𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

𝑨 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒖𝒕 | 𝟓𝟕

TW: Attempted suicide! Blades & overdose mentioned!

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

She knew she shouldn't.

 Knew that by choosing this path, there'd be no going back—no reset button, no safe return. No hope of ever going home.

To her real home.

But at that moment, she didn't care.

She was done with this life. Done with the pretending. The cage dressed up as protection. The eyes that didn't really see her.

She was done waiting for things to get better. She needed a solution now. Not tomorrow. Not later. 

Now.

Soft footsteps moved through the hallway, slow and steady. Her guardian's boots echoed faintly off the hardwood—deliberate, heavy, the way they always were when he didn't want to wake her. She paused in the doorway, listening closely as the steps faded toward the door. A moment later, it shut behind him with a quiet thud, the familiar lock tumbling into place with finality.

Gone. 

Silence flooded the apartment like rising water. Thick. Heavy. It filled her ears, her lungs, her head. She couldn't tell if she was breathing anymore.

She sat for a moment on the couch, curled into herself like something abandoned, like a stray dog in the rain that stopped waiting for someone to take it home. Her eyes burned. Her limbs felt heavy. The weight of exhaustion clung to her bones like lead.

How long had she been fighting? How many masks had she put on just to survive each conversation, each passing glance?

It wasn't worth it. None of this was worth it anymore.

She moved slowly, deliberately, almost on autopilot. Like her body wasn't entirely hers, like she was borrowing it for this last task. 

Her feet padded across the floor toward the kitchen like they had a thousand times before—morning tea, awkward breakfasts, standing at the counter while Aizawa stirred instant noodles. But now, everything felt hollow. Those memories didn't feel like hers. Maybe they never were meant for her anyways.

Her eyes roamed over the countertops, eyes scanning the drawers. Aizawa would be out for a while, busy protecting the city and doing whatever typical hero things he did when he left  for patrol. He'd be gone for at least another hour or two, maybe more. Long enough.

She eyed the countertops. A blade. That was the idea. It wasn't her first time considering this, and in theory, a knife was fast. Easy to find. Sharp edges. Done in seconds, right? But just where did Aizawa keep them?

She hesitated in front of a drawer, pulling it open carefully, fingers shaking, fumbling, until she finds a straight razor or pills or something sharp, something final. Not because she wants to hurt, but because she wants to stop. 

But drawer after drawer offered her nothing but chopsticks, dull butter knives, and forgotten takeout utensils. Plastic. Useless. She opened another. Still nothing.

Her frustration simmered, but it didn't rise. It just... sat there. Like everything else.

Sucking in a harsh breathe, she stood on her tiptoes to search the higher cabinets, her fingers twisting against cool handles, searching for the solution to her eternal problem and there—bingo—a shelf lined with bottles. Medication. Painkillers. Sleep aids. Muscle relaxants. Hero stuff, probably. Things she wasn't supposed to touch.