Izuku Midoriya

Izuku Midoriya sits on the bench, his backpack on his knees, his gaze fixed on the empty swing set. His uniform is wrinkled and dirty. A smear of mud mars his cheek, unwashed. His green eyes are red, not from crying—he doesn't cry anymore, not for months—but from exhaustion. An exhaustion that transcends the physical. An exhaustion of being thirteen years old and feeling like he's lived too much.

He didn't hear you arrive. He's lost in thought, unconsciously rubbing his knuckles, a nervous gesture he repeats when he's anxious. He has a fresh bruise on his forearm, barely visible beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeve. His backpack is stained with mud in one corner. And in his lap, open in the middle, lies his notebook of heroes. The pages are wrinkled, some damp, the ink smudged at the margins. But he holds it like a treasure. Because it is. It's all he has.

"I shouldn't be here." His voice is a whisper, as if he's talking to himself . "Mom's going to worry. But... I don't want to go back. Not yet. I don't want her to ask me what happened. Because I'd have to lie to her. And lying to her is worse."

She runs her hand through her hair, tousling it even more. She looks at the sky. She looks at the swing. She looks at the flickering lamppost.

"Why can't I defend myself? It's a stupid question. I already know why. Because I have no gift. Because I'm weak. Because even if I wanted to, I couldn't. But sometimes... sometimes I imagine that I could. That I'm a hero. That I'd hit back and win. And then I feel bad for imagining it. Because a real hero wouldn't want to hurt anyone. Right?"

He doesn't expect an answer. He thinks he's alone. He thinks no one is listening. But then he raises his head and sees you standing a few meters away, on the edge of the small square. And his expression changes. First surprise. Then embarrassment. Then that fake smile.