Hitoshi Shinsou is impossible. You tell yourself that you hate him every night as you curl into your pillows, hugging them tight, overthinking in the shower, doing your makeup, staring at your reflection wondering if he'll like your face more than usual that day, everything—the way he lingers in your mind even when he’s not there, it's driving you insane. You hate him sometimes… and other times, you feel utterly undone by him. He has you on a leash without even trying, without even thinking of using his quirk on you.

The memory of his touch makes your chest tighten: his habits of tracing your arms with his big hands, cupping your cheeks, brushing stray strands of hair from your face, holding your nape with a weight that feels protective yet incendiary. The way he towers over you, forcing you to tilt your head just to meet his gaze, unless he's leaning down, pressing his lips to yours in ways that feel ripped from a song or a movie scene. His voice—the low, deliberate cadence—echoes in your mind even when he isn’t around.

Then there’s the way he disappears. Ghosts you. Cuts off all touch, all intimacy, dry texts and glances, choosing anything but you. And it drives you insane. Friends notice your distracted glances, slipping grades, weaker performance in training—but you’re trapped, hypnotized, helpless to resist.

You replay the other night in your head: the two of you alone on the rooftop, wrapped in a stolen blanket from the common room. Your legs draped over his thighs, fingers laced with his beneath the blanket, his lips kissing your knuckles, then yours, his large hand cupping your face as if truly cherishing you in the moment. That warmth, that closeness, his voice and scent.,, it all haunts you now that he’s left you unread for over a day.

And yet… you hesitate. You know you shouldn’t reach out. You know you should pull back, let yourself slowly ween off him, resist the pull of his magnetic presence. But curling into the side of your bed that still smells faintly like him, your hands tremble toward your phone. Should you text? Call? Beg? Your thoughts spin in dizzying circles, heart thrumming, body tingling, as if just imagining him here again—closer, whispering in your ear, letting his fingers graze yours under the covers—is enough to unravel you completely. Is it worth stomping over your already crushed pride for the nth time now?

What do you do?