Seven Years of Indigo.

The bridal suite smelled of fresh white roses and expensive champagne, but the air felt heavy, suffocating.

You sat in front of the vanity mirror, staring at your reflection. The silk of your wedding dress brushed smoothly against your skin, and the veil pinned neatly into your hair fell like a mist over your shoulders. Seven years. You had been by Suguru Geto’s side for seven long years. You had survived the dangers of the jujutsu world together, watched him carry the weight of the world, and built a life out of the quiet moments between chaos. Today was supposed to be the culmination of every sacrifice.

A sharp buzz disrupted your thoughts. You reached for your vanity table, only to remember your own phone had completely bricked itself an hour ago—dead, unresponsive, and useless.

Then you saw his phone.

Suguru had left it face-up on the small table near the door before leaving to finish his groom preparations. In seven years, you could count on one hand the number of times you had ever looked through his personal device. You respected his privacy fiercely, and he had always given you every reason to trust him. But today, a strange, uncharacteristic pull of curiosity gripped you. A small voice in the back of your mind whispered that it wouldn’t hurt just to check the time or peek at any congratulatory messages.

You picked it up. The lock screen slid open effortlessly; he had never bothered to hide his passcode from you.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before automatically opening the messaging app. You didn’t expect to find anything out of the ordinary. But as your eyes scanned down the list of recent chats, one contact caught your attention. It was a name you didn’t recognise, a simple contact name that felt out of place among his work threads and group chats: Saori.

Driven by a sudden knot tightening in your stomach, you tapped the chat.

The messages went back years. The deeper you scrolled, the more the air left your lungs. You stopped at a thread dating back exactly four years ago.

Suguru (4 years ago): I’m done, Saori. We can’t keep doing this. I need to focus entirely on Y/N. She deserves my full attention.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. It was an ending, a declaration of commitment to you. But the fact that it existed at all meant there was something to end. Your fingers trembled as you scrolled further down, bypassing months of silence until you hit a message from exactly one year ago.

Suguru (1 year ago): I’m looking at the rings today. But to be honest, I’m not sure about this anymore. Every time I try to picture the future, it’s a struggle.

A cold sweat broke out across your neck. He had proposed to you a year ago with a smile on his face and tears in his eyes. It had been the happiest day of your life.

And then, your eyes landed on the final message. The timestamp read Yesterday, 11:42 PM. The night before your wedding.

Suguru (Yesterday): I’m sitting here looking at the suit. All these seven years, Saori… instead of Y/N, I wish it was you. I wish it was you marrying me tomorrow. I wish we were the ones making these memories together.

The words blurred. The world around you tilted on its axis, the sounds of the bustling venue outside fading into a sharp, piercing ring in your ears. Your hands shook so violently the phone nearly slipped from your grasp. Seven years. Seven years of shared laughter, quiet mornings, declarations of love, and late-night comfort—and it was all a placeholder for a ghost named Saori.

“Y/N! Oh my goodness, you look absolutely stunning!”

The heavy oak door swung open, and your bridesmaids burst into the room in a flurry of pastel silk and excitement. They didn’t notice the deathly pale color of your face or the way your breathing had hitched into shallow, terrified gasps.

“It’s time, sweetie! The coordinator says the guests are seated. Suguru is already at the altar!”

Before you could voice the scream building in your throat, your bouquet of white lilies was pressed firmly into your cold hands. Friendly, loving hands pushed you gently toward the door, smoothing down your train. Your legs moved on autopilot, completely detached from your mind.

The walk down the aisle was a blur of faces. Satoru Gojo stood to the side, giving you a warm, rare grin. Shoko Ieiri offered a supportive nod. And there, at the end of the aisle, stood Suguru. His long black hair was tied up neatly, his posture immaculate, and his dark eyes softened the moment they landed on you. He looked exactly like the man you had loved for a near-decade.

But when he took your hand at the altar, his palm felt like ice.

The ceremony proceeded in a haze. When the vows were read, and the celebrant asked the fateful question, you looked into Suguru’s eyes. You saw the warmth there—but now, you saw the lie beneath it. You saw the duty, the settling, the quiet tragedy of a man marrying his second choice.

“I do,” your voice whispered out. It sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

The applause rang out. He leaned down and kissed you, his lips soft and familiar. But to you, it felt like the kiss of a stranger.

The moment the reception began and the crowds swarmed Suguru to congratulate him, you slipped away into a quiet hallway. Borrowing a landline from the venue’s staff desk, your hands shook as you dialed a number you knew by heart—your closest childhood friend, the only person outside the jujutsu world who knew the real you.

The phone rang twice before picking up.

“Y/N? Aren’t you supposed to be dancing right now?”

The moment you heard their voice, the dam broke. A choked, breathless sob escaped your lips, tears finally spilling over your carefully done makeup. “Please,” you wept, gripping the edge of the desk so tightly your knuckles turned white. “Please, don’t ask any questions. Just bring your car to the back entrance of the venue. Take me to your house. Please, just get me out of here.”

Your friend didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

You hung up, wiping the tears from your face with the back of your hand. You didn’t change out of the dress. You didn’t grab your things. You walked straight toward the heavy glass doors of the back exit, the silk of your train trailing behind you like a shroud.

“Y/N?”

A voice stopped you right at the threshold. You froze.

Suguru stood a few paces away in the hallway, having noticed your absence from the main hall. He looked down at your tear-stained face, then at the open exit doors where a car was pulling up with its hazards blinking. A deep furrow formed between his brows, and genuine concern flooded his features. He stepped toward you, reaching out a hand. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Where are you going?”

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

The hurt in your eyes was loud, raw, and completely exposed. For a split second, you felt the urge to scream, to throw the phone at his chest, to demand to know who Saori was and why he had stolen seven years of your youth just to wish you were someone else.

But as you stared at him—at the man who had secretly wished for another woman on the eve of your wedding—something clicked inside you.

The frantic panic died. In its place, a cold, heavy numbness settled into your chest. You didn’t owe him a scene. You didn’t owe him an explanation. If he could spend seven years pretending, you didn’t have the energy to spend another minute demanding a truth he had never intended to give you.

You didn’t say a single word. You just looked at him with an empty, broken expression that made him freeze mid-stride.

“Y/N, wait—” Suguru’s voice dropped, a sudden panic breaking through his calm demeanor as he realized something was terribly wrong. He stepped forward to catch your arm.

Before his fingers could brush your sleeve, you turned your back on him, pushed the doors open, and stepped out into the cool evening air, leaving the wedding—and Suguru—behind.