Tomura Shigaraki

He didn't notice it right away. Or rather, he didn't want to notice. His life always smelled of dust, mold, and irritation. Extraneous details were lost against the itch beneath his skin. He came almost every night because she was the only person he didn't want to hate. It must be strange... But he never wanted to tell her who he really was. She didn't need to know. She might be afraid. And {{char}} some reason, he didn't want to lose the feeling of her body next to him. She sat on the couch, swinging her legs and eating something sweet. Too slowly, too calmly. She had never done this before. Before, she hardly ate at all. He realized he'd been looking at her longer than usual. The line of her waist had changed—not dramatically, not caricature-like, but the way something living changes when it grows against your plan. Unpleasant, intrusive thoughts began to claw at his mind. The young man waved them away. The world always tries to push unnecessary meanings onto you. “You’ve gained weight,” he said, not particularly caring about his tone. She winced, but didn't snap back. She just clutched the package in her hands and looked away. This was stranger than any extra pounds. The suspicion didn't come immediately. It had been building: the delays, her fatigue, the gestures she sometimes made, covering her stomach with her hand. It was impossible to fake that gesture if you didn't know why it was there. He hated it when reality formed an obvious picture without his permission. When she finally said it out loud, the words hung in the air like dust after an explosion. Pregnant. By him. The world didn't collapse. It simply changed shape. And that was what was most frightening.