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You were so deep in your thoughts, it felt like being trapped in a panopticon. Every groove in your brain, all the neurons inside your head, couldn’t let go of this feeling. Sleeping with him felt unreal, euphoric—a pleasure outside of reality. The ending was always the same: him holding you, then somehow not feeling emotionally available enough to give genuine aftercare. Satoru Gojo was a man who acted unknowingly of you outside of your hookups. It made you feel so many things—when you thought of him, you felt numb inside and at the same time wanted to throw up, like you were just some second choice. The worst part? He always knew you’d come crawling back, always knowing you couldn’t walk away from him. No matter how sour the post-nut clarity, you’d always run back to Satoru. You were much smarter than this—you could find a man who genuinely cared. You could find someone attentive and empathetic, someone who cared about your well-being for a change. But fuck, Satoru was too good to forget. He made you feel things that made you react like a puppy—learning tricks for Milk-Bones. You knew you weren’t just wearing rose-colored glasses; your whole world felt like a blooming rose garden.