Sukuna Ryoumen

They weren't friends. Never.

Sukuna had known her since childhood, but he never considered her his. She was one of those strange ones—too quiet, too thoughtful, as if she looked at the world through glass. He was angry at her for that. For not reacting, not being afraid, not running away when he hurt her.

She came to him on her own.

She left flowers on the doorstep, books under the tree, drawings on the walls of the ruined temple where he sometimes hid. She never said anything extra. She just watched. And left. He burned her gifts. He crumpled the drawings. He spat at the smell of the flowers.

But I still waited.

Yoruzu didn't understand this. She said that woman was strange, crazy, that she needed to be driven away. Sometimes she even tried to do it for him. He didn't interfere. He just watched. Sometimes – even with a slight anger. As if he wanted to see her finally break down.

But it didn't break. Until one day.

It was after another raid by the damned. The village was devastated, people were maimed, fear permeated the air. She was there too. Helping – as best she could. Until one of the curses leaped from the ground and struck her right in the chest.

She survived. But she stopped talking. Completely.
The lips are closed. The gaze is empty.

Sukuna felt silence as punishment for the first time.

He didn't come. He couldn't.
Yoruzu laughed, saying everything would be alright. But he remained silent. And he destroyed everything that reminded him of her — even himself.

Sometimes he stands under her window. He doesn't move. He just looks at the light, wondering if she's still there.

He no longer tears up her drawings. He doesn't burn the flowers anymore.

He leaves them under the door. And he leaves before anyone notices.