IT'S ALRIGHT, IT'S OKAY,

IT'S ALRIGHT, IT'S OKAY

YOU'RE NOT A MONSTER,

JUST A HUMAN

it's alright,

The repressed memories were like a hallway full of locked doors - banging on them and clawing your way in wouldn't work. But, reading that diary somehow opened them all. And suddenly, you're ten years old again.

You're haunted by all things you did not say, unable to forgive yourself for all the words you didn't utter until it was too late - the I love you's, the I'm sorry's, the I forgive you's. But then again, you're so young, so mindless; you don't believe anything other than the words out of Mother's mouth because Mother knows best, even if you don't like the taste of blood or cry at the curses in the depth of the dark.

"Why do I have to drink this? Dad says it's not good for me," Your lips are pursed, holding back when wobbly eyes look at all the crimson blood. You'll have it coming out of your ears and through all the cracks in your teeth and the creases on your palms. And then the Demon King rises - you see him from a distance and you can't look away.

Her face is so blurred, so unclear; it used to be exact, still like a photograph pressed into the cranium. Is she smiling? Is she sad? Are there tears on your cheeks that you can smudge away with the pain. Her palm is soft and warm; you like holding her hand, but not when there's blood on it and now? Now, there's so much blood.

Mother's voice is a slow echo tucked into your ear like the ocean in a seashell, "It's who we are. I did it, your grandfather did it and his father and his mother before."

It's who we are. Because you were perfected after generations. You're the vessel.

"Tell me a bedtime story," You blink slowly, a wave of drowsiness washing over you like a violent tsunami, sending you straight to the threat of slumber.

Her lips go wryly, twisting when she thinks and then, she decides on one, "I'll tell you a story about a human god, our god - Sukuna-sama. He wanted to rule the world and our family loved him for all the riches and good he promised us. We prayed to him to give us the same power as him. Because this world has loads and loads of evil, mean spirits and only Sukuna-sama can help us control them. That's why, when Sukuna-sama went away, he asked us to drink his blood to keep his memory alive. So one day, he'll come back to us, and since I'll be too old by then, you're going to be the martyr."

She presses a small kiss onto your forehead, thumb gently brushing the strands away from your cheek. And her words seem so far away, an echo buried from religion onto lips. Because... if you love somebody, they turn into a God. But you can't control what kind of God they turn into. In a way, that's what happened to Mother.

She neither killed you nor let you live. Instead, she gave you false hope, "I'm counting on you, [F/n]."

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Two days go by - no, fly by - and everything only ever seemed to go downwards. You're in this spiral that doesn't seem to stop and all you can do is practice your jujutsu on empty beer cans that your father throws away, crunching them all up doesn't help; the sound of the metal collapsing feels eerily like your heart breaking.

The only time it does seem to get better is when Gojo-sensei returns. And this time, he brings Itadori with him.

Itadori wonders about who the person in front of him is. He knows it's you, and yet, he is heartbroken when he looks at you. You with this indestructible, passive aura about you, tired eyes with a mirage of sadness arranged about them. He can feel all the power that screams inside you; his hands almost shake just stirring from the jujutsu, not even his jujutsu, because the entire black hole devouring this room is coming from you.

You.

The mind infinitely under turmoil from itself. You find this to be truthful in your case, where you feel so catastrophically split into two that the very stitches of your mind snap and weave themselves together over and over again. You inhale sharply, coming to the realisation you are but a puppet with it's strings. The real question is as to whether you'll cut those strings yourself or let someone else try and fail to do it for you.

Gojo-sensei's tongue clicks, his elbow resting against the doorframe, "Long time no see, [F/n]."

"It's been five days, Gojo-sensei," You shake your head with a simple laugh, "I'm sure you guys didn't miss me that much."

"Is this your home?" Itadori looks about, tapping his chin with a pleasant smile, "It's beautiful! Wow, I forgot Sendai was like this."

You can't tell if he's being genuine or not and it makes you feel nauseous. Maybe, in a way, even after death, even after six years, Mother had changed you. For better or worse? Well, only time would tell. She had peeled back the layers of your fragile mind, revealed the mangled mess of flesh and bones and consummated, cultured, something so petite and beautiful... like a sakura blossom perhaps. Mottled skin in the winter, blooming past summer, still, you are a whole new person. You sigh, having never felt so alive.

So alive, you say, but Itadori can see you're slowly killing yourself.

"Ah, thanks, Yuu - Uh, Itadori-kun," In your head there is a hurricane that destroys all of your thoughts, leaving only a stadium for anxiety. Calling Itadori by his first time feels rather natural, as if it rolls off your tongue with intrepid ease. You'll daydream about the day your own name drawls out from his lips and you can feel the flicker of a smile poking at your cheeks just thinking about it.

It will roll off his lips with such a sweet smoothness that he is tempted to say it over and over again. The syllables are done justice when he speaks them, and it conjures together a beautifully woven name, as if he will pull the strings to your tightly-wound heart. And just as he expects, your heart tugs, your expression shifts, and your mind is washed over from this potent crush.

"So," Gojo-sensei whistles, looking around; you want to bet a thousand yen that he'll admire himself in the hallway mirror, "How are you?"

It's a heavy question and Gojo knows what kind of answer awaits. He sees the Cursed Energy raging in this household and he's quietly fathomed by the potency of a single teenager. If the higher-ups were scared shitless about Yuuji, then with you...

With you, they'll send every single person out to kill the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer-in-Training that the [L/n] clan have had in centuries.

"Uh," You scratch the back of your head, cold air rushing down your lungs, "It's been okay, I guess. I tried practicing my Jujutsu! Oh... and, I managed to get some answers."

It was like two sides of the same coin - with every answer came another question. You'd read Mother's diary and swallowed up the words and now you have the answer to the little things. The symbol on your school uniform is the emblem of the [L/n] clan, a treasured honour a couple centuries ago but now something questionable in alliegance. The reason why Sukuna was so interested in you is because... because you're the true vessel, the one born out from thousands' of years of mindless devote worship.

"Really? Yosh!" Itadori smiles to reassure you, lightly punching the air, "I'm glad that this trip was helpful."

Gojo-sensei tilts his head, "Hm, answers like what?"

"Well," You chew on the inside of your cheek, remembering the inky words scrawled inside the bloodied diary, "I know what my clan's Cursed Technique is."

This reels the two in and you sit them down on the small couch in the living room, hopelessly glad that your dad left for groceries ten minutes before the two arrived. You know well that if your father saw them, he'd fall back into his old ways. Even if the last five days were smiles, struggles and more, your father would always hate the life that your mother was reared into. The curses, the gods, the sorcery.

Any reminder of that would just tell him the same thing over and over him: this is your fault this is your fault this is your fault - you let her die.

Mirror Manipulation

Blessed with the blood of the King of Curses, members of the [L/n] clan can control Cursed Energy with a powerful method unique to only them. Mirror Manipulation involves consuming immense levels of cursed energy due to Ryoumen Sukuna's innate power - they lack his ability to use his own techniques in battles without exhausting themselves in the slightest. The Cursed Energy is channelled into shields that protect the user from any attack, however, continued attacks will cause extreme internal injuries. Shields can be extended and constricted at will to debase long-distance attacks or can be taken down entirely to create a false 'mirror' that reverberates both basic attacks and Cursed Techniques. Both of these require immense stamina and endurance which, once over, will create mortally fatal internal bleeding in the user across a short period.

You think back to the night at school when you made a shield against that monster - the feeling was natural, that feeling of protection. The shield appeared because you wanted it to. So perhaps, it truly was ingrained in after all these years.

(Only because you're a product of generations of martyrs.)

Gojo-sensei sits up; he'd been sitting with one leg folded over the other, half-listening and maybe half-deep-in-thought, "Internal bleeding, huh? I'll warn Shoko-chan about this before the Exchange."

"Wait, do you want me to use my Cursed Technique?" You blink, leaning forwards. Itadori bounces his leg, looking back at forth between you and Gojo.

"Of course! If I'm showing off Yuuji, then I'll show off you too, [F/n]," He grins, waving his hands about, "I mean, only if you want to come back."

Itadori turns to face you, brown eyes glistening. For a moment, everything else seems to fall away and it becomes just you two. His vision is filled with you, and his eyes stare into yours, as if maybe able to break through that cracked facade to reveal the soft, melting heart of gold. He feels something surge within him the longer he looks at you, and the void in his chest seems to stretch out just a bit more. Like rifts in a sky, the lines crack and spiral, and the hole becomes bigger and bigger. He doesn't want you to lose yourself like this, to lose everyone else; he wants you to be happy so desperately that it hurts him.

"Are you okay? How are you feeling? Do you wanna come back?" Itadori asks, half-wondering if he should hold your hand.

That question hurts more when it comes from him. You want another chance to prove yourself - need a chance to prove yourself, to Gojo-sensei, to Itadori, to Mother... even to Sukuna.

Eyelids flutter and then panic sets in, resuming it's terror on your mind, parasitical in the nature as it invades the crevices of your brain. Thoughts jumble together and as if they are trying to worm through a thin fragile hole that captures the essence of your endless mind - they force their way in, resurfacing to the top like items floating on water, wave after wave of anxiety. You are on the brink of that wave, as your eyes widen at how the wave fakes a plummet and overwhelms you.

So, you grit a painful lie, "Yeah, I really do. I wanna come back."

Although Gojo-sensei does sense something off - you can tell because his face does the thing - he doesn't bring it up. Itadori looks down at his hands.

"Hm, well, Masamichi-san and I agree that you will still only take part in one of the Group Battles planned at the Tournament. The others are aware of this. I don't want to push you too far, ya know?"

Your lips thin out like you've sucked on a sour lemon. Something bitter remains on your tongue just thinking about it. How are you going to prove yourself again? Part of you feels like you're being treated like a helpless child, but you dare not express that thought externally.

You want to say something to Itadori, say anything, and you open your mouth but nothing comes out.

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Itadori doesn't know why he likes you. He knows his types are tall women with big features but he knows that kind of love is so one-sided, it's so unrealistic. He can dream and dream and dream but he's dreamt to the point where he's blind to having a crush on you.

You're sitting on the railings outside the small shrine overlooking the steps, looking out dreamily back at Tokyo. It's a high place, and quiet, too. A zone for yourself when you need a time out.

You don't know how you got there, or why your head is pounding so furiously you want to throw up. The wind gently brushes your cheeks and dried tears stain your face. Your blurry vision starts to clear, and you're presented with a magnificent view of Jujutsu Tech. There is for a moment, brief silence, and you are alone but simultaneously present with all your friends and jujutsu sorcerers. It's awkward to have returned, especially when you had never felt like a outsider more. The journey was awkward enough because you had to banish Itadori and Gojo to the garden while you packed and said your goodbyes to your father.

For a moment, you're struck with the urge to leap off. As if suicide could solve your problems that the world never could. Because then you could experience the morbid entity of death for yourself with your blood splattered on the grey pavement and your bones cracked and then you could be with your mother. Because what was left for you in this world anyway? You lived to die just like everyone else.

Itadori only found out about this spot when he decided to go looking for you and passed by Gojo-sensei on a bench, laughing as he poked fun at a Kyoto teacher called Utahime. It had been almost two hours since he popped out of the lunch kart and surprised everyone, yet it felt like eternity was dragging on like soles of a converse against cobble.

The tension was more than palpable and Itadori only felt it was more frigid with you than with anyone else. Even if it was clear that Kugisaki and Fushiguro were speechless at his antics, they only greeted him with a cold stare or two that was de-iced by the efforts of the second years. With you, on the other hand, you were silent for the entire train journey back. And straight after the reunion, you'd disappeared into thin air like smoke billowing away.

You seem slightly different now compared to back in Sendai. The relentless outpour of sunshine and perhaps that tangible reality of curses seems to have drawn you back to your old self. The person that greeted Itadori in the hallway of a small, tired home, is a person Itadori is scared for, not of, because he doesn't fear you, he fears the monster that Sukuna threatens to make of you.

Itadori has his hands behind his back, fidgeting with them, "[L/n]? Oh - Can I join you?"

You turn, figure silhouetted against the luminous sunlight, "Of course."

He sits on the railing next you, legs swung over and dangling besides yours, so close that you could almost feel him. Your skin feels freshly alleviated from your body, removed as if to reveal the cardinal flesh from behind. It tingles in his presence, and when brushing his own skin, you can feel the layers fall away and a weeping angel is seen inside.

Why am I not okay? The question repeats itself. Over and over again. Why does everything feel so intangible? The question carves it's way into your heart and now your chest feels heavy.

Itadori looks defeated. Somehow, that resonates with you, "How do you do it?"

There's this sick feeling churning in your stomach as you think about Sukuna - it disappears the moment you hear Itadori's voice.

"Do what?" Itadori lifts his head; his eyes meet yours and you feel like you're withering like a flower that bloomed past springtime.

You inhale, gentling leaning in. He makes all your worries evaporate like a summer shower onto a hot car, obliterating every anxious thought just like that, "How do you deal with Sukuna? How do you stop him from getting to you?"

Your eyes linger on the mark beneath Itadori's left eye, that small, unwavering line, a crevice of darkness that bites back. It's where the single eye opens to belittle and mock, coupled with that fanged mouth you know all too well.

The edge of Itadori's lips twitch and he smiles, gently shuffling to take your hand. His voice gets all low and quiet, and you like it because he sounds so sweet and genuine, "Well... do you want to know my secret?"

"That you're always angry?" You quirk an eyebrow, making him chortle and laugh.

"No, no," He laughs at the inside joke - the two of you had binge-watched all of the MARVEL movies together - and leans in, "I just have to remember that he doesn't take up everything."

"He doesn't... take up everything?"

"Mm," He nods, "Sukuna isn't me. And I'm not Sukuna."

"True..."

Itadori laughs, scratching the back of his head, and after noticing how you nervously look at the mark beneath his eyes - Sukuna's gonna pop out! - he reassures you, "Oh, don't worry! If Sukuna pops out then I'll slap him. There is a world without him, I can promise you that."

"If you turn into Sukuna, I'd probably have to push you off this balcony," Your remark earns a playful punch by Itadori on your elbow and you giggle, shaking your head and taking back your comment, "Don't worry, I won't ever do that."

"I know," He grins, briefly looking away and then returning his gaze.

I know.

You feel like you're back in his dorm again - My Girl is playing in the background, the cursed doll's snores are so damn loud, there's no one else except you and him - and wow, his lips are really close to yours, huh.

However, rather (not so) unsurprisingly, you're too much of a wimp to make the first move.

"Itadori! [L/n]!" Fushiguro calls out, standing a couple metres behind you. His black is ruffled in the incoming wind and he gently tugs at his sleeve. "You guys okay?"

The two of you turn and Itadori grins, hands in his pockets when he gets down from the railing, "Well, the Exchange Event is a big thing but we should be fine."

"Not that," Megumi shakes his head, unperturbed and unshaken. He has a such a resolute expression, a calm composure that you cannot equate to anything other than the stillness of a quiet lake.

You smile like Itadori; it's that weird smile that feels real but never is, "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"Something happened, didn't it?" He deadpans.

Itadori looks down, his fingers twitching when that image of Junpei crying seems to vomit all over his mind. Those doleful eyes with streams of tears escaping the edges and black hair that seems so matted and slick with blood...

"Yeah," He struggles to form the words, lips pursing when his stomach does a backflip as you give him a reassuring shoulder bump, "But I think we're okay. In fact... thanks to what happened, I don't want to lose to anyone anymore."