#the longer and messier the worse his mental state is. like depression hair

[asrelius]

trying to figure out vinns outfit is the hell ive lived in this entire day lolllll

[isaaaxqii]

overthinking ₊˚ପ⊹ - gojo

summary : seeing gojo start to act differently, you go over to help him sort out his thoughts.

** : sfw, angst, fluff, jjk 0 spoilers !!

took me awhile to think of this😭😭 but my thoughts are also finally sorted out 🙏🙏 also idk if gojo still stays at a dorm in jj high during his teaching days but let’s just say he does lol

< 1.47pm >

as you walked through the hallways of jujutsu high, looking outside every window that you passed, you noticed gojo training with the 1st years out on the field. he had his usual smile on his face, teasing his students in any way he can, but most importantly helping them when they need it. however, you can’t help but feel like there’s something off about him.

it was just a few days after the death of geto suguru, and you could tell gojo was spiralling. though he was with geto during his last moments, he couldn’t come to accept his death. nevertheless, he tried to put on a smile on his face, being his usual silly and cheerful self.

therefore, nobody could tell that his mental health was getting worse. however, you were able to read him like a book, knowing what he’s feeling especially after significant events like this. you knew that he didn’t want to worry anyone with his feelings, and rather deal with them on his own.

despite that, you still had to check on him.

you knocked on his door, holding a thermos filled with soup in it, hoping it would make him feel better. you were met with a red eyed, disheveled gojo at the front door.

“may i come in?” you asked, before he steps out of the way to let you in.

his dorm looked messier than usual. believe it or not, his dorm was never this messy. he still tries to put in the effort in maintaining his dorm’s state of cleanliness, but with what you were witnessing you could tell something was very wrong.

you put down the thermos on the counter before following him into his room, sitting on his bed with him. there was silence between the two of you, not an awkward one, but rather a comforting silence. gojo seemed to have figured that you knew what was happening to him, and he couldn’t help but appreciate someone’s presence beside him during this period of time. that presence itself comforts him a lot.

“mind sharing what’s on your mind? gojo.” you spoke softly, slowly intertwining your fingers with his. he plays with your fingers gently as he figures out his thoughts.

where should he start? should he start from the time when he was beside geto, geto’s life draining slowly from his body as he says his last words, or should he start from the period after his death, when he starts to realise and blame himself for not noticing geto’s depression which had led him to turn into what he was.

he didn’t know how to explain his sorrow. all he could do was let the tears fall as he grips your shirt tightly, head resting on your shoulders. you placed one hand his back, rubbing small circles on it while your other played with his hair. he loves it when you do that, it was the best method to help him calm down.

“to be honest, i don’t know what’s happening to me. the longer i hold onto the memories of geto and i, the more i feel like letting go. but i can’t, because no matter how much i try, my soul doesn’t let me.”

you felt sorry for gojo. losing your best friend was hard enough, but he still had to put on a fake personality that contradicts what he’s actually feeling during school as to not spark worry in his peers.

you knew geto well too, being one of his friends during your student days alongside gojo and shoko. however, geto and gojo’s friendship was on a much deeper level, the pair being almost inseparable as they went on missions together, and mostly hung out with one another. sure, his death impacted you a lot too, but you’ve let go, knowing that he was in a better place.

“we used to say, “we’re the strongest” , but now only i can say “i’m the strongest” .” he mutters, sniffing every once in awhile as he wipes his tears.

you hugged him tight, playing with his fingers to help him calm down. he held onto your waist as he places his head at the crook of your neck, seeking comfort and love from the intimacy.

“geto wouldn’t want you suffering like this, does he? after all, he will care for you no matter where he is, and he definitely wishes only the best for you.”

you could sense gojo calming down at last, although he didn’t want to let go. you let him stay in this position for awhile, letting him rest on your shoulder. you will forever be gojo’s safe place, providing never ending comfort and care for as long as he needs.

after awhile, you finally got him to let go, and brought him out into the dining area of his dorm to drink the soup you had made for him.

“is it good?”

“tastes like home.”

gojo never wants you to leave him, ever.

both of my gojo fics are one comforting the other😭😭 i’ll think of something else soon 🤍

[amyscascadingtabs]

you’ll keep me intact

read on ao3

They were going to see Hamilton. That’s what she’s most upset about.

They had been planning the date night for two months, weeks before they got a positive pregnancy test, and she’d been so excited. David had given them the tickets after receiving them as a gift when he bumped into Lin-Manuel Miranda on the street, discovering that the two of them looked like twins.

(“It was crazy”, he’d told Amy over the phone. “But anyway, I don’t really follow pop culture, so you can have them if you want.”)

Amy had been stoked - Jake was sure to love this play much more than he’d tolerated the first one they saw together, and they were going to have dinner at a proper nice restaurant while wearing actual fancy clothing. She had been thinking of busting out the red dress she wore at their first real date, and yeah, she may have been longing for the chance to see her husband in a tux again, so sue her.

The play starts in ten minutes and Amy’s in bed.

She should be sitting in a red plush seat holding hands with the love of her life and waiting to see the musical they both know too much of the lyrics to performed live in front of them, and she’s in bed.

She’s furious, and she’s too exhausted to do something about it, because being in your first trimester of pregnancy is everything but energizing. The excitement and gratefulness aside, Amy feels as if someone took one of the worst hangovers she ever had and extended the duration of it to weeks and months, then subtracted the fun alcohol-part and added extra mood-swings. She can’t drink at Shaw’s anymore and lacks energy to do anything else but go home and sleep the moment her shift’s over, she struggles to follow a conversation when she’s busy fighting a wave of nausea, and now she’s cancelling date nights. With the thought of her baby still an abstract concept she struggles to fully wrap her head around, the whole situation is mostly aggravating.

The lighting in the room is not as striking bright as before, creeping closer to sunset but not there, so Amy figures she must have slept for a while. It’s the kind of golden hour out now that she’d adore a romantic walk in, capturing a few cheesy couple selfies with her phone while enjoying the view, and she considers calling for Jake to ask if they can take one before realizing he's the one who decided they weren't going out tonight, not even for a walk or Hamilton. She's too tired, was barely able to keep her eyes open during their drive home, and it's a bad nausea day on top of it.

(“You're going to sleep,” her husband had stated when she insisted one last time that maybe she could do it, even though she'd had to throw up at the mere consideration of different food smells at a restaurant. “You need it. C’mon, I'll let you be the little spoon.”)

There had been no way for her not to fall for his offer, and she drifted asleep minutes after changing into pajamas and curling up in his arms.

She's alone in their bedroom now, but there's a folded neon orange post-it on the pillow next to her. The squiggly handwriting scribbled on it is one she’d recognize anywhere, and she grins as she reads it.

Went to the store to buy ice cream, the note says. Plus more saltines and orangina bc i know you like that best (you’re orangina!). Love youuu.

He’s drawn a collection of uneven hearts after the message. Amy traces one of them with her index finger, waking up slowly to the background noise of Taylor Swift being played from the living room and telling her Jake must be back by noe. She wraps the comforter around herself and sneaks out into the hallway.

He’s watching the Reputation Stadium Tour. It’s the All Too Well-performance, a favorite for them both in the two hour five minute-recording of the show, and she expects him to be so focused on the television it's a surprise when he turns around, eyes lighting up when he sees her.

She's tired and she's bitter about the cancelled date night and she's felt sick for the entire day, but once she sees the content, dreamy smile he meets her with, all of the world’s misfortunes seem less disastrous. All the miracles appear brighter, too - a joyful spark in her heart reminds her they're having a baby together, and every bit of suffering she's going through will be worth it thousandfold less than seven months from now.

“I would ask you if you managed to get some rest,” he comments playfully. “But I checked on you a bunch of times and you were out like a light for all of them. How are you feeling?”

“A bit better. I’m sorry”, she mutters. He wrinkles his forehead at her apology, so she explains it further. “For being boring. This isn't exactly the exciting date night we’d planned from the start, and it’s all my fault. ”

“Stop that.” He gestures for her to take the spot next to him on the couch and she does, resting her head on his shoulder for extra closeness and letting his arm snake around her waist. “Ames, you couldn't be boring if you tried.”

“We were going to a fancy restaurant! We were going to Hamilton!”

“Yeah, but we totally made a couple purple-haired theatre kids the happiest people in New York when I sold them the tickets cheap.” Jake shrugs. “All I care about in a date night is getting to spend time with my wife.”

“Your hopelessly boring, moody and nauseous wife?”

“My badass wife”, he corrects her with a kiss to her hairline. “My badass, incredible, gorgeous and awesome wife.”

“She sounds great, whoever she is.”

“Oh, trust me. She is.” There's a smile on his lips so wide she's tempted to kiss it off of him - she does, shamelessly, and he whispers the last words against her lips.

Taylor has moved on to her Blank Space-performance on their television. Amy notes how Jake is moving his feet to the beat of it, miming along to the lyrics. She's seen him watch this movie at least ten to fifteen times and he doesn't seem to have grown tired of it yet. As far as date nights go, Amy supposes they’ve both been through worse - at least there are no exes or depressed bosses to be found in their apartment tonight - but it doesn't stop her from wishing it could have gone differently.

She drapes her right leg over his lap so she's practically straddling him just to get closer, burying her face in his neck and making a mental note to thank him for immediately ceasing to use the aftershave whose scent makes her sick now. He lets her stay close, doesn’t even complain about her blocking part of his view of the tv, and she makes another mental note to really, really thank him whenever her energy returns.

“I really am sorry about tonight, though”, she whispers after a minute, ever so distracted by his fingers tracing feather-light patterns on her neck. “Wasn't what I planned.”

“Title of your sextape.”

“Ha-ha.”

“You love me”, he reminds her, grinning. “Really, Ames, it's okay. I don't mind this.”

“I know, but…” She bites at her lower lip. “I guess it hit me that we won't be able to go on dates like this for much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before we only had to coordinate work schedules. Now we’ll have to find a babysitter, and deal with leaving our baby to someone else, and it’s going to be difficult. I feel bad for ruining what might be one of the few opportunities we have left in a long time.”

Jake frowns, running his free hand through his hair in a fruitless attempt to smooth a few curls out. He just makes it messier, but she doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

“You’re really worried about that?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Do you want logic or reassurance?”

Years of partnership, courtship and now marriage have taught them a few handy tools in dealing with each other's anxieties. This distinction is one of them.

“Logic”, she decides, and he nods. “If you have anything.”

“I do”, he promises, pausing the television at a shot of the concert audience holding lights in the air. They almost resemble a starry night sky, Amy thinks when she looks back at them. “Let's start with time. It's only May and we're having a baby in December. We have oceans of time to go on dates, especially if you start feeling better in the second trimester like all the websites say.”

“We're going to have a lot to prepare and it's going to go by fast. Plus, it's still not a ton of time. What do we do when they’re here?”

“Charles”, says Jake, and she furrows her brows, so he explains. “You think we’ll have a problem finding babysitters? On the list of people who will love our baby the most, Charles’s name is literally right below ours. You know he'll be dying for every chance he can get to spend some time with them.”

“And what if our kid doesn't like Charles?”

“All kids love Charles, I doubt ours will be an exception.”

“Fine”, she relents. “Babysitting is settled. Still, we’ll be tired, and hesitant to leave them, and it’ll take work and I just...” Amy can feel tears burning behind her eyelids - they’re always too close now, all of her emotions intensified. “I didn’t want to cancel this. I wanted to give you something nice as a reward for putting up with me right now, and this is what you get. Taylor Swift, hanging out on the couch, and your emotional mess of a wife.”

He doesn’t say a word at first. She wonders briefly if if the reason he’s pursing his lips and watching her with an expression of either pain or pity is that he thinks she’s right, that she is letting him down. When he keeps lightly massaging her neck and leans in for a chaste but sweet kiss on her lips instead of complaining, it confuses her.

“Ames, I meant it when I said it was okay. I don’t care about the date nights, I care about you.”

“Just admit you’re disappointed.”

“A bit”, he admits with a weak smile. “But not for the reasons you think. It sucks that you’re not feeling well, and it sucks that I can’t do much about it, and it sucks that you’re upset about this. But I still think it’s a perfect date night.”

“In what world would it ever be perfect?”

“You’re here.” Another chaste kiss to her lips. “You’re here, we’re watching Taylor Swift, and I have a full liter of our favorite Italian gelato in the fridge. That’s as close to perfect as it gets if you ask me.”

“Oh my god, you bought the good ice cream?”

“Yeah?”

“I seriously love you.”

“Ah.” She recognizes the characteristic dorky grin from years ago as well as yesterday, but it makes her heart skip a beat all the same. “And here I’ve been all these years, thinking your love for me was fake.”

She punches him in the shoulder for that.

“You know”, Jake says when he hands her a generous bowl of vanilla and caramel ice cream, “We can have this kind of tv and ice cream-date nights when we have a baby, too.”

“We’ll be falling asleep on the couch”, she corrects him. “And staring at a baby monitor like crazy people unless they’re sleeping on us.”

“Well, Amy Santiago”, Jake grins, “I can’t wait to fall asleep on the couch with you.”

It's not the night she imagined, but when they go to bed and he once again lets her curl up into a ball while he holds her, playing with her hair until she falls asleep, she couldn't be more okay with it.

(Two weeks later, Jake reveals he managed to buy new Hamilton tickets. Five weeks later, Amy gets both her nice restaurant-date and her Hamilton experience, as well as a chance to show off an incipient baby bump in the sleek red dress.)

[sleepybelle-writes]

Beautiful Destruction

I thought it about time that I share something a bit more substantial than a few bits and pieces, so here it is - by far my favourite piece of writing I have ever written (for now).

Word Count: 2436

Warning: contains mental health issues (depression/anxiety), eating disorders, and suicide. Please don’t read if you think it may affect you badly.

Everyone has flaws, has imperfections. Nobody can be perfect, after all.

It's funny, looking at yourself in the mirror. One day you'll love the little splattering of freckles along your nose, or the way your clothes fit just right, or the way your hair falls into perfect curls. The next day, those freckles could be the ugliest thing you've ever seen, your clothes the bane of your existence, your hair a mess unable to be fixed.

I stopped looking at the mirror a long time ago.

Waking up each morning with a new bruise on my legs, a chill that just wouldn't leave no matter the season, and emptiness deep inside, unable to be filled. I didn't want to see it, to see how terrible I looked, how far I had fallen.

Every day was a struggle, a fight against myself – and I was losing.

I still am.

They say you never know you have a problem until it's too late. I knew I had a problem after the first time I noticed my ribs could be seen without sucking my stomach in, after the tenth time I spent my shower marking my thighs, after the hundredth time of saying 'I'm fine.'

It's scary, the first time that urge to hurt yourself arises, to willingly open up your skin and allow that vital ingredient that is keeping you alive to spill free from its home.

I've heard it as being described as 'the best feeling in the world' and how it 'dulled the numbness in my heart'. There's always this sense of poetry when you read about it in books. Long, flowery prose that almost romanticises the act.

There is absolutely nothing romantic about it.

It's disgusting and it's cruel and it's ugly. It's a stinging sensation that doesn't cut through the numbness, doesn't dull it, it just makes it worse. It's sitting on the shower floor as you're blinded by tears and choking on sobs. It's hiding blades in books and under drawers as you hope that no one finds them. It's the looks of disappointment, of disgust, of pity.

It's still doing it anyway.

Some people consider self-harming as a way of seeking attention, most consider it a method of coping, albeit a poor one.

I consider it just another way to destroy myself, to take control of the mess I've become and make it even messier.

Depression almost always accompanies self-harming, and with it, anxiety is sure to follow. And they're almost always following an eating disorder.

It's certainly not glamorous, despite how the books seem to make it.

The mirror can attest to that.

Well, it would if it saw me. I know I never saw it.

It's also quite a lonely lifestyle. You never realise just how much social gatherings are based around food.

There's this little bookstore just down the road from where I live. It's run by this elderly Austrian man, Okan Winkler, who could spend hours telling you stories of his time fleeing the war with his family, how he built a new life here, a new family after meeting the love of his life who had a passion for books and could no longer remember him yet still smiles each time he reads to her, her favourite books.

It started as me simply going there for a new book, but I soon found myself going almost every day, helping him when it became busy, tidying when it became messy, keeping him company when he was lonely. A friendship was quick to form, and with it a job offer that I wasn't allowed to refuse.

Across the road is a family-run coffee shop. It's quite a popular coffee shop, and because of that, we found ourselves receiving more business than the small shop had seen in years. It wasn't long before I found myself going over each morning before Okan opened, and again during my break. There was just something so enticing about the smell of roasted coffee beans that made me want to take perch in one of their winged armchairs in the corner with a nice book and just waste away my time – something I ended up doing quite often on the weekends.

Over time, it simply became a habit, a nice routine to fall into and give my tired mind a break. But then, there comes a time when your routine must break, always.

And break mine did.

~*~*~*~

It's almost seven in the morning, the first time I find myself standing in front of a mirror after years of avoiding it.

There I stand, staring back at me, a mere skeleton of what I used to be, of what I should have been. Dark circles hang under my eyes, my hair is somehow both dull and oily, my ribs looking as if one wrong move would have them tearing out from beneath my skin. It isn't pretty.

I don't think I've ever gotten dressed so quickly.

From there on, my world seems to crumble around me, the routine I have so happily fallen into no longer existing.

I skip going to the coffee shop, of getting the elixir of life that was coffee. This itself is a mistake, considering that it was the only thing I seemed to be consuming at the moment.

To be completely honest, I'm not sure that I care enough to consider the consequences. Although, at the same time, I'm not sure that I don't care.

It's funny how an eating disorder distorts your perception of what's normal, is it not?

Okan arrives at exactly eight am, as he does every day. We're quiet as we enter the shop, Okan still ridding himself of the last tendrils of sleep, whilst I'm too occupied with the thoughts of what I'd done to myself.

You know those moments when you just look at something, and all you can think is, 'what have I done?'

That's what I was going through. Except usually, people want to fix their mistakes. I'm not even sure I do. And in all honesty, it scares me.

The day becomes a blur of anxiety that fills my chest in a balloon that is just waiting to burst. A disconcerting mess that hurts and is scary and all I want to do is hide from the world.

But I can't. Not yet.

Instead, I find myself standing at the register, barely able to get a greeting past my lips as I put each purchase through the machine. I brush off Okan's words of concern with a half-hearted 'I'm fine' whilst my break is spent with unfocused eyes staring at the words of an unknown romance novel.

Or maybe it was one of adventure?

Time passes in an odd mixture of fast and slow, a blurred mess in a foggy haze, and it's not long before my shift is finished and I'm standing outside the bookstore, the cold air stinging my cheeks.

I stumble past parents and teens alike as my breath comes in short, sharp gasps, being torn from my lungs. I can feel their gazes, burning into my skin, as I fumble with my keys and tears sting my eyes. The stairs become a mountain that I climb with numb legs, my head getting lighter with each step, each gasp for air.

The door is slammed behind me, lock clicking into its place. The sounds are muffled and the world is blurred. My cheeks no longer sting, but are instead burned by tears. Sobs are torn from my lungs, choked and painful. It's with the last of my strength that I collapse onto my bed and pull the blanket close, up over my head, shrouding the world from view – hiding from it.

The average panic attack will last between 20 and 30 minutes. On the rare occasion – in extreme cases – it can last up to an hour.

No matter the severity however, it always seems to last an eternity.

Once the panic subsides, only numbness is left. My cheeks are dry and stiff, my eyes sore, my nose blocked. The sounds of the street below can easily be heard, the world clear and sharp once I remove the blanket from my head.

I don't want to move – too tired to move. I feel empty, lost almost, as if I'm missing something, like I've been left stranded with no clue on how to continue, but unable to fall back, back to where I was before – back to being the epitome of ignorance.

Ignorance is bliss after all.

Knowing is anything but.

Looking around, I can't help but notice the porcelain doll sitting on my shelves, clearly out of place, yet still carefully nestled between two books, their covers worn and faded with age and use.

She was once a quite fair doll, with golden curls and wearing a deep blue dress, with matching shoes. She was a gift to my mother, given to her by my Babushka upon her wedding, given to me upon leaving home.

It's a bit of an odd thing to re-gift to someone, especially considering that what was becoming a family heirloom should have gone to my older sister, but I'd always had a fascination with the doll, of its beauty eternally frozen in porcelain. I grew up idolising the doll, wanting to be just like her, to be pretty - to be perfect.

It appears neither of us are pretty anymore.

Sun has aged the porcelain, staining it yellow, whilst her hair has faded to grey. The deep blue dress was no longer so deep, dust woven between its threads.

Staring at her now, there was no love for her. There was no fascination, no desire to be just like her. There was just an emptiness.

It seems everything has become empty.

The bed dips next to me, the weight of another resting against my back.

I don't recall to have left my door open – or me actually closing it for that matter. Already, the past few however many hours have become a faded blur.

"You okay, 'Mitri?"

I shuffled around so I can look up at the intruder from out beneath the covers. I don't know what I was expecting, but to see Alex there, his lips downturned slightly, brows furrowed in the centre, was sort of surprising.

"You're home early," I say in lieu of an answer.

"I am actually home on time," he states.

Oh.

"I think I messed up." My voice cracks and tears sting at my eyes. I find myself burying back under the blankets – a safe haven of sorts, protecting me from facing the truth.

"How so?"

I shrug as best I can. It's as if I've forgotten how to speak, the words lost on my tongue.

Alex leans back, draping himself over me. It's comforting, a heavy weight that eases the raw energy that seems to be buzzing under my skin.

He's older than me, Alex that is. Only by a couple of years – enough that he's already almost completed his first year of university. I'd moved in with him last year, after certain events made it no longer possible for me to stay at home.

It's sort of funny how one thing can change a person's entire perception of you, isn't it?

We had met the year before last, through a school run program that was designed to help students work through their problems in "a safe and supervised manner." Of course, it took the suicide of a "well-loved and respected" student for them to even consider it.

Because you only matter if you're really smart and/or athletic.

Not that they'd ever tell you that of course.

Of course not, after all, every child is a special little snowflake, aren't they? Only, some are more special than others, and sometimes, being special is seen as a thing of wrongness, something to be removed from this world – after all, we don't exactly live in a place of fairness, now do we?

"You're thinking too loudly."

I groan and wiggle from beneath him, but he doesn't budge. Thinking about it, I don't understand how he's finding the position comfortable. Sure, the blanket adds some sort of padding, but it's only a couple of centimetres – not enough to dull the sharpness of my bones that were sure to be digging into him.

"Do you think –" I trail off. What am I even asking? If I ask if I'm good looking, he'll probably say no, won't he? I mean, I'm nothing more than a skeleton at this point, if the mirror is anything to go by – and the mirror never lies, does it?

No, it does not.

"Do I think what?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Even to me, the words are soft, and are sure to be lost amongst the layers of fabric they'd travel through to reach Alex's ears.

"If you say so." Huh, so he did hear. "You know, you can always come to me for any troubles you have, right? I mean, I may be a bit busier in the next couple of weeks because of assignments and all that, but, I've always got time for you, even if it's something that you think is completely and utterly stupid."

For some reason, I can't find myself able to believe him.

It's not like he's never given me a reason to disbelieve him, quite the opposite in fact. But, I just –

I can't believe him.

Not yet anyway.

Not on this.

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

Oh.

That –

I wasn't meant to say that. Please don't have –

"Why would you think you're stupid?"

He heard.

Of course he heard.

I don't – what am I meant to say?

Nothing.

I say nothing.

Instead, I scramble out from beneath the covers, away from Alex and his impending questions and the concern that will cover his pity and disgust, yet at the same time will have the words spilling from my lips without my permission.

Time seems to have slipped away from me once more, and I find myself standing atop the railing of a bridge, clinging to one of the columns that keep it standing – that keeps me standing.

There's a commotion behind me – shouts and horns blaring in protest – but I focus instead on the storm-angered waves below, a swirling mass of blackness that beckons for me to join them.

It's sort of funny, how everyone always says it's the ones that you'd least expect.

It's not always to ones you'd least expect though.

Sometimes it's the ones you'd expect.

My eyes slip shut.

I let go.

I fall.