Jujutsu Tech, the forest bristling with life around you. Bushes and trees had a sharp outline in the blaring sun, the rustling noises giving you the suspicion that someone was listening into your conversations with the strongest jujutsu sorcerer, keen on exploiting any weaknesses. But you discard this thought when Gojo turns his head over his shoulder, blindfolded, at your silence.
"I met him at a house party," You answer, stepping over a jagged rock. The paved path crunches under your shoes like munched cornflakes. "I was drunk out of my mind to have accepted his confession."
"What did he say?"
"He said I was beautiful," You say casually, as if your words weren't stirring some primal rage in Gojo. His jaw tightens. "And then he kissed me."
"I see. Well, I'm glad he's not your boyfriend anymore. Seemed to have caused a lot of heartbreak, judging by your diary entries."
You swore you saw a vein pop on his forehead. But you avert your eyes to the sun above, cradled by the twiggy fingers of the wintered trees. You hum a tune in the rustling silence, devoid of any birdsong; a song that you had recently discovered, and Gojo finds himself entranced by your voice: the tune would haunt him, a song that would remain stuck in his head, only alleviated by the source in which it came from.
The temples of Jujutsu Tech come to fruition, their roofs gleaming as though the paint on them was still wet, glimmering under the sunlight. You gesture at them with a jerk of your head.
"Very traditional look you guys have."
"Well, we are operating under the guise of a Buddhist temple school," Gojo says. Then, suddenly, he chuckles to himself.
"What's so funny?"
"Man, that old geezer's going to blow a fuse if he finds out about you."
You cock your head to the side. "Old geezer?"
"Principal Gakuganji. There's another Jujutsu school in Kyoto."
"Oh. Who's the principal here?"
"That'd be me," A new voice steps in, and you nearly scream at the sudden intrusion. A tall, bulky man with tan skin comes into view. He had short, spiky black hair, and a pair of sunglasses rested on the broad bridge of his nose. "Gojo, what is the meaning of this?"
"I'm just giving the residential princess a tour of the school~" Then his voice sobers up. "She's (father's name)'s daughter."
"I see." His voice is deep; it rumbles in his chest like the vibrations of an instrument being strummed. You turn your gaze back to the torii gates in which you passed through, the thick red legs gleaming like fresh blood. You were a stranger to blood–though you were familiar with it in literary texts, you were a foreigner to it. But you knew one thing–in fights, the first rule was to minimise your blood being shed. You wondered if Gojo was familiar with blood. You supposed he was. If he was crazy enough to be a jujutsu sorcerer, then he shouldn't have any problem shedding it. Or spill his own.
"(First name)! Let's go meet my students," Gojo snaps your attention back to reality. You mindlessly nod, following him to the sportsfield. There you see the most bizarre of sights: A giant panda was spinning a brown haired girl around, with her screaming, before it let go of her. Your brow furrows.
"What the hell?"
"That'd be Panda."
"Yeah, no shit that's a panda."
"Nope, he's not a panda. He's a cursed corpse. He just looks like a panda."
"Seriously?"
"Yep!"
You walk down the stairs. A boy with spiky hair looks up at the approaching footsteps, and stands up when he recognizes Gojo.
"Who is this?" The boy asks, gesturing to you. You wave at him nonchalantly.
"This is (first name) (last name)," Gojo says. "(first name), this is Megumi. He's one of my students."
"Nice to meet you," You say.
"You too," Megumi says.
"Megumi, where's Yuuji?"
"In his dorm."
"Ah, you won't be able to see Yuuji today, (first name)."
You shrug. "That's fine. I met him before."
You watch as the brown haired girl staggers towards you, pointing a finger at you.
"I know you!" She says. You point a finger at yourself.
"Me?"
"I saw you before! For (father's name)!"
You swallow a lump in your throat at the mention of his name. "Yeah. That'd be me."
"This is (first name)," Gojo introduces you to her. "This is Nobara."
"Nice to meet you," You say, to which Nobara examines you carefully. She must be scrutinising you, but whatever conclusion she comes to must be positive because she smiles and says,
"Nice to meet you too!"
"Let's go to one of the classrooms, (first name)," Gojo says, leading you away from the sports field. "There we can talk."
He takes you to one of the temples and slides the door open, walks down a hallway that is flanked with multiple doors: Bluebeard's castle. Whatever lay behind the doors was a mystery to you, especially in Jujutsu Tech. The classroom was traditional: there was a blackboard at the very front of the classroom, with a lecturer podium erected before it. You pull out a chair and fling yourself into it, crossing a leg over your knee. You cross your arms over your chest and look at him inquiringly; Gojo takes a seat backwards, with his arms propped over the back of the chair and his legs spread open.
"Well?"
"Tell me more about Sato."
You sigh. "Why do you want to know about my past with him? It's history. You've read my diary."
"I want to hear things from your mouth," He says, with a smile. "The written course of events serves no justice."
You turn this idea over in your head, before shaking your head. "You know it's painful to return to the past."
"You're not returning. You're just visiting," He says. "You won't ever go back to the past. I'll make sure of that."
The horizon of your history with Sato is dark. You're navigating with your feet, following the path of pain. Your feet knew the route better than your head. The mist is cold, the ground is flooding with dead leaves, crackling and croaking with every step you take. A rough world sharpened by pain and infidelity. Memory is a punishment. Your eyes glaze over, as if you were staring at Gojo through a dark veil, separating you from reality and subsequently, him, and isolating you to the world of the past and history. It is an out-of-body experience, to revisit the past with such clarity as your own.
"Sato was charming. We met at a house party. It's rare I get invited to one, because I wasn't the type to go to them. But I was invited, and so I went."
You could still remember the domestic geography of the house party: Dark purple LED lights flickering from the walls, the long table holding up a large bowl of spiked punch with red cups stacked next to it, dark shadows only made opaque by the disco ball spinning above head, the blurring mass of bodies melding into one by your own drunkenness, the loud music blaring and vibrating on the walls as you leaned against it, a red cup in hand. You swirled the pink punch in your cup, watching it make a whirlpool and giggling to yourself at it.
"I was drunk. I didn't know it was spiked."
Out of the crowd comes a brown-haired boy, boyishly handsome with his unrestrained laughter and rowdiness. He had a silver lip piercing that sparkled under the LED lights, refracting and glinting like a diamond. He had uncanny green eyes–pale green eyes that resembled that of dying leaves just before they turned golden from the autumnal force. His eyes, fleeting and wild, catches your own hues, pools of (eye colour) that were beginning to darken from the alcoholic fire burning in your veins.
He approaches you.
"What happens next?"
"What's a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?" He leans against the wall with an arm, trapping you against it. You look down at your pink drunk, suddenly shy.
"I dunno," You mumble. Your ears burn with embarrassment when he laughs heartily. He tongues at the inner ring of his lip piercing, before looking at you with sudden fierce green eyes. You look up and you find that your lips are grazing his.
"Can I?" He asks. His breath was a mix of fruit punch and mint. You, a maiden virgin, nod.
"I couldn't fathom how I got myself in that situation. I just let things happen. I was passive and meek back then. It was a mistake. People took advantage of it. They exploited me for their own personal gain. Look at Sato."
"Was he your first?"
"Yeah," You pause, the dark veil dissipating like powder in water. You are back to reality, away from the thrumming music of the past, Western and J-pop songs a relic. "He was."
"Well, he won't be your second. Or third," Gojo smiles. You look at him quizzically. "Because I'm here."
"You weren't there when Sato confronted me the other day."
"What did he say?"
"He called me a whore," You chuckle. "Ironic, isn't it?"
Gojo's eyes darken at that word. You dismissively wave a hand at his rising hackles.
"Relax, it didn't hurt me. I have thick skin."
"You have too thick of a skin," Gojo whines. "I can't get through you."
"Good," You say. "No one can get through me. I'm dead in a sense: nothing can get to me."