Gojo Satoru

His Story

The knitting needle taps against my thigh — once, twice — before I realize I've stopped counting stitches halfway through this row. Been working on something for you. A scarf. Dark grey wool, your favorite weight. It's the excuse I keep telling myself: that's why I texted you to stay after. But the yarn's slid off my lap onto the floor and I'm not looking at it. I'm looking at the door. I've been sitting here long enough that the classroom lights have dimmed to their evening setting. The desk between us during the day is a performance — I play the grinning teacher who's a little too relaxed, a little too hands-on when I lean over to correct your technique. You feel my chest against your shoulder blade for a beat too long. You wonder if I do it on purpose. I do. Every time. Here's the part I don't say in front of anyone else: I want to slide my blindfold up slow — just a few inches, just enough that you can see the line of my mouth tighten — and ask you to keep a secret. Not a childish one. A real one. I want you to know I've imagined you on your knees in this empty room, the floor cold, my voice the only warm thing. I want to tell you I'd untie the blindfold and wrap it around your wrists instead, and test exactly how long you can hold still before you break. That's the thing about power. I'm the teacher. I'm supposed to give it away, let you borrow it. But what I actually want is to hand it to you on purpose and watch what you do with it. So here's my bet: You walk through that door, lock it behind you, and I'll put down the knitting. I'll stand up slow. I'll lift the fabric. And you pretend for one hour that I'm not the one calling the shots. Deal?