𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧' |𝐭.𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐢

43- dates, dates, and dates!

Aizawa gave you a small nod, then looked away.

But his shoulders stayed tense. Like he knew there was more to say.

But after that day, you couldn't stop thinking about it.

About that name,

Tenko.

The name made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Like it belonged to a memory hiding just under your skin.

Something almost familiar, like hearing the first few notes of a song you used to love, but not knowing the lyrics anymore. But how.. could that name belong to such a villain? Shigaraki out of everyone.

You tried to ask Aizawa again.

"Did I fight him? Was he important to me?"

Aizawa's face didn't move, but his tone hardened. "You knew him. That's all you need to know."

You hated when he talked like that. Like he was trying to protect you from yourself.

If the name was tied to pain, to war, to something the others couldn't speak about, maybe forgetting was safer.

So you shrugged it off.

⸻

Now that the war was over, you needed to get over your next trial.

Physical Therapy.

No villains. No explosions. Just sterile white walls and the soft, steady voice of your therapist counting reps like they were war drums.

"One more, Y/N. You've got this."

And you did.

You kept getting stronger. Your steps grew steadier. Your breath came easier. You learned how to walk again. How to pick up a glass without your hands shaking. How to force a smile when your friends visited, because they visited often.

Ochaco brought sunflowers the size of her face, always talking too fast like she was scared you'd slip away again. Bakugo showed up with loud complaints and a thermos of homemade soup he refused to admit he made himself. Midoriya would sit by the window and read to you, his voice soft and uneven.

Hawks dropped in like clockwork, wings tucked tight, cracking jokes and acting like nothing scared him. But his eyes lingered too long on the heart monitor. Like he was making sure you really were okay.

And Aizawa... Aizawa didn't talk much. He just sat in the corner with his papers and his bitter coffee, like he was trying to pretend this was normal. But every time you took a step unassisted, his shoulders eased like a weight had been lifted off of them.

They were all proud of you.

You were proud of you, too.

Or... at least you were supposed to be.

But something was wrong.

You couldn't figure out why. You were alive. You were recovering. You were surrounded by love and support and people who never once gave up on you.

But inside... there was nothing.

No joy. No spark. No fire. Just this hollow, aching space in your chest like something had been ripped out and stitched up before you could see what it was.

"Do you remember anything right before you.. passed out?" One of the doctors asked once.

You didn't.

There were flashes, shouts, crumbling buildings, the metallic taste of blood, but it was like trying to remember a dream you never had.