Chapter Text
Fushiguro Megumi didn’t consider himself someone who wrote stories that mattered this much.
After their parents disappeared, Tsumiki used to fill the silence by reading to him. She had a way of making stories feel real—like the worlds she described existed just out of reach, somewhere beyond the walls of whatever place they were staying in at the time. Megumi never said it out loud, but he liked listening. It made things quieter in a way that mattered.
Eventually, Gojo Satoru found them.
He didn’t explain much—just showed up one day and announced that he was taking them in, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Megumi didn’t trust him at first. He was loud, intrusive, and entirely too casual about everything, but he didn’t feel fake. And more importantly, Megumi and Tsumiki were kids. They didn’t have the luxury of being picky about survival.
Gojo claimed he owed something to Megumi’s biological father. That was apparently enough explanation for him. Megumi didn’t ask for more.
Then there was Geto Suguru, Gojo’s partner.
The two of them were equally unbearable—constantly caught up in their own ridiculous antics, bickering one second and working in perfect sync the next. It was exhausting to be around, and Megumi made sure to keep his distance when he could.
Still—they weren’t bad people. That much was obvious.
Tsumiki smiled more after they moved in. That alone was enough for Megumi to tolerate them.
Gojo, for his part, seemed… attached. In his own way. He never said it directly, but it showed in smaller things—meals, school arrangements, the way he checked in without making it obvious he was doing so.
It was strange.
Megumi didn’t question it.
Gojo’s house—if it could even be called that—was closer to a mansion. Too big. Too open. Too much space for things Megumi didn’t understand. There was a library tucked away on the second floor that Gojo clearly didn’t use. Most of the books looked untouched, lined up more for appearance than anything else.
Megumi ended up there anyway.
At first, it was just somewhere quiet. Somewhere far enough from Gojo’s voice that he could think. Then it became something else.
Curiosity, maybe.
Or habit.
He started picking books at random, reading whatever caught his attention, finishing some, abandoning others halfway through. It wasn’t structured, and it didn’t need to be.
At some point, Gojo noticed.
Megumi didn’t know when exactly that happened, but the library started to change. Slowly at first, then all at once. More shelves. More books. Better lighting. Space that actually felt lived in. Megumi had frowned when he realized. He hadn’t asked for it but he didn’t complain.
Writing came later, Not intentionally. It wasn’t something he sat down and decided to pursue—it just… happened. He had never been the type to talk about things, and he wasn’t particularly interested in starting. So he wrote them down instead.
At first, it was just fragments. Thoughts that didn’t fit anywhere else. Observations. Things he didn’t know what to do with. Then it turned into something more structured. Stories, maybe.
Or something close enough to them.
Geto found the journal by accident.
Megumi had left it out—something he didn’t usually do—and Geto, apparently in the middle of cleaning, picked it up without thinking.
Megumi had expected the worst. Mockery. Teasing. Gojo finding out and making it unbearable. Instead—
Geto had just looked at him and said, “You’re good at this.”
Megumi hadn’t known what to do with that.
“You should consider it seriously,” he added, like it wasn’t a strange thing to suggest.
Megumi didn’t respond but he didn’t quite forget it either.
Gojo, of course, took it and ran with it. By the time Megumi actually made a decision, everything was already set—applications, recommendations, arrangements made without his full awareness.
“The best university,” Gojo had said, like that settled everything.
Megumi had rolled his eyes but accepted nonetheless.
Tsumiki supported him. She always did.
So now, Five years later—Megumi wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. But somehow he had made something out of it. He didn’t think much of it at first.
Books sold. That was the point of writing them, wasn’t it? You wrote something, it got published, people bought it, and then you moved on to the next thing. That was how it was supposed to go. A steady, predictable process. Nothing about it was meant to feel… overwhelming.
But then the numbers kept going up.
At first, it was just a decent sales report from his publisher. Then a better one. Then a really good one. And then suddenly, people were calling him instead of emailing.
Megumi didn’t like phone calls.
“Have you checked the rankings?” his editor had asked him one morning, sounding far too awake for someone calling before nine.
“No,” Megumi had replied, because he hadn’t.
“Well, you should.”
He had, eventually.
And there it was.
Apricity
His book—that book—sitting at the top of a list he had never expected to see his name on.
New York Times Bestseller.
Megumi had stared at it for a long moment, like it might disappear if he blinked too hard. It didn’t.
It felt… strange. Not exciting or in the way people seemed to expect it to be. There was no rush of adrenaline, no overwhelming sense of accomplishment. All that existed was a quiet, uncomfortable awareness settling somewhere in his chest all because he knew exactly what that book was, more importantly—who it was about.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✐
“YOU’RE A NEW YORK BESTSELLER.”
Kugisaki Nobara’s voice was loud enough that Megumi had to pull the phone away from his ear.
They had met during his first year at university. Nobara had arrived like a category five hurricane—loud, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore, all thigh-high boots and sharp opinions. She had taken one look at Megumi, who had been quietly minding his own business, and decided—without consulting him—that they would be best friends.
Her reasoning, as she later explained, was that Megumi surviving on his own was statistically unlikely.Somehow, that had stuck.
Nobara had come to the city from the countryside with a very specific goal in mind.
She wanted to be a fashion designer.
Not in the vague, wishful-thinking kind of way that most people talked about their dreams, but with a certainty that made it difficult to doubt her. She had the instinct for it—the eye, the confidence, the ability to take something and make it entirely her own. It never came across as arrogance, though. Nobara didn’t care enough about other people’s opinions to be arrogant. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
She just knew she was good.
And she was right.
It hadn’t taken long for other people to notice. One competition led to another, and somewhere along the way, a well-known designer had taken interest in her work. After that, things moved quickly.
Faster than Megumi had expected.
Now she had her own brand—MAISON KUGISAKI—and it was doing well. More than well, actually. It was the kind of name people recognized, the kind that showed up in conversations and articles and places Megumi didn’t bother keeping track of.
It suited her.
It surprised Megumi that years later they were still friends now. Nobara was still as abrasive and overbearing as ever, still far too loud for Megumi’s liking, and still entirely incapable of minding her own business—but she was also, unfortunately, a good friend. The kind who showed up without being asked, who said things exactly as they were, and who never let him disappear too far into himself.
Megumi relied on her more than he cared to admit.
However, he would rather jump into a pool fully clothed than say that out loud.
Megumi glanced at his screen again, at the numbers that still didn’t quite feel real. It was strange, in a way. They had both made it. Just not in ways he had ever really planned for.
“mhm,” Megumi hummed dryly.
“‘mhm’? really? That’s all you’re going to say?” she demanded. “I am genuinely concerned about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Normal people would be excited.”
“I’m not normal.”
“That is not the takeaway here.”
Megumi sighed, leaning back in his chair.
“I just don’t see what the big deal is.”
“The big deal,” Nobara said, very slowly, “is that your book is now internationally recognized, people are obsessed with it, and you are somehow reacting like you just got a mildly decent grade on an assignment.”
“…It was a good assignment.”
She made a sound that could only be described as deeply disappointed.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✐
Gojo’s reaction was worse.
“THIS IS WHAT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR.”
Megumi didn’t even look up from where he was sitting at the dining table, his laptop open in front of him more out of habit than necessity. The house looked the same as it always had—too big, too loud, too full of things that didn’t belong together but somehow worked anyway.
Dinner itself had been Gojo’s idea—loudly declared, impossible to refuse, and entirely unnecessary.
Megumi and Tsumiki had both moved out years ago, but somehow, they still ended up back here more often than not. Some things didn’t really change.
“You say that about everything,” Megumi said flatly.
“No, I don’t. This is different,” Gojo insisted from across the table, already halfway through his drink. “This is my son becoming famous.”
“You’re not my—”
“I raised you.”
“You did not.”
“I emotionally supported you.”
“You bought me food.”
“THAT’S SUPPORT.”
From the kitchen, Geto let out a quiet laugh, not even bothering to hide it as he leaned against the counter, watching the exchange like it was expected entertainment.
Megumi pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I regret telling you.”
“You should be thanking me,” Gojo continued, completely undeterred. “Clearly, my influence is what led you to success.”
“Your influence is why I have a headache.”
“Same thing.”
Tsumiki giggled at Gojo's antics. Fortunately, she was normal about it.
“I’m proud of you,” she said from beside him, her voice soft, steady in a way that grounded everything else in the room. She smiled at him—warm, genuine, uncomplicated.
Megumi glanced at her briefly before looking away.
“…Thanks.”
He meant it.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✐
The call came a few days later.
Megumi almost didn’t pick up.
He didn’t recognize the number, and recently, that had become reason enough to ignore it. Unknown calls meant conversations he didn’t want to have—congratulations from strangers, requests he hadn’t agreed to, people who suddenly cared about what he had to say. Still his thumb hovered over the screen a second too long. Ignoring it felt like postponing something inevitable.So he answered.
“Hello?”
“Fushiguro Megumi?”
“…Yes.”
There was a brief pause, measured in a way that didn’t feel accidental.
“This is Takahashi Ren, i’ll assume you've heard of me? Sorry to inconvenience at this hour, by the way.”
“Yes, i have. And no worries I'm not preoccupied at the moment,” Megumi answered. Of course he had heard of Takashi Ren. It was almost impossible not to.
He was everywhere—every major release, every awards season, every conversation that mattered in the industry. His films didn’t just do well; they dominated. Box office charts, critical reviews, international festivals—Takahashi had a habit of sitting at the top of all of them like it was expected. Multiple awards. Consistent hits. The kind of director whose name alone was enough to guarantee attention.
The kind of director who didn’t reach out to people like Megumi which—made this call feel even more misplaced.
“Very well then,” Takahashi chuckled before continuing, “I’ll get straight to the point. Fushiguro-san, I’d like to discuss a film adaptation of your book, Apricity.”
For a second, Megumi wondered if he’d heard wrong.
“A film… adaptation,” he repeated, slower this time, like if he said it carefully enough it might start to sound less absurd.
“That’s right.”
His grip on the phone tightened. It should have felt like something. Recognition. Achievement. Proof that the book had done what it was supposed to do.
Instead, something in his chest pulled taut. Because a film meant scale.
It meant visibility.
It meant people looking closer—too close.
The book had already gone further than he’d intended. What was supposed to stay contained—edited, controlled, filtered through enough distance to make it bearable—had slipped out of his hands and into something larger, something he couldn’t take back.
A film wouldn’t just expand it. It would fix it in place. Give it faces. Voices. Intentions he hadn’t agreed to. People would watch it and think they understood it. Understood him.
Megumi’s jaw tightened slightly.
He didn’t.
Not really.
And the idea of someone else trying to define it—polish it, reshape it into something more palatable, more consumable—felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Like something personal being handled without permission. Like being read too carefully by people who had no right to.
“I…” Megumi hesitated, brows drawing together slightly. “I haven’t really considered that.”
“That’s fair,” Takahashi said easily. “That’s why I’m calling.”
Megumi exhaled quietly through his nose, gaze drifting to the window. The city moved on outside, indifferent, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
What had started as something contained—something private, something he could control—had slipped out of his hands without him noticing when exactly that had happened.
Now people weren’t just reading it.They were seeing it. Talking about it. Understanding it in ways he hadn’t prepared for.
A film would make it worse.
Concrete.
Unavoidable.
It would take something that had only ever existed in fragments—in memory, in feeling, in carefully chosen words—and give it faces, voices, structure. It would turn something personal into something public. It would turn him into something observable.
Megumi swallowed.
“I’ll… think about it,” he said finally.
There was a small pause.
“That’s all I’m asking,” Takahashi replied. “We can discuss details whenever you’re ready.”
Megumi hummed faintly in acknowledgment, already half elsewhere.
“Thank you for your time, Fushiguro-san.”
The call ended.
Megumi stared at his phone for a moment longer than necessary before setting it down on the table.
The room felt too quiet.
Too still.
Like something had shifted without his permission.
A film adaptation.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. It didn’t feel real. None of this did.
He hadn’t written that book expecting it to leave his hands the way it had. It was supposed to be… contained. A story shaped by memory, softened at the edges, controlled in a way reality never was.
But somewhere along the line, it had grown past him. Now it was everywhere. And if this happened…if he said yes—then there would be no distance left. No barrier. Just everything laid out, dissected, interpreted, consumed.
Megumi exhaled slowly.
“…This is a bad idea.”
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✐
“You’re doing it.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“You’re doing it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Megumi frowned, leaning back into the corner of Nobara’s couch like he was trying to disappear into it. The cushions dipped under his weight, soft in a way that should’ve been comforting, but wasn’t.
Nobara stood across from him, arms crossed, posture rigid with certainty—like she’d already decided the outcome of a conversation he hadn’t even finished having yet. She always did that, Acting like things were obvious. Like decisions were simple. Like he wasn’t standing in the middle of something that felt like it could collapse if he stepped wrong.
“I don’t like this,” he said finally, quieter now.
Nobara didn’t even hesitate. “You don’t like anything.”
“That’s not true.”
It came out automatic. Defensive in a way he didn’t bother to correct.
She tilted her head, studying him like she was picking him apart piece by piece, searching for something concrete to prove her point.
“You like… one thing.”
Megumi’s gaze shifted away from her, landing somewhere near the edge of the coffee table. “…Name it.”
Nobara opened her mouth.
Paused.
Her eyes narrowed, like the answer had been right there and then—suddenly—wasn’t.
“…Okay,” she said after a second, straightening slightly. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
Megumi let out a quiet breath, his head tipping back against the couch as he stared up at the ceiling. The faint pattern in the paint gave him something to focus on, something neutral, something that didn’t ask anything of him.
Even that—that brief hesitation, that gap where Nobara couldn’t immediately throw something back at him—felt like confirmation of something he didn’t want to fully acknowledge.
That maybe she was right.
That maybe there really wasn’t much there.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✐
Gojo was even less helpful.
“DO IT.”
“No.”
“DO IT.”
“No.”
“DO IT OR I WILL SIGN THE CONTRACT MYSELF.”
Megumi didn’t even bother looking up from where he sat at the dining table, fingers resting uselessly against the surface like he had meant to do something with them and forgot halfway through.
“You cannot legally do that.”
“I WILL FIND A WAY.”
“That’s concerning.”
Gojo grinned like that was the point.
Across the room, Geto made no effort to intervene, watching the exchange with the kind of quiet amusement that suggested he had seen this exact argument play out in different forms more times than he could count.
“You should really think about though,” he simply said after a while.
“I thought you were on my side!” Megumi wailed pathetically.
Tsumiki patted his shoulder, “You don’t have to let them change anything you don’t want them to.”
Megumi hesitated. The words sounded too simple.
“They will,” he said after a moment, gaze lowering slightly. Not defensive this time—just… certain.
Because that was how these things worked, wasn’t it?
People took something and reshaped it. Smoothed it out. Made it easier to understand. Easier to consume.
Easier to like.
“Then tell them no.”
Megumi let out a faint breath through his nose, something almost like a humorless laugh.
“It’s not that simple.”
Tsumiki tilted her head slightly, the same quiet steadiness in her expression that had always made things feel more manageable than they actually were.
“It can be.”
Megumi didn’t respond.
Because he didn’t believe that.
Not really.
And so he agreed (reluctantly.)
The meeting was exactly as exhausting as Megumi expected it to be.
Too many people. Too many introductions. Too many conversations that felt like they were happening just slightly too fast for him to properly keep up with.
He stayed quiet for most of it. Listening to the recommendations from Takahashi as he animatedly chatted with the other staff, observed how the people seemed immersed in the storyline as they painted the pictures in their minds, nodded when necessary.
It was manageable. Not comfortable, but manageable. At least, it was—until they started introducing the cast.
“And this is our lead.”
Megumi looked up.
And immediately wished he hadn’t.
For a moment, his brain didn’t quite process what he was seeing. It registered in fragments, disconnected pieces that refused to form something coherent.
It was just… familiar.
The pink hair—soft, uneven, strands falling out of place like they’d never learned how to behave. The kind of messy that looked accidental but wasn’t. The posture—loose, open, like he belonged wherever he stood without needing to prove it. There was an ease to him, something unguarded, something that drew attention without asking for it.
And then—the eyes.
Warm. Bright. Brown. Just the way Megumi remembered all too clearly. Something softer, something deeper. Like honey caught in sunlight, like something that held warmth even in stillness. The kind of eyes that made everything feel quieter just by existing. The kind of eyes Megumi had spent years trying to forget.
His stomach dropped.
“…Itadori Yuuji.”
The name settled it. Not that he needed confirmation.
Megumi went very, very still. Because there was no way. There was absolutely no way. And yet—there he was. Standing a few feet away, real in a way that memories never were. Not softened by time, not reshaped by distance or regret. Just… there. Solid. Unavoidable.
Fate, Megumi thought distantly, had a way of circling back. Cruel, in that quiet, precise way that didn’t look like cruelty until it was already too late.
Takahashi continued, unaware—or uncaring—of the way the air had shifted.
“Itadori is one of the most promising actors right now,” he said, voice smooth, assured. “You’ve probably seen his recent work. Every project he’s been in has done exceptionally well—critically and commercially.”
Itadori scratched the back of his head, letting out a small, embarrassed laugh. “Takahashi-san…”
“He’s also a close friend of mine,” Takahashi added, almost casually. “So I took the liberty of bringing him onto this project early. I hope you don’t mind, Fushiguro-san.”
Megumi didn’t respond.
“I needed someone who could carry this properly,” Takahashi continued, glancing at him now. “Your work deserves that. And I believe Itadori is… the right fit.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Itadori said, half-laughing now, a little more flustered. “You’re overdoing it.”
Takahashi only smiled faintly.
Megumi barely heard any of it. Because all he could focus on—was him.
The line of his jaw, sharper now. The faint traces of something more lived-in—subtle scars, the kind that suggested time had passed in ways Megumi hadn’t been there to witness. The way he stood, grounded but light at the same time, like he could move at any moment and it would feel natural.
And those eyes—still the same. Still impossibly warm. Still the exact thing Megumi had fallen for without meaning to. He felt something in his chest tighten, pull, unravel all at once. It didn’t make sense. None of this did.
He had written a story to contain it—to take something unfinished, something unresolved, and give it shape. Distance. Control. And now—that same story had dragged the source of it back into his life like it had never left.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✐
“Hello, it's so nice to finally meet you in person.”
Megumi looked up.
Itadori was standing in front of him now, closer than before, hand extended, smiling—easy, bright, completely unguarded. Like this was their first meeting. Like there was nothing there.
No shared space. No past. No quiet moments Megumi had built entire meanings out of. Just—new.
Megumi stared at him for half a second too long before taking his hand.
“…You too.”
The contact was immediate. Warm. Familiar in a way that made something in his chest ache before he could stop it.
But the realization came quietly.
He doesn’t remember.
Megumi could see it in the way Itadori looked at him—open, polite, interested in the way people were when meeting someone new. There was no pause of recognition, no flicker of something deeper beneath the surface.
Nothing.
And for a moment—Megumi felt something close to relief. Because this—this situation—would be impossible otherwise. There would be too much to explain, too much to confront, too much that Megumi had never managed to say when it had actually mattered. This way it would stay contained, Manageable but most importantly safe enough for Megumi to exist without exploding like a dormant volcano looking for release all along.
“Actually,” Itadori added, a little more animated now, “I’ve read some of your other work too.”
Megumi blinked.
“I mean—not just this one,” he continued quickly, a bit sheepish but sincere. “Your earlier stuff. I liked it a lot.”
Megumi stared at him.
“…You have?”
“Yeah,” Itadori nodded, smiling again—bright, easy. “You’re really good.”
Something in Megumi’s chest tightened again, quieter this time.
“…Thanks,” he said. It came out even. Controlled. Like it didn’t mean more than it did. Relief settled first. Sharp. Immediate.
Thank god.
But just underneath it—something else. Something he didn’t let surface for too long.
Oh.
Megumi swallowed it down before it could take shape. Before it could become something he’d have to acknowledge. Because that would be worse.
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur.
Voices overlapped. Pages turned. Someone laughed at something that might have been funny in another context. Pens tapped against tables, chairs shifted, scripts rustled—small, ordinary sounds that should have grounded him, but didn’t.
Megumi responded when spoken to. Nodded at the right moments. Offered feedback when it was expected of him, concise and measured, like he hadn’t just had the air knocked out of his lungs minutes prior.
From the outside, nothing was off. He tried his best to stay composed. Professional. Present. But internally nothing held. His brain screamed at him to curl inwards and run. Everything felt slightly out of place, like the room had tilted just enough to make standing upright feel unnatural. His thoughts refused to settle, slipping over each other, looping back to the same point no matter how far he tried to move away from it.
Because this wasn’t just anyone.
This wasn’t just an actor stepping into a role, interpreting a character that Megumi had constructed carefully, deliberately, with enough distance to make it safe.
This was—The One.
The origin. The source. The person he had spent years writing around, reshaping, softening, rewriting into something he could live with. Megumi never thought he'd seen him again, let alone exist in the same room as the steady tide known as Itadori Yuuji.
Yet he was here once again. Existing in his orbit. Breathing the same air. Speaking lines that were never meant to reach him. Pulled inside a story that had been built from the quiet and unspoken parts of Megumi’s life.
It felt wrong. Not in a loud, obvious way—but in something quieter. More invasive. Like something private had been opened without his permission. Like his chest had been split open and set on display, and no one in the room seemed to notice.
Or maybe they did.
Maybe they just didn’t know what they were looking at.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏✐
By the time the meeting ended, Megumi couldn’t recall half of what had actually been said.
Voices had filled the room, ideas had been exchanged, decisions had likely been made—but none of it stayed. It slid past him, indistinct, like trying to hold onto water with open hands.
Only fragments remained.
A voice—bright, easy, familiar in a way that made his chest tighten without permission. A laugh—unrestrained, cutting clean through the noise of the room like it always had. And those eyes—still warm, still steady, still exactly the same. Unchanged in all the ways that mattered.
People began to move. Chairs scraped softly against the floor, papers were gathered, conversations resumed in smaller, more manageable clusters. The meeting dissolved around him, natural and unremarkable, like nothing monumental had just taken place.
Megumi stood when he was expected to. Nodded when someone spoke to him. Kept his expression neutral, his posture composed.
It was easier that way.
“Fushiguro?”
Megumi turned.
Itadori stood a step away, close enough that Megumi could make out the faint crease near his eyes when he smiled, the small imperfections that made him feel real in a way memory never quite captured.
Up close, it was worse.
Or better.
Megumi wasn’t sure.
Itadori rubbed the back of his neck, then shifted, fingers coming up to scratch lightly at his cheek—nervous, almost sheepish, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to place himself in the moment.
“I—uh—just wanted to say,” he started, glancing at him before quickly looking away, then back again, “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
Megumi blinked.
Itadori laughed softly under his breath, the sound a little awkward, a little too honest to be rehearsed.
“Sorry, that sounded kind of stiff,” he added, scratching his cheek again. “I just—your book is really important, right? I can tell. So I want to do it justice.”
Megumi stared at him for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re acting like I’m going to kill you or something.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them—flat, dry, instinctive.
Itadori froze.
“Wha—no, no, not like that,” he said quickly, hands lifting slightly in a quiet panic, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean—I’m not scared of you or anything.”
A beat.
“I mean—not that you’re not—” he stopped himself, visibly recalibrating, a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck. “That came out wrong.”
Megumi watched him unravel in real time.
Something in his chest shifted.
“It’s just—” Itadori tried again, softer this time, more grounded. “I really admire your work. And I know this story means a lot to you. So I just… want to be good enough for it.”
The words landed without pretense. There was no calculation. no performance. Just the raw, heart on his sleeve kind of honesty that Megumi had always found… dangerous.
Megumi felt himself hesitate, just for a second.
Caught off guard. Because there was no irony in it. No distance. No attempt to sound impressive or careful or strategic. Just sincerity, laid out plainly. It shouldn’t have affected him. And yet—
“…You’ll be fine,” Megumi said after a moment, tone even, measured like it always was. Like it hadn’t taken him that second to find it. “You’ve done enough work to prove that.”
Itadori blinked, then smiled—relieved, a little brighter now.
“Thanks,” he said, softer.
Megumi gave a small nod. A pause settled between them—not uncomfortable, just… there.
“Then, uh—yeah,” Itadori added, stepping back slightly
. “I’ll see you around.”
“…Yeah.”
“See you, Fushiguro.”
“See you.”
Megumi watched him leave.
Just for a second. Long enough to register the way he moved, the ease of it, the way the room seemed to shift around him without resistance.
Then he looked away.
He doesn’t remember. The thought returned, quieter now. Heavier. It settled somewhere deep, where it couldn’t be easily dismissed or ignored.
Megumi exhaled slowly, adjusting his sleeve like it mattered.
From the outside, he was fine. Composed. Collected. Unaffected. Internally—everything was starting to come apart.
Megumi found himself at Nobara’s apartment later that night.
He didn’t remember the walk there. Just the feeling of needing to move. Of needing to put distance between himself and that room, that building, that version of reality that didn’t quite make sense. He didn’t bother knocking.
The door wasn’t locked.
It rarely was.
“He’s here,” Megumi said the moment he stepped inside.
Nobara didn’t look up from where she was sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, completely at ease in a way that felt almost jarring in contrast.
“Who?”
“Itadori Yuuji.”
She froze.
Not subtly, either—like someone had hit pause on her mid-scroll. Her thumb hovered uselessly over her phone screen before she slowly lowered it, eyes lifting to him with the kind of disbelief that usually preceded violence.
“…What?”
“He’s the lead.”
“Come again?”
“He doesn’t remember me.”
There was a beat.
Then—
“Wha—EXCUSE me????”
Megumi exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as he started pacing. The space wasn’t large—Nobara’s apartment never was—but it was enough. Back and forth, back and forth, his steps quick, uneven, like if he kept moving long enough, his thoughts might stop circling the same point.
They didn’t.
“I don’t know if that makes this better or worse.”
Because it should have been better.
On paper, it made things easier. Cleaner. No past to account for, no explanations, no awkward recognition hanging in the air.
It should have simplified everything.
Instead, it felt—off.
Like something had been taken out of the equation without his consent. Like the balance had shifted and left him carrying the entire weight of it alone. Like standing in a conversation where only one person remembered what had been said.
Nobara pushed herself upright slowly, setting her phone aside with a level of care that immediately made Megumi wary.
“Okay,” she said, voice steadier now—but there was something sharp underneath it, something dangerously controlled. “Let’s go through this one step at a time.”
“Okay.”
“You wrote a book about him.”
“Yes.”
“He is now acting in the film adaptation of the book in role of himself.”
“Yes.”
“But he has no idea it’s about him.”
“Yes.”
“And you are just now telling me this.”
“I found out today.”
She stared at him. Really stared. Like she was trying to figure out if this was a joke, a breakdown, or something medically concerning. Long enough that Megumi almost slowed down. Almost. Then, very calmly—
“This is insane.”
“I know.”
“You’re insane.”
“I know.”
There was a pause. A heavy one. Like the weight of it had finally settled into the room between them. Then Nobara leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, eyes sharp in a way that meant she wasn’t going to let this slide past surface-level panic.
“Do you still love him?”
Megumi stopped.
The question didn’t land the way it should have. There was no jolt, no instinct to deflect or pretend he hadn’t heard. It settled into place instead, quiet and familiar, like something that had been circling for a while and had finally been given a name.
He had been expecting it.
Maybe not from Nobara, maybe not phrased like that—but the question itself had been there, lingering at the edges of everything he’d been trying not to think about.
“I never stopped.”
It came out before he could reconsider it.
Effortless in a way that made his chest feel tight, like the answer had been waiting just beneath the surface, fully formed, with no intention of changing.
Nobara let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping her head back against the couch.
“Of course.”
Megumi didn’t respond.
He stood there for a moment, still, like moving would require more energy than he had. Then he exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him heavier than it should have, his gaze drifting past her, unfocused, settling somewhere distant.
Because there wasn’t anything else to add.
He had already done what he could with it.
Taken something unfinished and rewritten it into something he could live with. Given it direction, given it resolution, shaped it into a version that made sense—where things didn’t end abruptly, where the feelings didn’t just sit there without somewhere to go.
He had built an ending for himself.
Carefully. Deliberately.
Something contained.
But now reality had returned, unedited and uncooperative, stepping back into place like it had never been altered at all. Like nothing he had written had ever been enough to change it.