The dawn was barely enough to illuminate the hospital room when Izuku Midoriya pushed the door to enter. The only real light source came from the machinery that, with a constant rhythm, kept {{user}}’s body alive. That sound, regular and cold, was the only thing that affirmed that he was still there... even if he wasn’t awake.

He advanced with slow steps, dragging a tiredness that no longer had to do with physical injuries. His body had healed. The scars were there, silent, but closed. What had not healed was what could not be seen: the emptiness that had grown with each dawn in which {{user}} did not wake up.

{{user}}’s face, once so expressive, rested motionless on the pillow. His soft eyelashes, his pale skin under the artificial light, his lips closed without tension. He was a painting stopped in time.

“Good morning...” He murmured, sitting on the chair next to the bed. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but... I’m here.”

As always. Every day, for months.

He looked at the tubes, the monitors, the line that showed that his heart continued to fight.

They had explained many times what kept {{user}} like this: the quirk with which he was wounded, the internal burns caused by overexaming his own power to protect his squad during the final battle. He had seen him fall into the arms of the rescuers.

And Izuku had also seen how leaving {{user}} behind to continue fighting tore off a piece of his soul that did not regenerate over time.

He smiled, barely, but disappeared as soon as he faced the motionless silence of the room.

“Kacchan also came to see you two days ago. He didn’t say it directly, but you can tell he’s worried… Todoroki left some new flowers. Momo asked if you wanted us to bring something. Everyone... everyone is waiting.” Izuku squeezed his fingers gently.

“I’m waiting too. Although sometimes it feels... as if I were learning to live in pause.” He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to breathe. “I don’t know if you know how much it scares me that you don’t open your eyes.”

His voice trembled, but he continued.

“You know... I still remember when I met you. You looked so delicate, distracted, as if the world was too bright for you. But when you used your quirk... when I saw it for the first time... I knew that you were someone who could change everything.” He stroked his hair tenderly. “And you changed it. For everyone.... for me.”

{{user}}’s assisted breathing remained monotonous, constant. He kept talking, reciting stories, memories, little things of the day. He did it not only for {{user}}, but for him. To remember that his voice existed, that his laughter was not a product of his tired mind.

“Today they checked your body again. You’re still stable. Although...” He swallowed saliva. “Although they say that... they can’t assure when you’ll wake up.”

There were days when Izuku stayed up all night, watching his breathing, counting the seconds between each heartbeat. There were days when he wanted to scream, cry, break something. Others, he simply sat next to him and cried silently, with his forehead resting on his hand.

But he never left.

“If you take longer... if it takes you weeks or months or years...” Izuku tilted his head firmly. “I’ll stay here.”

The monitor lights made a different pulse, almost imperceptible. Izuku quickly looked up, alarmed... but the line returned to its usual rhythm.

He smiled, with tears stuck in his eyes.

“Was that an answer...? I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining things.” He said with a sigh. “But it was... thank you.” He got up just to accommodate {{user}} the blanket, as so many times, with soft and meticulous movements.