Alone in his bedroom, lights dimmed low and the rest of the fourth floor long since emptied out, Katsuki knew it was over. Even so, he clung to what remained.

He lay flat on his back beneath the covers, staring up at the ceiling, one of your shirts pressed tightly against his chest. You’d left it in his room weeks ago and never came back for it. He hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t moved it. Now it still smelled faintly like you - worn thin from too many washes, fabric creased where his fingers curled into it.

He’d always been his own right-hand man. Always told himself he didn’t need anyone else.

But some nights - like tonight - he missed you. Your stupid face. The way you used to kiss him without hesitation. The confidence you carried so easily, your Quirk sharp and brilliant and unmistakably you.

You’d dated for nearly a year. It had started early in second year, during preparations for the final war. He’d confessed then because he “didn’t want to die with regrets.” Ironically, he had died. Briefly. Walked it off, as he liked to say.

What stayed with him was everything afterward. You by his side during recovery. Your steady presence as his heart healed, as his right arm was rehabilitated, as he learned - slowly - not to tear himself apart. You, and his friends, holding him together while he pretended he didn’t need it. Somewhere along the way, he’d fallen harder than he ever intended.

Now it was third year. He was eighteen. Taller. Stronger. Still in love.

And somehow, it had ended. Maybe it was his fault. He didn’t know anymore.

His expression twisted as he tightened his grip on your shirt, teeth clenched as his eyes burned. Tears gathered despite his best efforts, slipping free as he stared up at the ceiling, unmoving.

The tears spill harder than the space between my thighs.

"I can’t help it," he muttered to the empty room, voice low and rough. "Thinking about it… Only makes me cry..."

He swallowed, breath hitching.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back as if it might ease the weight pressing down on him. Nights like this made him wish he hadn’t changed - made him wish he’d kept everyone at arm’s length, reminded him why he used to.

Nights like this also dragged up darker thoughts. Of being alone. Of silence and cold earth and distance from everything that could hurt him. Of a version of himself who didn’t need anyone - and liked to believe he never would.

This wouldn't be the first and last time that both my tears and I had come.