The Art Of Losing. (to Persephone)

A Man Who Does Not Smile :

Nanami Kento does not go out of his way to frighten children. It just happens.

There is something about the way he exists—tall, severe, measured in movement and speech—that makes small creatures wary of him. Dogs hesitate before wagging their tails. Babies squirm when they sense his presence. And children, most unforgiving of all, take one look at him and decide he is someone to fear.

It is not something he does on purpose. It is not even something he particularly minds. But it is something he has noticed.

---

The first time it happens, he is twelve years old.

He is at a family gathering, the kind that drags on forever and smells like heavy food and too much perfume. His mother has given him a task—keep an eye on his cousin’s toddler while the adults talk.

He does not like children. He does not dislike them, either. They simply exist, in the way that birds and passing clouds do—present, but not worth much thought.

The child is small, unsteady on his feet, and when he sees Nanami, he immediately bursts into tears.

Nanami does not know what to do. He has not done anything. He has not spoken, has not moved. He has simply existed in the same space as this child, and yet, somehow, this is enough to warrant terror.

His mother scolds him later. "You should try being friendlier. Smile more."

Nanami tries. It does not help.

---

Years pass. He grows taller, sharper, more deliberate in his actions. He learns to choose his words carefully, to measure his tone, to move with the kind of efficiency that makes the world a little more tolerable.

But the pattern remains.

Children do not like him.

He is sixteen when he volunteers at a local library, mostly because it is quiet and does not demand much of him. One afternoon, a group of children comes in for story time. The librarian, a woman with a kind face and tired eyes, asks him to help.

Nanami sits down, book in hand. He does not make any sudden movements. He does not raise his voice. He simply reads.

Halfway through, a child starts crying.

The librarian pats Nanami’s arm. “Maybe try sounding a little less... serious?”

He does not understand what she means. He is reading the words as they are written. He is being careful, thoughtful. Isn’t that what people are supposed to want?

But when he looks at the children—small, fidgeting, casting wary glances at him—he knows.

They do not like his voice.

They do not like his face.

They do not like him.

---

He does not try again for many years.

It does not come up often. His life is not the kind that requires interaction with children. His job is not safe, not kind, not something that should be seen by those who still have softness left in them.

But then there is a mission—a simple one, supposedly—and he finds himself standing in a half-destroyed street, staring down at a child no older than six.

She has lost her parents.

She is shaking.

And when she looks up at him, all wide eyes and trembling hands, she does not cry.

Nanami does not know what to do with this.

He kneels, slow and careful. “You are not hurt?”

She shakes her head.

She is too quiet. Too still. He recognizes this—shock, fear held too tightly, the kind that makes people collapse hours later when their bodies finally catch up to their minds.

So he does something he has not done in years.

He smiles.

It is small, just the barest movement of his lips, meant to reassure, to make him seem less imposing. It is an effort. It is, he thinks, something that might be kind.

The child’s face crumples.

She bursts into tears.

---

Later, Gojo laughs so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.

“You made her cry by smiling?” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “Man, I knew you were scary, but damn.”

Nanami sighs. He regrets telling him.

“Maybe it was a bad smile,” Gojo continues. “Like, creepy. Serial killer vibes.”

Nanami does not dignify this with a response.

But later, when he stands in front of a mirror, he tries again.

He does not smile often. He never saw the point. But now, looking at his own reflection, he studies the way his face shifts, the way his expression pulls at the edges.

Does it look unnatural?

Does it look forced?

He does not know.

He does not try again.

---

Years later, when he is older, when the weight of his own choices sits heavier in his bones, he finds himself in the presence of another child.

This time, he does not smile.

This time, he simply crouches, keeps his voice steady, his movements slow, and waits.

The child does not cry.

Nanami exhales.

(It is enough.)

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I think I might be Nanami. Or at least, I deeply relate to his struggle with children. I don’t know if it’s a lack of patience or just the sheer confusion of what am I supposed to do with this tiny, unpredictable human? But yeah, I struggle.

Case in point: My maternal aunt once asked me to watch over my toddler cousin, Riya, during a family gathering while she cooked. Simple, right? Should’ve been easy. Except, the moment my presence registered, she started crying. And I mean, really crying. And what did I do? Nothing. I just stood there, because what do you even do in that situation? Pat her head? Start singing? Apologize for existing?

Anyway, that incident stayed with me, and when I wrote this, I couldn’t help but channel some of that energy into Nanami. The man just exists and children find him terrifying. I get it.

---

So yeah, let me know—do kids like you? Or are you, like me (and Nanami), just out here unintentionally scaring them with your mere presence? Drop a comment, share your thoughts, and let’s collectively figure out how to interact with tiny humans.

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day ✨

The Loneliest Person in the Room Always Talks the Loudest :

Gojo Satoru talks like the world will stop spinning if he shuts up.

You noticed it the first time you met him, back when he was just your classmate, your friend—before you realized that being near him felt like standing too close to the sun. He had this way of making noise like he was afraid of what would happen if there wasn’t any. A running commentary on things that didn’t matter. Complaints about the cafeteria food. Arguments over what counted as a dessert. Long, convoluted rants about how nobody appreciated his genius.

At first, you thought he was just like that. Loud. Annoying, even. The kind of person who didn’t care if people were listening, as long as he was the one talking.

It took you longer than you’d like to admit to realize that he only filled the silence because he was terrified of it.

Because silence meant thinking. And thinking meant remembering. And remembering—

Well. That wasn’t something Gojo Satoru liked to do.

-----

Somewhere along the way, you learned how to read between the lines.

How his voice was always just a little too high-pitched when he was lying. How he made fun of things when he wanted to pretend they didn’t matter. How his laugh was just a little bit too loud, a little too sharp, like he was daring you to believe he was as happy as he sounded.

How, sometimes, when he thought nobody was looking, he would get this look in his eyes—something far away, something quiet.

The first time you saw it, you thought maybe he was just tired. Maybe he wasn’t sleeping well. But then it happened again. And again. And then, one day, in a moment of rare honesty, he said something you weren’t expecting.

"It’s funny, y’know?" he’d said, tilting his head back against the wall, the light catching on his blindfold in a way that made it impossible to tell if his eyes were open or closed.

"I can hear everything. Every heartbeat, every whisper, every single sound in a mile radius. And still, sometimes, it feels like I’m the only person in the room."

---

You don’t know when you started seeing him for what he really was.

Not Gojo Satoru, the loud-mouthed idiot with a god complex.

Not Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, the untouchable, the unkillable.

Just Gojo Satoru.

The boy who talked too much because silence was unbearable. The boy who smiled too much because frowning would make it real. The boy who laughed too much because, if he stopped, he wasn’t sure if he would ever start again.

Gojo Satoru, who could kill a god but couldn’t hold onto the people he loved.

Gojo Satoru, who had spent his whole life outrunning grief, only to realize that no matter how fast he moved, it would always be waiting for him at the end of the road.

---

"Do you ever get tired of it?" you asked him once.

"Of what?"

"The act."

Gojo grinned. "What act?"

You rolled your eyes. "The one where you pretend none of this matters. The one where you pretend you’re not—" lonely "—carrying the weight of the world on your back."

Something flickered across his face, there and gone in an instant. If you hadn’t been watching for it, you wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

Then he laughed.

"Oh, please," he said, stretching his arms over his head. "You think I do all this for fun? I’m naturally this charming."

"Liar," you said softly.

Gojo Satoru looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a second, you thought maybe he was going to tell you the truth. Maybe he was going to say that, yeah, sometimes it was exhausting. Sometimes, when he was alone, he didn’t even turn on music because the silence was better than hearing his own voice echoing back at him.

But then he smirked.

"Yeah, well," he said, standing up and stretching. "If I talked less, you’d miss me."

He left before you could tell him that you already did.

---

But sometimes—sometimes—you wake up in the middle of the night and find him still asleep.

And he looks different, then.

Gojo Satoru, who is always moving, always talking, always on, is finally still.

And in that stillness, he looks almost human.

Almost breakable.

You never wake him up.

Because you know that as soon as he opens his eyes, the act will start all over again.

---

"You know," you say one night, when the city is quiet and Gojo Satoru is sitting on your couch, blindfold pushed up, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to a question he hasn’t figured out how to ask. "You don’t have to be on all the time."

He hums. "I don’t know what you mean."

"Yeah, you do."

Gojo tilts his head, a slow, lazy movement, like he’s thinking about something too big to fit inside words. "If I stop," he says finally, "then what?"

(You don’t answer.)

Because you don’t know.

Because maybe he doesn’t, either.

So you sit beside him instead, close enough that he could touch you if he wanted to. Close enough that he could feel you there.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe, for once, Gojo Satoru doesn’t have to fill the silence.

Maybe he can just exist.

Maybe, for once, he doesn’t have to be alone.

---

You never say it out loud.

But some part of you thinks that Gojo Satoru talks so much because he’s trying to drown something out.

And maybe, just maybe—

He’s waiting for someone to listen.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You ever look at Gojo in that Toji scene and feel something uncomfortably close to pity? Not the kind you give to someone weak, but the kind that comes when you see someone who should’ve had a chance to be something else. Because that kid—that Gojo Satoru—was raw. Serious. The kind of serious that a boy his age shouldn’t have been. His face wasn’t blank, but it wasn’t guarded either. He was just there, fully present in the moment, taking the world in as it was. And maybe, back then, he still thought he was a part of it.

But fast forward a few years, and suddenly he’s the loudest guy in the room. A boy who never really grew up, at least not in the way that mattered. A boy who talks too much, laughs too hard, makes a joke out of everything—because the alternative is what exactly? Silence? Reflection? Feeling?

It makes you wonder. —What did he suffer, to look at the world and decide that maybe it wasn’t worth his real emotions? What did he lose to become someone who only lets himself exist through noise?

And the worst part? —Nobody even asks. Because Gojo Satoru is fine, right? Because he smiles. Because he jokes. Because he’s the strongest, and people like that don’t need to be understood.

But if you look closely—if you really pay attention—you’ll see it. He’s been holding the world at arm’s length for a long, long time.

--

Anyways I'll love to hear your thoughts on this one shot and do you too know people who like being the center of attention but for a complete different reason

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Tragedy of Gojo Satoru:

( Being the Strongest Means Dying Alone)

They call him the strongest. As if it’s a blessing. As if it’s anything more than a curse dressed in praise.

Gojo Satoru walks through Jujutsu Kaisen like a myth that got stuck in a man’s body. Limitless, Six Eyes, a bloodline older than reason. He’s the kind of person stories exaggerate—only, with him, there’s no need to exaggerate. He is the exaggeration. Power personified.

But there’s something no one tells you about being a god.

It’s cold up there.

And nobody stays.

-----

The Cage That Shines Like Heaven :

There’s an irony in Gojo’s existence that the story never says out loud but bleeds through every panel he appears in: he’s not just the strongest sorcerer—he’s the most trapped.

He can do anything. He can beat anyone.

He just can’t save everyone.

He couldn’t save Geto.

He couldn’t save Riko.

He couldn’t save himself.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you’re the strongest, everyone assumes you’re fine. That you don’t need help. That nothing touches you. That you’re floating above it all, untouchable.

But Gojo is not floating. He’s sinking.

Under expectations.

Under grief.

Under the knowledge that he could destroy the world in a heartbeat, and yet—somehow, he still wasn’t enough to save the one person who asked him to choose love over duty.

Satoru walks around smiling like a boy who never grew up, like the world still has color in it, like he doesn’t hear the echo of Suguru's voice saying “You’re the only one who ever understood me.”

He understood. And he let him fall anyway.

-----

Power As Exile :

Power isolates. That’s something people like to romanticize in stories—“with great power comes great responsibility” and all that. But they never talk about the quiet horror of it. The silence.

Gojo is revered. Worshipped. The entire jujutsu society depends on him the way a city depends on electricity: blindly, constantly, without gratitude.

But nobody really knows him.

They know his strength.

They know his sarcasm.

They know the way he walks into a battlefield like God just clocked in for work.

But not his grief. Not his loneliness. Not the way he stands in that empty white cube (the Prison Realm) for nineteen days with only the sound of his own thoughts—his own regrets—for company.

You realize something, watching him. Being strong doesn’t make you invincible.

It just makes it harder for people to admit you’re in pain.

And Gojo is in so much pain.

But who would believe that?

The strongest sorcerer in the world?

The man who can rewrite physics?

Cry?

(That’s the tragedy. People only want Gojo to be strong. Not human.)

-----

Suguru Geto And The Ghost That Never Left :

All great tragedies have a ghost. Gojo’s is Geto.

They were twin stars. Heaven and earth. The two most powerful jujutsu sorcerers of their generation. But while Gojo kept choosing the world, Geto stopped pretending he could live in it.

Geto fell. And Gojo let him.

Not because he didn’t care. But because he believed in the system more than he believed in the ache between them. He believed power could fix things. Could save them. Could protect the next Riko.

He was wrong.

(Geto’s death wasn’t just a loss. It was a mirror shattering. The first real crack in Gojo’s limitless reality.)

And when they meet again—Geto’s body desecrated, taken over by a puppet with a smile like a scalpel—Gojo doesn’t fight. He reaches out. Gently. Like he’s touching the ghost of a future that could’ve been.

And what does he say?

*“At least… curse me a little at the end.”*

That line. That line.

The way it aches. The way it strips him bare.

Gojo doesn’t ask to be forgiven.

He asks to be hated. Because even now, he can’t forgive himself.

-----

The Empty Center :

For all his power, Gojo Satoru is a man without a center.

He has students. He has duty. He has power enough to rewrite reality. But he has no home. No constant. No love that stayed.

He’s funny, flirty, dramatic. He fills every room with light and noise. But all of it—all of it—is scaffolding. A mask. A distraction.

Because once the battle is over, the students are asleep, and the world is quiet—he has nothing.

(Nothing but a memory of a friend who walked away and a world he promised to protect, even as it devoured everything he loved.)

And maybe that’s why he’s always smiling. Because if he doesn’t laugh, he might shatter.

-----

The Irony Of Salvation :

Gojo believes he can save everyone. He wants to. He trains his students with real care, not because he loves the system—but because he wants to break it. Fix it. Undo the rot from the inside out.

But the system he wants to destroy?

It’s the same one that made him.

And the thing about systems like that? They don’t let you win.

Not without bleeding.

Gojo isn’t a hero. He’s a consequence. A byproduct of everything the jujutsu society created and condemned. They made him a weapon. They crowned him king. And now they expect him to keep smiling while the whole kingdom burns.

He is the cage and the prisoner. The God and the Sacrifice.

And when he finally dies—if he dies—it won’t be in glory. It will be in silence.

(A myth swallowed by the machine that birthed him.)

-----

And Still. And Still. And Still—

And still, he smiles.

And still, he teaches.

And still, he hopes.

Because Gojo Satoru, for all his sorrow, believes. In people. In his students. In a world where things can be better.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

That the strongest man in the world is still just a boy who wanted to protect his friends. Who believed he could carry everything if it meant no one else had to suffer.

But no one can carry that much alone.

Not even Gojo.

Especially not Gojo Satoru.

---

They’ll say he was the strongest.

They’ll say he was untouchable.

They’ll put his name in textbooks, his techniques in archives.

But no one will say:

He was tired.

He was lonely.

He was trying, God, he was trying.

That’s the real tragedy of Gojo Satoru.

Not that he died alone.

But that he lived that way, too.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

this one took a weird kind of toll on me.

not in a dramatic way, just… quietly exhausting, yk? like i sat down to write about gojo and somewhere in the middle i realized i wasn’t just writing about him.

i think the thing that gets me is—everyone calls him a god. The Strongest. The Honored One. The Chosen. Yet… the people closest to him still die. Still slip through his fingers like he wasn’t even holding them.

and i can’t help but wonder how many times gojo's thought, “am i really a god?” or worse—“if i’m not, then why would god make me like this?”

no mortal should ever be handed this kind of power and still be expected to carry that much grief.

to smile like it’s fine. to protect everyone except the ones that matter most.

it’s almost cruel, honestly.

like he’s not god’s favorite child—he’s god’s favorite toy.

anyway. that’s where my brain’s been lately.

not to be that person but yeah, school’s started and life’s been kind of heavy so maybe this meta feels a little different. more tired. a little sharper around the edges.

still, i’d really love to hear your thoughts. if it resonated or if you felt anything while reading it.

i write because i love these characters—because i want to understand them, not just worship them.

---

so yeah. feel free to drop a comment or scream with me in the tags.

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

: Life and Lies of : ~Lady Rowan Baelish~

"The court loves a tragedy, but the audience? Oh, they're worse. You all watch with bated breath, waiting for the fall, for the blood, for the spectacle of it all. You’re no different from the vultures that circle the Red Keep—except you do not even pretend to mourn. But then again… what’s wrong with being a little wicked, hmm?"

—Lady Rowan to Viewers

(A jest, perhaps. But there’s always truth in a well-timed jest.)

-----

A Memory —

Rowan Baelish learned young that silence was a weapon sharper than steel. She had been a child of quiet corners and half-heard whispers, of watching men lie and women smile as they twisted the knife. 'Clever girl,' her father had once murmured, pride curling in his voice like smoke. But cleverness was a double-edged thing.

Once, when she was very small, she had asked a whore in her father’s brothel if the world was kind. The woman had laughed—a soft, bitter sound—and kissed her brow. "No, little bird," she had said. "But if you learn how to sing the right tune, the world might pretend it is."

----

Who Is Lady Rowan Baelish?

Born: The only acknowledged daughter of Petyr Baelish, a girl born on the fringes of power and raised within its shadows.

Age: 13 years old at the start of A Song of Ice and Fire

Titles: “Baelish’s Girl,” “The Mockingbird’s Daughter” (Later: Lady of Highgarden)

Appearance: Warm copper-colored hair, mint-green eyes, favors dark blue and green gowns

Personality: Socially charming, observant, strategic, kind-seeming but never naïve

(a girl who understands that power is not just taken—it is earned, owed, and wielded.)

Role in Court: Lady-in-waiting to Princess Myrcella, navigating the world of power and deceit

-----

Notable Relationships :

Petyr Baelish – The father she respects but does not trust, the man who shaped her but does not own her. A lesson and a warning, all in one.

Loras Tyrell – A husband in name, a friend in truth, a partner in ambition. A marriage of convenience that became something more—an unspoken understanding, a promise of survival, a bond that no bedchamber could define.

Aegon VI (Young Griff) – A love written in stolen moments, in hands that reached but never held for long. A romance that could never be, a longing burdened by duty. In another life, perhaps. But in this one? Love is a sacrifice, and kings do not keep what does not serve the crown.

-----

What Will Be Her Legacy?

She is the daughter of a man who built his fortune on whispers and deceit, a girl raised not on lullabies but on half-truths and well-placed smiles.

Born from a fleeting moment of want and accepted only when it suited him, Rowan Baelish grew up learning that love and loyalty were currencies—rarely given freely, always traded for something.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

Alright, after seeing the polls (tf it was a tie 💀) ( after much internal screaming and debating), I’ve decided to officially step into A Song of Ice and Fire! And what better way to do that than by introducing an OC I’ve been obsessing over for way too long?

Of course, I’ll still be writing my usual one-shots and headcanons, but I really wanted to dive into a full character study because, let’s be honest—I’ve been consumed by ASOIAF for years now.

So, meet Lady Rowan Baelish. Petyr Baelish’s only acknowledged daughter, a girl born into manipulation and ambition yet trying to carve her own path. She’s everything I love about morally complex characters—sharp, observant, deeply self-aware, and walking that fine line between survival and power.

---

I hope you all like her! Feel free to send in questions, theories, or just yell at me about her—I’d love to talk more about the world I’m building around her. First chapter should be up tomorrow, so stay tuned!

✨ Bye and take care, Hope you all have a good day✨

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers 🌸✨

so—wanna know where i’ve been all this time?

Well. school started. and it’s been exactly as soul-sucking and exhausting as you'd expect.

i’ve been floating through days like a ghost that didn’t even get a tragic backstory. just assignments.

but in between the mess, i ended up writing a few jjk meta pieces. not planned, not polished—just… thoughts that wouldn’t shut up. little rants. poetic breakdowns. trauma essays disguised as fandom content. you know the deal.

i’ll be posting them all by this evening—there’s like 2 or 3 for now. they’re less “analysis” and more “me yelling into the void about how the jujutsu society is evil and i would physically fight god to protect every broken, bloody, emotionally-damaged character in that show.” so yeah. feel free to read, scream, cry, or argue with me in the tags. i’m down for it all.

they’re not perfect. but they’re honest.

and weirdly enough, they feel like the most me thing i’ve written in a while.

see you in the ruins.

✨Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

The Quiet Kind of Tired :

You meet Nanami Kento on a Tuesday,

which feels exactly right. Tuesdays are the most unremarkable days of the week. Nobody romanticizes a Tuesday. You don’t expect to fall in love on one.

You’re working overtime again, elbows deep in paperwork that means nothing, for people who care even less. He sits across from you in the break room. Neat suit. Tired eyes. He drinks his coffee black, like he’s punishing himself.

You say something cynical. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches. That’s how it starts.

No grand gestures.

Just a quiet understanding between two people too tired to pretend they’re okay.

-----

Dating Nanami is like walking into a room already cleaned.

Everything in its place. Emotion folded tightly into polite responses. He takes you out to dinner every Thursday. He walks you home. He buys you flowers—carnations, not roses. Clean, efficient, not too sentimental.

He doesn’t talk about his past. You don’t ask. You’re both adults. You both understand that talking about certain things doesn’t make them easier.

Still, some nights, when the city is too loud and you’ve had one glass of wine too many, you look at him and think—

I am loving a man who does not know what to do with softness.

And he looks back at you like you’re made of glass he’s trying not to break with his silence.

-----

You love him anyway. Not because it’s easy. But because he never lies to you. Not in words, at least.

He tells the truth in smaller ways. When he takes the side of the bed closest to the door. When he holds your wrist instead of your hand, like it’s easier to let go that way. When he texts, "I’m sorry, I’ll be late tonight,” and you don’t ask why.

Because you know the answer:

He is always late for himself.

---

You don’t realize how tired you’ve become until you stop recognizing your own voice. You speak less. Smile less. You don’t cry—you just compress.

Like your feelings are cargo in a suitcase too small.

Nanami doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he thinks it’s something you need to handle alone. That’s the thing about him—he believes in self-reliance to a fault. As if needing people is something shameful. Something weak.

You once told him you wanted to take care of him.

He said, “That’s not necessary.”

You didn’t offer again.

-----

The silence grows slowly, like water under a door.

You tell your friends he’s “steady.” You tell yourself it’s enough.

But you start watching couples on the train. Not the loud, annoying kind. The quiet ones. The ones who lean their heads together. The ones who speak without speaking.

And you think—I want to be chosen without hesitation.

With Nanami, you are always chosen… responsibly.

-----

One night, you come home early from work. He’s already there, standing in the kitchen in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s slicing something—methodical, perfect. His tie is loosened. His hair slightly messy.

He looks tired. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just… tired in the way people look when they’ve been carrying everything alone for too long.

You drop your bag by the door and say, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t want to burden you,” he says.

There’s no malice in it. No edge.

But God, does it hurt.

You say nothing. Walk to the bathroom. Close the door gently.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder when you started mistaking restraint for kindness.

-----

You dream of him leaving. Not out of cruelty. But out of quiet, inevitable decay.

You dream of growing old beside him and never once hearing him say, “I need you.”

You wake up gasping.

And when you roll over to look at him, he’s still asleep, face turned away from you, hands folded like he’s praying.

-----

You don’t break up. Of course not. That would require a climax, and your relationship is built entirely on anti-climax. You just… let it fray.

There’s no cheating. No screaming. Just unspoken questions hanging like fog in the room.

You start eating dinner separately. You stop saying I miss you because he never said it first.

And he—he grows even quieter. Like he knows you’re drifting, and he’s letting you go in the only way he knows how: respectfully.

You wonder if he thinks that’s love.

-----

One day, he comes home to find you sitting on the floor, reading a book you’ve read before.

He looks at you like he wants to say something. You wait. He doesn’t.

So you say it for him.

“I’m tired, Kento.”

You’re not crying. You’re not shouting.

You’re just stating a fact.

And for the first time, he looks… afraid.

-----

He sits down beside you. Not too close. But not far.

“I never wanted to make you feel alone,” he says.

His voice is low. Honest.

You nod. “I know. But you did.”

There’s a long silence.

Then—

“I didn’t know how else to be.”

And you believe him.

You love him.

But you also know that love is not enough when it has nowhere to land.

-----

You don’t leave that night. You fall asleep on the couch, your back to his.

But something shifts. Not fixed. Just acknowledged.

And sometimes, that’s the beginning of something. Sometimes, it’s the end.

-----

Later—weeks later, maybe months—you’ll walk past a bakery the two of you never went into. And you’ll think about how many moments you both passed up in the name of being sensible.

How many soft things you gave up because he didn’t know what to do with them.

You’ll still love him.

But you’ll also understand: some people were taught that needing is dangerous. That showing pain is failure. That asking for help is weak.

And it is not your job to rewrite that for them.

-----

In the end, you loved a man who refused to be held.

And that is the quietest kind of heartbreak.

The kind that doesn’t end with a scream.

Just a sigh.

-----

A Girl Among Snakes { 2 }

_________________________________________

“You must learn the difference between a pet and a viper. And then you must learn how to hold both without getting bitten.”

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A court is a nest of snakes, but the trick is knowing which ones have venom and which ones are just pretending.

I learned this early. I had to.

Petyr Baelish never sat me down and taught me the rules of the game. He never needed to. My education was in his words, his glances, the way he could make a promise sound like a threat and a threat sound like a gift.

“My sweet Rowan,” he once said, fingers tilting my chin up so that my eyes met his. “Do you know why a mockingbird sings?”

I had been eight, still young enough to think his questions had answers. “Because it is happy?”

His smile was fond, yes. but not kind. “No. Because it is listening.”

-----

Myrcella was the first person to call me a friend.

It was not something I had ever expected to have, but Myrcella had a way of making things seem simpler than they were. She liked to pluck flowers and talk about knights, about love, about things that were soft and golden and good.

I let her believe in them.

For her, I was gentle. For her, I was kind.

But there was always a part of me—small and sharp—that knew better.

When she told me she wanted to be queen one day, I only smiled.

When she said she hoped Joffrey would be a good king, I did not answer.

Some dreams are too sweet to break.

---

Joffrey was something else entirely.

He liked me, but only because I let him think I was his to command.

Joffrey liked the illusion of power more than power itself. He liked to hold it in his hands, to wield it, to see people flinch when he spoke.

But I never flinched.

And that, more than anything, fascinated him.

“Rowan, do you love me?” he once asked, his voice filled with that arrogant certainty that only princes and fools possess.

I tilted my head, smiled just enough. “Of course, Your Grace.”

It was a lie.

But it was a beautiful one.

And beautiful lies are the ones that people love most of all.

-----

The brothels were my father’s kingdom.

He did not love them, not really, but he owned them the way a man owns a sword—because it was useful.

I was never meant to belong there, but I learned quickly that belonging was a matter of perception. If you knew how to wear a place, it would wear you back.

The whores were kinder than the ladies of the court. They saw me for what I was, not what I pretended to be. They called me sweetling, little bird, pretty thing. They brushed my hair and told me stories and laughed when I mimicked my father’s voice, sharp and knowing.

But they also taught me.

Men talk when they think no one is listening. They talk to women they do not fear. They talk when they drink, when they want, when they think they are safe.

I listened.

Because a mockingbird sings, yes—but only when it knows what song is worth singing.

-----

Petyr caught me once, slipping through the halls of his finest establishment.

He was not angry. Not truly. He only looked at me for a long moment, then sighed, as if I were a puzzle he had already solved.

“You think yourself clever,” he murmured.

“I am,” I said.

He smiled, and there was something unreadable in his expression. “Yes. That is what worries me.”

It should have worried me, too.

But I was young. And I was my father’s daughter.

And the game had only just begun.

—End of Chapter Two—

_____________________________

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

I know, I know—you might be thinking this chapter feels a bit too similar to the first. But I really wanted to slow things down and dig deeper into Rowan’s relationships, her thoughts, and how she’s beginning to navigate the world around her. This isn’t just about her learning manipulation; it’s about understanding the people in her life and the roles they play—whether as allies, pawns, or something in between.

Hopefully, this gives you a better sense of her dynamic with Petyr, Myrcella, and even Joffrey (because that’s a whole thing).

---

Let me know what you think—does it work? Should I have approached it differently? Feel free to comment, ask questions, or share your thoughts!

✨ Bye and take care, hope you all have a good day ✨

—The Language of Silence—

Unlike Gojo, he enjoys silence and will often sit with someone for hours without talking.

Some people fear silence.

They see it as an emptiness, a gap that needs filling. They rush to fill the space with words, laughter, noise—anything to push back against the quiet.

Suguru Geto is not one of those people.

He has always understood that silence is not the absence of something. It is its own language, its own presence. It is the space where truths settle, where emotions breathe.

Gojo fills the silence because he does not know how to sit with it. But Suguru?

Suguru lets it stay.

And so do you.

-----

The first time you realize this about him, you are both sitting on the temple steps, watching the wind move through the trees. It has been over an hour, and neither of you has spoken.

You shift slightly, waiting for him to break the quiet, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, eyes half-lidded, hands folded in his lap, his presence as steady as the sky above.

And for some reason, that steadiness makes you stay.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The world moves, but you do not.

You look at him and wonder if he is thinking about something or nothing at all.

“Suguru?”

He turns his head, slow and deliberate.

“You ever get tired of sitting in silence?” you ask, half-joking.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Do you?”

You think about it. Shake your head. “Not with you.”

And that is enough.

-----

Suguru has always been like this. Quiet, contemplative. His silence is not an empty thing—it is full of thoughts he does not say, emotions he does not spill.

But sometimes, you wish he would.

Sometimes, you wish he would speak the things you only catch glimpses of in his eyes. The weight he carries. The exhaustion that lingers in the corners of his smile.

“Do you ever wish you could turn your brain off?” you ask one evening, lying on the floor of his dorm, staring up at the ceiling.

Suguru hums in thought. “Sometimes.”

“Do you ever succeed?”

A pause.

“No.”

You turn your head, watching him in the dim light. He is leaning against the bed, arms resting on his knees, his gaze far away.

“You could talk to me,” you say softly.

He looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “I know.”

But he doesn’t. Not really. Not in the way you wish he would.

Instead, he lets the silence settle between you again.

And you let it.

-----

There is a difference between comfortable silence and avoidance. Between peace and distance.

You notice the shift before you name it.

It happens after Riko. After her laughter turns to memory, after blood stains the ground where she once stood.

Suguru stops filling the silence with meaning. Stops letting it be a presence between you.

Instead, he uses it as a wall.

You sit together, as you always have, but something is different now. He is farther away, even when he is right next to you.

You reach for him—not physically, but in the way you look at him, the way you wait for him to meet your eyes. But he doesn’t. Not like he used to.

One night, when the distance becomes unbearable, you finally break the quiet.

“Suguru.”

He blinks, as if pulled from somewhere far away. “Hm?”

“You’re shutting me out.”

He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just… tired.”

It is a half-truth. You both know it.

But you do not press.

Because some things are too heavy to say out loud.

-----

You do not hear him leave.

One day, he is there. The next, he is not.

And suddenly, silence is no longer a comfort. It is an absence. It is something hollow, something sharp.

You sit on the temple steps alone, the same place where you once sat together, and you realize that silence is not always peaceful.

Sometimes, it is unbearable.

Because this time, it does not mean understanding.

It means he is gone.

-----

Years later, when you see him again, he is different.

His silence is no longer soft. It is a weapon now, honed and sharp-edged.

But when your eyes meet, just for a second, you wonder—

Is there still a part of him that remembers?

The quiet mornings. The easy stillness. The unspoken understanding.

You do not ask. And he does not say.

But when he turns to leave, you swear—just for a moment—he lingers.

Just long enough for you to know:

Some silences never truly end.