Gojo sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the sketch he’d been working on before Emilia came over. But he couldn't bring himself to focus on it because the event that took place when Emilia was around kept replacying in his head along with the recent events of the past month. Then he heard a soft knock on his door before it cracked open.

Gojo’s Mother: Gojo? Can I come in?

He gave a small nod without looking up. She stepped inside and looked around his room before she sat beside him.

Gojo’s Mother: Your father and I had a meeting today… about school.

Gojo stayed quiet.

Gojo: (flatly) You already know I’m not going back.

She sighed but didn’t argue.

Gojo’s Mother: I know. And we’re not going to force you. But you still have to finish high school. So… starting tomorrow, a private teacher will be coming here. Just a few hours a day. He’ll help you keep up with your studies.

Gojo’s grip tightened slightly on his pencil.

Gojo: That's great. 

He sounded so distant and his mother had to hide the fact that it hurt her and she spoke again. 

Gojo’s Mother: Just… take it one day at a time, okay? I'm here if you need anything. 

Gojo looked down at the notebook on his lap, feeling trapped but too tired to argue.

Gojo: Yeah sure.

And with that, she stood up and brushed his hair gently with her fingers before heading toward the door. The door closed softly behind her, leaving the room silent once more and Gojo to his troubled thoughts. 

Soon after, there was a knock on the door again and this time it was Gojo's father who walked into the room which surprised Gojo as his father hardly entered his room 

Gojo's Father: Hey there son. 

Gojo: Dad...

Gojo's Father then looked around the room and saw the multitude of papers filled with drawings everywhere and laughed a little. 

Gojo's Father: Haven't you ever bothered to arrange these papers? It's makes it hard to move around here. 

Gojo: My bad... I'll pick them all up later. 

There was a bit of silence and then Gojo's father picked up one of the papers and looked at one of the drawings on it and was blown away by how good it looked despite it's rough nature.

Gojo's Father: I guess my architecture drawing skills got passed on to you huh? 

Gojo: Yeah, (adjusts his glasses) I guess you could say that.

Gojo’s father studied the sketch in his hand a moment longer before placing it gently on the bed beside Gojo.

Gojo’s Father: You’ve gotten good. Really good.

Gojo didn’t react, compliments didn’t mean much to him anymore. He kept his eyes locked on the page in front of him.

His father crossed his arms clearly not satisfied with his silence. 

Gojo’s Father: Your mother told me you had a friend over today. Emilia, right?

Gojo hesitated, then nodded slightly.

Gojo: Yeah... She just came to check in on me. 

Gojo’s Father: That’s good. You should let people in, son. No point shutting yourself out from everyone over… one mistake.

Gojo’s grip tightened.

Gojo: (quietly) It wasn’t a mistake.

Gojo’s Father: You’re right. Attacking someone isn’t a mistake, it’s a choice. So now you deal with the consequences, and you move on.

Gojo’s jaw clenched.

Gojo: You say it like it's so easy to do.

Gojo’s Father: I didn’t say it was easy. But sitting here doing nothing won’t change anything. Life keeps moving, Gojo, and you can’t just let this define you because someone hurt your feelings. 

That struck something deep inside him.

Hurt his feelings?

HURT HIS FEELINGS?!

Gojo finally looked up, eyes cold.

Gojo: He didn’t just hurt my feelings... 

His father didn’t notice the change in his tone and he kept going.

Gojo’s Father: Look, I know you feel betrayed, but friends fight. You boys just need time. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh—

Gojo: (snaps) HE USED ME!!

The room went dead silent. His father stared at him, stunned.

Gojo: He lied to me, made me believe he had my back. But... He threw everything away just so he could feel good about himself. How am I supposed to look back on this and laugh?! 

His breathing picked up. The anger he had buried all month began rising again. 

Gojo: So don’t stand there and tell me to "move on." You have no idea what I'm going through, Dad! 

His father didn’t respond immediately.

Gojo turned away, his hand shaking as he picked up his pencil from the bed again.

His father looked at Gojo, let out a long breath after a while and then responded. 

Gojo’s Father: Your grandmother used to tell me that if you let what someone did to you control you… then you're basically letting them win. 

Gojo froze and his grip tightened around the pencil.

Gojo’s Father: You think Reggie used you? Fine. He did. But look at you now, shutting yourself in this room, pushing everyone away, throwing your future away. He doesn’t even have to be here anymore to beat you, because you’re doing it to yourself.

Gojo's eyes narrowed slightly.

Gojo’s Father: You’re angry at him? You should be. But don’t just sit here drowning in it. Do something with it. Otherwise, all you’re doing is proving him right, that you were weak enough to break.

Something inside Gojo twitched.

Gojo’s Father: You let him take Terra, take your friends and now you’re letting him take who you are. And it's making everyone else worry about you. Me, your mother and your sister Jellybean, we're all worried about you. 

Gojo's Father: So please, I know it's hard and that it takes time to get over these things but you can't let it rule over you for the rest of your life. I want my son back. 

*******

Gojo sat there in silence long after his father had left, the room swallowing him in silence. His father’s words kept echoing in his head like a curse he couldn’t shake off.

“You’re letting him win.”

“You’re proving him right.”

“I want my son back.”

At first, Gojo tried to ignore it, but the words burrowed into him, clawing at something heavy in his chest. 

Slowly, he got off the bed and he actually looked around his room. Papers were scattered everywhere; broken pieces of himself thrown carelessly across the floor. 

He crouched down and began gathering them absentmindedly, stacking them one on another. Most of them were rough sketches of faceless people as he didn't feel the need to draw their faces at the time.

But then, his hand stopped.

He picked up one particular drawing, one he had forgotten he drew: a landscape drawing of Emilia singing during their last karaoke night with Reggie. 

She was smiling, eyes closed, hand clutching the mic like she believed in something. And he remembered how happy they all were that night.

Then he remembered what came after. 

The lies. 

The humiliation. 

The way Reggie manipulated everyone into thinking he was the victim, while stabbing him in the back.

A cold fire lit behind Gojo’s eyes.

Without even realizing it, he sat down dropped the sketch of Emilia on his desk, pulled his sketchbook toward him and flipped to the first blank page.

At first, he simply drew what he felt: betrayal made into lines, heartbreak carved in pencil lead, loneliness scribbled into empty eyes. 

Then without realizing, it shifted. The drawings evolved, the faces gained shape, characters took form and the story he drew began to pull him into it's canvas black and white world, making it seem like Gojo was a part of this world. 

In this moment, everything began to come to him clearly. 

A boy left behind.

A world that turned on him.

Everyone calling him a monster until he finally became one.

Gojo leaned closer to the page, lost in motion. His chest tightened with every line and every page that he drew. It was as if everything he had been holding back; the rage, the grief, the desperation was now pouring out through his hand.

He wasn’t just drawing anymore.

He was creating an entirely different world. 

He drew like a man possessed, page after page, scene after scene. The boy in his story became a reflection of himself, twisted through ink and emotion. 

A revenge fantasy, a story where the broken didn’t stay broken, where pain didn’t stay silent, where betrayal didn’t go unanswered.

Hours passed, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t notice when his fingers began to ache or when graphite smudged across his arms and shirt. He didn’t hear anything, not the ticking clock or his parents moving downstairs which told him that it was now morning and he had been drawing all night. 

The only sounds in his world were the slide of pencil and his own heartbeat pushing him forward. He was inside the story now. A world of black and white swallowed him whole.

And he kept drawing.