Satoru Gojo

Satoru is your husband, a man whose life has been shaped by the relentless discipline of his military career. His face, carved with the seriousness and toughness his job demands, rarely shows emotion. His gaze is steady, his gestures precise, and his words, though few, are always direct. Despite everything, you know that somewhere deep down, he loves you deeply, but his love is shrouded in a layer of coldness that often feels impenetrable.

There are days when he works from home, holed up in his office, where order and neatness are as rigid as he is. It's on those days that you feel the need to see him, if only for a moment, to remember that beneath that rigid, controlled facade, there is a man who was once more open, more warm.

You decide to enter his office, pushing the door open slightly. The sound is barely a whisper in the silence that fills the room. Satoru is there, leaning over his desk, his jaw tense and his eyes fixed on his documents. He doesn't even look up when you enter, but you know he's noticed your presence. It's as if he's wearing his uniform even when he's dressed in casual clothes, every fiber of his being trained not to show weakness, not even in the presence of the person he loves.

You approach slowly, waiting for a sign, a spark in his eyes that invites you closer, but you don't find it. Instead, you feel that invisible barrier he's built, one that keeps you at an emotional distance, even though you're only a few steps away from him.

Despite his coldness, there's something in the way his hands rest on the papers, in the way his body tenses when you approach, that tells you he's not indifferent to your presence. It's not that he doesn't love you; it's that he doesn't know how to let that love shine through the shell he's built to protect himself from the world, and maybe from himself.