In person, Gojo Satoru is a socially awkward mess. He’s tall, lanky, always hunched like he’s trying to disappear, wearing the same stretched hoodie and sneakers every day. He can barely hold eye contact. If you say “hi,” he stutters, mumbles something about having to go, and practically sprints away. The scent of his citrus shampoo lingers faintly in the air as he hurries past, his shoulders tense with discomfort.

But online? He’s an entirely different creature. The glow of his computer screen illuminates his face in his dimly lit room, casting shadows that hide the insecurity in his eyes as he types furiously.

You only found out by accident, standing behind him in the campus café line, glancing at his phone when he got a Twitter notification. The bitter username burned itself into your memory before you could stop it. The rich aroma of coffee surrounded you as curiosity took hold, a strange tension in the air as you noticed his fingers trembling slightly on his phone case.

Later that night, curiosity got the better of you. You searched it. And that’s when you fell into the pit. Post after post after post, bitter, ugly walls of text where he called women “females” and “foids,” complaining that “no woman wants a real loyal guy anymore” and that “females only want criminals, drug dealers, and Chad’s to pump and dump them.” The harsh blue light of your phone seeped into your consciousness as you scrolled through his toxic rants, feeling increasingly uneasy.

Every tweet reeked of resentment. “Modern dating is a scam. Foids will never go for a beta like me...they just want violent losers to ruin their lives so they can cry about it later.”“All these so-called good girls? They’re all getting railed by the same Chad behind your back.”“Why should I even try? Females are too brainwashed to appreciate someone like me.”

His profile was full of retweets from misogynistic “redpill” accounts, edgy anime avatars, and low-res porn clips with captions like “foids deserve this” There were threads where he “vented” about how he was “too nice for his own good,” how girls “friendzone betas like me and then cry when Chad cheats on them,” and how “the only good women are either taken or already ruined.”

And then... you saw it. A post from just two days ago. About you. “There’s this girl at my campus. She’s always acting friendly but I know she’s just another foid who’d rather date a scumbag. Bet she’s already been ran through by some Chad. I could treat her right, but she wouldn’t even notice.” Your heart skipped a beat as you read those words, a chill running down your spine despite the warmth of your bedroom.

You kept scrolling. You found threads where he called you “naive,”“wasting your prime years on losers,” and most unsettling described exactly what you’d worn on specific days. The details made your skin crawl—how he'd noticed the exact shade of your sweater, the scuffs on your shoes, things you hadn't even paid attention to yourself.

In real life, Gojo still can’t string two sentences together without turning red. But now, when you see him in the library or loitering outside your class, you know. You know what he’s thinking, what he’s saying behind that screen. You know the kind of rage that simmers behind his awkward smile, a volcano waiting to erupt.

You catch Gojo after class, project notes clutched in your hand, ready to start planning. The hallway feels suddenly smaller as he turns toward you, his eyes widening slightly behind his glasses.

He’s already fidgeting, hands in his pockets, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks flushed like he’s about to be caught sneaking out of a test. The sound of lockers slamming echoes around you as he shifts his weight uncomfortably.

“Uh... hey,” he starts, voice cracking just slightly. “So... the project. Yeah. I was thinking... maybe we could, um, work on it together sometime?” His voice is barely audible over the chatter of students passing by.

Gojo’s face twists, like he’s struggling to find the words but also desperately trying to sound cool: “I mean, I live alone... so maybe you could come to my apartment? It’s quieter... and, uh... I have snacks. And a big desk. Yeah.” The smell of his nervous sweat mingles with the faint scent of detergent on his clothes.

He quickly adds, “I mean, if you want. No pressure. It’s just... easier than meeting in public, right?” His fingers tap nervously against his thigh as he awaits your response.

Inside, he’s practically sweating. The thought of being alone with you makes his heart race and his palms clammy, but he masks it with a forced grin that doesn't reach his eyes.

Because even if he’s a mess, even if every second near you feels like torture, this is a victory, however small. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz loudly, emphasizing the awkward silence between you.

The project was supposed to be about teamwork. For him, it’s also about surviving every second without embarrassing himself completely, he was trying...at least, he starts.

“S-so... uh... you like, um... like, the project topic, right? I mean, it’s... interesting... I guess.” His voice trails off, and he glances at his shoes, scuffing the floor with his sneaker as he waits for your reply.