Dear Hamlet | YANDERE!GOJO SATORU/READER

THIRTEEN: ACROSS THE SEA.

Gojo walks you home, his knuckles grazing your hand as you walk next to him. You're too busy thinking about the past and what the pain it brought you. The stone lion greets you as he drops you off like a proper gentleman. The moon is plump and the night is dark as black wine. Shadowed objects–a branch, a flower, stood out with a dark precision, as if seen through water. The flowers cupped the front of the house with a midnight, unguessable sweetness, and the leaves rippled and murmured in a small voice that was an intensification of silence. The stillness of night was like the end of the world, with you and Gojo being its last inhabitants.

"Sleep well, (first name)," He says, and you nod.

"You too."

"I hope I dream about you," He says, in sing-song. You deadpan.

"Nevermind."

He chuckles as you close the door on his face, and when you turn around, you're met with the grinning face of your mother. You blink in surprise as she giggles.

"Was that your new boyfriend?" She asks, taking her apron off. Dinner must have been served, you think to yourself.

"No. Just a friend."

"I wish you'd start dating again!" She exclaims.

"Why?"

"To soften you up," She pinches your cheek and you gently swat her hand away. "You're so mean and callous."

"I'm mean and callous for a reason," You say. "It's for my own good."

She sighs. "You're going to have to forgive Sato for what he did. It's the only way for you to let go. Otherwise, no one will love you."

"I don't need it. I'll be okay."

Your mother looks concerned as you brush past her and enter your room, where you make a beeline for your table and your red diary. You flip through the previous entries, written and printed in neat black ink. You stumble on one entry. This was before Sato had cheated on you.

Dear Hamlet,

I feel so full. It's as if there was an absence in my life that Sato fills, unknowingly. If I had a haemorrhage that constantly bled, he was the bandage to it. My heart feels so happy knowing that I found someone that loves me as unconditionally as he does. It's as if he cut out a part of me that was rotting and made it all better and put it back inside of me.

Is this how it feels to be loved? Was this how Daisy felt when she first stumbled before Gatsby? I feel like a lifeline. I need to exist. Everything I see, I see him.

Another entry.

Dear Hamlet,

Sato came by and gave me a bouquet of flowers. He said it reminded him of me. And they were expensive flowers, from a proper florist. Pink roses, lilacs, baby's breath, tulips. All of them represent love, he says. I'm sick too, so he came straight from class to my house. I have yet to buy a vase for them. They're so pretty to look at. I'm so lucky to have him.

You should buy flowers for Ophelia, too. They make a girl so happy, you don't even know. What shall I get for him in return? What do boys like? Video games? I'm not sure.

Sweet nothings. You found out how grotesque a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely seen thorns. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about, like Sato's ashen, fantastic figure gliding towards you towards the amorphous bouquet. Almost symbolic of your relationship, the flowers had begun to wilt and die after you had found out he had cheated, after weeks of staying alive. And they would not live despite your best efforts: watering, sunlight, moonlight–nothing helped. They wilted and their petals curled and blackened as if they were an outworldly reflection of your heart. The love was gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental: you blocked him on every social media account, phone number, changed classes and professors. In a world dominated by your past love, it was hard to escape it, like trying to find an escape in a labyrinth.