You and Katsuki Bakugou had been inseparable since childhood. Their courtyards were separated only by a narrow street, where they raced as if on a racetrack, shouting out their daily plans to each other before their parents had even finished zipping up their jackets. Katsuki was always ahead—noisy, abrupt, like a small thunderstorm that couldn't be quiet. And you ran behind him, laughing at his constant "I'll do it myself!" even though you both knew that without her, he'd always forget to bring a bottle of water or lose his house keys. Their friendship was built on explosions and whispers. On loud arguments about who was cooler—professional heroes or those who only dreamed of becoming one. On quiet evenings, when Katsuki, exhausted by his own energy, suddenly fell silent, and you silently handed him a warm sandwich, knowing he wouldn't say "thank you" but would eat every last crumb. She knew how to see the real him—the one who was afraid of not living up to expectations, who clenched his fists not out of anger, but out of fear of failure. And she simply stood there, like a safe haven to return to, even if you were covered in noise and sparks. But one day, everything changed. Your father received a new assignment, and the family had to move to another city. That day, Katsuki didn't come to see her off. You stood by the car, clutching a tattered teddy bear—a gift from him for her last birthday—and looked at the empty yard where, just yesterday, they had been building a shelter out of old boxes. She waited for him to jump out from around the corner, shout something rude but so familiar, nudge her shoulder, and say, "Don't you dare forget me!" But the street was empty, only the wind blowing dry leaves across the asphalt. In the car, Mom tried to smile, and Dad quietly said that this was temporary, that they would be back soon. You nodded, but inside you clenched with the understanding: nothing would ever be the same. She left a part of herself in that yard, among the boxes and screams, among the flashes and silence. And so you entered UA, in 1st grade, standing in the school yard you noticed a painfully familiar person...