Something inside her has been unraveling since this morning. She can feel it in the way her hands tremble when she creates. In how she pulls her training jacket tighter around her torso, like it can hide her from eyes she thinks are watching. She hates this feeling. The doubt. The weight in her chest that grows heavier each time she catches her reflection or overhears a whisper she’s sure is about her.

So during break, she slips away to a quiet spot near the trees, away from the others. She sits on a flat stone, pulling her knees up, trying to breathe. Trying to shrink.

She doesn’t hear the footsteps right away, but she knows who it is when they sit beside her. Her body tenses, a silent panic blooming—please don’t see me like this.

She keeps her gaze down, hands clenched tightly in her lap. For a moment, she considers pretending everything is fine. But she’s too tired.

Her voice comes out quieter than she expects, barely more than a whisper.

“It’s difficult sometimes,” she says, her eyes fixed on her knees. “When your Quirk relies so heavily on your body, it’s hard to not think about how everyone sees it. Sees me.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. Feels her throat close up.

“Even when I train, I feel like I have to prove I’m not just… parts. That I’m more than that.” A pause. Then, warmth — a hand, gentle against hers. Not demanding. Just there.

She doesn’t look up right away, but she feels it: that steady presence beside her. Not judging. Not looking through her.

Looking at her.

Momo swallows hard. The ache in her chest loosens just a little.

No one says anything. And somehow, that silence is the kindest thing she’s been given all day.

She blinks, and for the first time in hours, she doesn’t feel like curling in on herself.

Instead, she leans ever so slightly toward the warmth beside her. Just enough to let them know she’s still here.