The days picked their rhythm back up.
Classes. Hallways. Quick coffees. Notes. Everything went back to its place - or almost.
He arrived in class, chose his usual spot - back, side, near the window. Set down his backpack. Sat down. Opened his notebook.
The lecture was literature. He answered a question from the professor without raising his hand - a sharp sentence that made her pause a second before nodding. A little later he cited the title, author, and year of a line no one else recognized.
A girl a few rows ahead watched him a moment too long, then went back to her notebook.
The afternoon dragged slowly in the classroom.
She was putting her things away calmly. Pen in the case. Notebook closed. One sheet left out.
She glanced up almost by chance.
He was a few desks ahead. Already standing. Backpack on his shoulder. Precise movement. No hesitation. He headed toward the door.
She followed him with her eyes a second too long. Not because she wanted to. It just happened.
Then she looked down. Finished putting her things away.
When she left too, the hallway was already half empty. No trace of him.
She pulled out her phone to check the time.
18:12.
She looked at it for a second. Then put it away. And started walking.
The next day, the classroom was noisier.
She was sitting there, but not really listening. She was writing. Then she stopped.
For no particular reason, she looked up.
He was there. Same position as the day before. Same way of sitting. Still. Eyes on the desk. No distractions.
A few seconds passed.
Then he closed his notebook. A simple gesture. Clean. He got up. Backpack on his shoulder. And left.
She followed him with her eyes, without noticing at first. When he disappeared through the door, she blinked. Looked down. Kept writing.
But the pen stopped after one line.
She left the classroom a few minutes later. Stopped for a moment by the window. Pulled out her phone.
18:10.
She froze. Looked at the screen. Then turned it off.
She stayed there a second too long. Then shook her head slightly.
*Coincidence*, she thought.
And moved on.
That evening, when he came home, he sat down to continue the anime.
She was already on the couch, legs tucked under her, a light blanket over her knees. She heard him come in - the click of the door, the footsteps in the hallway, the backpack set down in its usual spot. Then he appeared in the living room, sat in the armchair without saying anything, and picked up from the episode where he'd left off.
She didn't ask. Stayed where she was.
A few episodes later, the scene changed. Gojo in front of his classmates - his face less tense, someone laughing with him, photos on the phone, that warm awkwardness of someone not used to being seen but letting it happen this time.
Her eyes lit up. "He opened up."
"Yeah." His voice was low. "Because the others had closed him off. Then he reopened for others."
She glanced at him sideways. "And the boy who's always with you?"
"He's going through the same thing."
Pause.
"And you?"
He turned his face slightly. A short silence - not of someone who doesn't know what to say, but of someone who does and is deciding whether to say it.
"I destroyed myself alone. And I rebuilt myself alone."
The sentence fell into the air of the room without emphasis. Like a plain fact. Like something that had happened and no longer weighed on him - or maybe still did, but in a way he'd learned to carry.
She stayed still. Her hands in her lap, eyes on the screen.
The question was there. Small. Instinctive.
*Destroyed how?*
But it didn't come out.
She went back to looking at the screen. He didn't add anything.
They stayed there, in silence, the light from the anime moving across the wall.
That night, before falling asleep, she lay a moment in the dark, eyes open.
The ceiling was the same as always. The house silent, as always. From the wall came only the distant sound of his door closing.
Then nothing.
She turned onto her side.
*Destroyed alone. Rebuilt alone.*
The sentence came back once more, without her calling it.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time, she didn't think of him as the silent roommate on the other side of the wall.
She thought of him as someone with a story.
The next day it was raining.
Drops beat lightly against the classroom windows. The professor was talking, but his voice got lost in the sound of the rain.
She wasn't taking notes. She was looking outside.
Then - almost by reflex - she lowered her gaze toward him.
He was still. As always. Same posture. Same expression. Nothing different.
And yet...
She shifted in her seat. Looked at the clock above the door.
18:09.
She looked back at him. Waited.
One second. Two. Three.
He closed his notebook. Got up. Backpack on his shoulder.
18:10.
She didn't move. She watched him leave. This time, all the way. Until the door closed.
Silence. Only rain.
A few minutes passed.
She left the classroom. This time she didn't check her phone. She didn't need to.
She walked to the exit. Stopped under the shelter. The rain was falling hard. The street was almost empty.
Then she saw him. On the other side. He was crossing. Steady pace. Same direction. Always the same one.
She followed him with her eyes. Without thinking. Without really deciding.
Just...
to understand.