𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 | 𝟓𝟖

Congratulations. You win. Lets keep this short and sweet, yeah? 

If you're reading this, guess I'm not there to explain things in person. Shocker. But honestly, what would I even say? "Sorry for being an inconvenience"?   "Thanks for the trauma"?

It never mattered that I was just a scared kid dropped in a giant city. I tried so hard to make it work. But I was never enough for you was I?

You treated me like I was just waiting to turn evil. You never saw me, you only saw what you were afraid of.

So fine. Be afraid. Be right. Call it self-fulfilling prophecy i guess. 

To Class 1-A: Sorry we never got to be actual classmates. Most of you never talked to me anyway, so guess you won't notice. Saved you the trouble didn't I?

To Aizawa: I don't know. Maybe you meant it when you said you believed me. But you also lied to me, so who really knows? Thanks for being a decent father figure tho. Dadzawa 4 life.

Anyway. I'm tired. And this world sucks.

I'm going home. Or at least somewhere that feels less like prison.

To quote Shakespeare, parting is such sweet—nah actually it's just sweet. For me at least. I should probably scribble this bit out but I'm too lazy :/

Good luck with the whole hero thing. Try not to screw up anyone else like you did me.

P.S. Tell Shinsou he's worth more than all the stars in the sky and that he better achieve his greatest dreams and beat the villain stigma or I'll HAUNT him. 

P.P.S Watch your kids when you go camping.

P.P.P.S. Don't give my stuff to Vlad King. He'll probably claim it's "evidence."

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

The hospital room was too white.

Too still.

Machines clicked and breathed in her place—long, mechanical inhales that made Aizawa's own breath feel jagged. The letter lay in his hands again. The paper was soft from wear, edges rounded, the center creased in four neat lines like it had lived in his coat pocket for decades instead of days. He knew every line by heart, every sarcastic jab and bitter truth. Still, he kept reading. Over and over, like the words might change if he just looked long enough.

The handwriting was inexplicably hers—messy, sharp, pressed hard into the page like the pen had almost broken through. The paper was crumpled, like she'd almost thrown it out but decided not to. He brushed his thumb across the doodles of Chai she'd scribbled on the edges of the paper before the drugs took effect.

He almost smiled. Almost. 

He looked away from the paper and toward the foot of the bed, where the child he was supposed to watch over laid unconscious.

She looked so small in the hospital bed.

Too small for someone who used to argue with him like she wasn't scared of anything. Too quiet for someone who once slammed doors just to make a point. Too still for someone who, deep down, just wanted to be believed. Too pale for someone who used to be so alive.

"Eraser," Yamada said quietly from the corner, leaning against the windowsill. No sunglasses. No headphones. Just a pale hoodie and eyes that had been red rimmed for hours. "You've been reading that for hours."

Aizawa didn't look up. "Doesn't stop it from hurting."

Yamada leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You did everything you could."

"I left her alone."

"You thought she was safe."

"She wasn't." Aizawa's voice cracked, low and dangerous, like it had been scraped raw. "She waited until I left. She planned this."

There was a beat of silence. Then Yamada said, "You're not a mind reader, Sho. You couldn't have known."

"I should've. I'm her guardian. Her teacher. Her everything in that building. I left her alone, Hizashi."

Aizawa dragged a hand through his hair, elbows on his knees, knuckles pale. "She did this because of us."

"No—" Yamada started.

"She said it herself, Hizashi. She told us." His throat tightened. "And she was right. She was right, and we were too damn slow to change."

Yamada looked down at his hands, the silence buzzing in his ears before he speaks up again. "I liked her," he said quietly. "She was sharp. Funny. Said things other people wouldn't. Reminded me of you when we were kids, honestly."

"She said I was a decent father figure," Aizawa muttered. "That's what she left me with."

"That's not nothing."

"It's not enough." His jaw tightened voice cracking as he curled up on himself. "I don't want to be 'decent.' I want her to wake up."

Recovery Girl's footsteps broke the conversation. Her expression was tight, brows drawn behind her glasses.

"I just finished talking with her doctor. She's stable," she said, "but her liver took a serious hit. We pumped her stomach, flushed what we could... but we don't know how much damage is permanent yet."

Yamada tensed. Aizawa just nodded once, eyes never leaving the figure in the hospital bed.

"She'll be out for a while," Recovery Girl added. "Physically, as long as she wakes up, she should recover."

"And if she doesn't wake up?" Aizawa says, his voice low and gritty. Recovery girl looks away apologetically, "Only time will tell."