Erase Herゾごホ

望む - hope

"I'm very sorry, (y/n)."

"Don't tell her you're sorry, tell her what to do to fix this!"

"There is nothing more we can do sir."

"There has to be something! Physical therapy, surgery, anything!"

"The nerve damage that runs through her legs is far too severe, she'll never be able to walk again."

"Bullshit."

Background noise. That's all this was.

"I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"She will never walk again."

"She will."

Background noise. Static sounds numbing my brain. I stared blankly at the tiled floor of the doctors room, not blinking, not speaking, not even feeling like I was breathing. I watched my feet motionlessly dangle off the edge of the examination table I was sitting on. Why? I knew it was coming, I knew this was the awful reality I was easing myself into. I knew it. So why does it hurt so much more hearing those words from the doctors mouth?

The god of this cold world must really fucking hate me. This is all just one big cruel joke, isn't it? A big set up by the almighty as payback for being the biggest hypocrite alive. One second I'm telling my boyfriend, a hero, how selfish his line of work is and how much hate I harbored for such a career. The next, I'm charging head first into a death trap with no regards for my own life. Hypocrisy. I deserve some kind of punishment, I admit that, but taking away my legs? Isn't that a bit harsh, god?

"(Y/n)."

I looked up, a small gasp escaping my throat. Shota stood in front of me, his lips pressing into a tight line, his dark eyes seeping pity. Pity. That is an emotion I never wanted to see him wear. I glanced around the bright white room realizing we were the only two left. Did the doctor leave? I didn't hear him? How long have I been staring at the tile specs below me? Counting. Measuring. Doing anything to drown out the talking happening in the same room. I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to accept it. How am I suppose to live my life without being able to walk? Shota blew some air out, rubbing the back of his head and gently tugging on his black v-neck.

"Don't listen to him."

I tilted my head to the side. Don't listen to him? How do I do that? Should I just ignore what he said? Ignore that there is absolutely zero possibility of me ever walking again? That no surgery, no form of therapy, will ever fucking fix me? I felt like I was going to explode on the inside, anger and hatred running rampant over my organs, through my bloodstream. There was so much burning inside me, my body and face couldn't convey it all. So I just looked empty.

"Ignore it?" I said, a laugh coming out. Shota drew in a deep breath, opening his mouth to say something but I stopped him. "Should I just pretend it's all okay then?" I darkly joked, using my hands to push off the examination table. I watched my feet touch the (probably) cold floor, but it didn't matter because I couldn't feel it. I also couldn't stop my body from falling. Shota lunged forward to catch me, but it was too late. I slammed on my knees, my hands stopping me from flying forward. "Fuck!" I screamed, pounding my fists against the floor. Why can't I do something as simple as walk? I'm exactly what my father said I was.

"(Y/n)!" Shota shouted, falling to his own knees and grabbing my face, tilting my chin upwards to look at me. His pale skin seemed to be even more ghastly as his eyes frantically searched for something. Maybe a sign that I wasn't losing my shit? But I was most definitely losing my god damn shit. His dark eyebrows furrowed together, worry flooding his usual calm expression. My eyes met with his for a moment and the most genuine frown sprouted on his lips.

It was like a fucking dam shattering inside me.

Tears poured from my eyes as I began to sob. Why? Shota pulled me into a hug, burying my face into his shoulder as my screams got louder. When's the last time I cried like this? I felt Shotas hand stroke my hair, wrapping my fingers around his shirt and crinkling it up into my fist. My mothers funeral. I think I cried so much my eyes burned for five days. This almost seemed worse though. Not only did I lose my legs and the ability to walk, I feel like I had lost hope.

"What the fuck do I do?" I whimpered, my words coming out in between breaths and sobs. There is no coming back from this. "What the fuck do I do?" I heard Shota sigh deeply, squeezing me in his arms a tad harder.

"I'm sorry."

He's sorry? My breath hitched in my throat as I heard him utter those disgusting words. He's sorry? If Shota Aizawa is sorry then that must really mean there is no hope. The man that told me every single waking moment that I would be able to walk again, that I would be able to use my legs. He's finally been broken. The abnormal positivity that the tired man radiated has been sucked dry. He no longer had anything anything remotely optimistic to say. I grit my teeth, letting out a frustrated scream while clinging to him. This can't be it. There has to be a way. If he can't be hopeful, I have to be. This can't be the way I get destroyed.

"Let's go home, (y/n)." Shota whispered into my hair, his arms wrapping around my body and scooping me up. I was too paralyzed to say anything. My mind was going a million miles a minute, strenuously thinking of anything I could put together.  He gently sat me back down in my wheelchair. Fuck this god damn chair. Shota opened the door before looping behind and wheeling me forward. That's it. I slammed my hands around the door handle, halting our movements. "(Y/n)?"

If I can stop quirks, why the fuck can't I walk.

I turned my body so I could face him.

"I will walk again." I muttered, tears scrolling down my face. Shota's eyes widened slightly, before his face softened. A gentle smile appearing on his lips.

"That's my girl."