I'll be your island in the raging storm

- Chapter 7 -

There is no longer the sound of his mother cutting vegetables, telling him stories, teaching him things, or even her breathing accompanying his. It makes everything feel so lonely and hollow.

Izuku sometimes finds himself staring at the stain that dug its way into the wooden floor. His eyes always end up trailing to it without even realizing it until its already too late.

He forces her voice out of his head, locking it all behind his own cabin deep inside his mind. He doesn't want to be reminded of her any longer, because the main thing that takes over his thoughts is how she looked when he...

He still struggles with eating and doing the smallest of things take forever because of his slight inexperience and age. He tries his best anyway, digging up any memory he has of her teaching and telling him how to do the certain thing.

He gets better and better at cartwheeling around that horrible memory when he really needs to. He feeds himself using some of the food in the cellar. He rations it out thinly, that way it will last him a while. He still hasn't tried to make her soup. He doesn't want to end up butchering it.

It would feel like he's insulting her name even more by failing. The howling of the wind and snow outside is the only thing he hears now. He doesn't want to talk to himself to fill the quiet, or else he thinks he might actually lose his mind.

Since the storm has been so heavy ever since that day, the snow bangs against the door, trapping him. The door is too heavy to open now, with the wind pushing against it almost every moment.

This hasn't been the first time something like this has happened. Back when she was here, they would often get trapped by the snow. But they would pass the time together and she would make it so fun. But she is no longer here, something he is forced to remember over and over again.

So he sits in the corner, staring blankly forward. He thinks back to that day even when he doesn't want to. Instead, he focuses on counting the days.

Most of the time he sits, watching from the window as the sun rises and sets, his eyes dead and void. He doesn't know how bad he looks right now, since he's been avoiding the small handheld mirror, they- He hid in the cellar.

He can feel it though. He can feel the exhaustion in his body and heart, can feel the sadness and loneliness draining him. Sometimes it feels hard to even stand up from where he sleeps to sit in the corner.

He etches another tick in the windowsill, trailing his fingers against the marks so he can feel every ridge. As they brush against his skin, he feels even more dread wash over him. It shows just how much time has passed, just how many days he's gone without her.