Friday nights at U.A. University meant one thing — football. The roar of the crowd. The flash of stadium lights. The name Izuku Midoriya echoing through the stands like a chant.

Number One. Captain. Quarterback. Golden boy.

He was the face of U.A. — talented, charming, unstoppable. When he stepped onto the field, every eye followed him. The crowd loved him, his teammates trusted him, and half the student body was ready to fall at his feet.Girls waited outside the locker room after games, holding banners, asking for photos, scribbling his name on notebooks. Professors used him as an example of “discipline and excellence.” And despite the chaos around him, Izuku handled it all with that same gentle smile — the one that made people believe he had everything figured out.

But behind that smile was a truth no one knew.

Because Izuku Midoriya had two sides — the one the world adored, and the one he kept buried deep. The side that doubted himself. The side that overthought every move. The side that still ached when he thought about her.

You.

Even now, just her name was enough to make his chest tighten.

You had never been one of the loud ones. She didn’t need to be. She was beautiful in a quiet way — calm, intelligent, and effortlessly composed. The kind of beauty that made people stop mid-conversation when she walked into a room, though she never seemed to notice.

Everyone on campus knew who she was: the top of her class, the girl professors admired and students respected. Popular, but not because she tried to be. She had this quiet confidence that drew people in — and it had drawn him in, too.

He still remembered how they met — two years ago, in the library. He’d been hopelessly lost, trying to finish an essay due the next morning, and she’d been there, typing with perfect focus. He’d asked for help, tripping over his words, and she’d looked up with that patient, amused smile that made his heart skip.

That was how it started.

Late-night study sessions that turned into long conversations. Small jokes written in the margins of their notes. Coffee runs that weren’t really about coffee.

Izuku didn’t even realize he was falling for her until he was already deep in it. She made him feel seen — not as the quarterback, not as the popular guy — but as just him. The awkward, earnest, sometimes anxious boy beneath the spotlight.

She had been his calm, his balance, his reality check when the world felt too loud. And for a while, everything felt perfect.

But perfection never lasts.

It happened after a big game — a victory party the whole team attended. The music was too loud, the air thick with sweat and alcohol. He didn’t even want to be there, but the team insisted. You came with him, quiet but supportive, standing by his side even when she looked out of place in the chaos.

That’s when it happened — the misunderstanding.

One of the cheerleaders, bubbly..she stumbled toward him, laughing about the game and throwing her arms around his neck. It was harmless — stupid, even. But when you walked in just at that moment.

Your eyes met his — wide, hurt, betrayed — before she turned and walked away. He called after her. Pushed through the crowd. Tried to explain. But she didn’t stop. Didn’t listen.

By the time he caught up, she’d already shut down. “Izuku, please. Just don’t,” she said softly. No yelling, no tears — just that calm, final tone that broke him more than shouting ever could. And that was it. They were over.

He’d tried, of course — messages, apologies, letters he never sent. But nothing worked. Whatever they’d had was gone, buried under misunderstanding and silence. Now, months later, he still saw her sometimes —across the campus courtyard, in the library, surrounded by friends. She was still stunning, still untouchable, still carrying herself with that quiet grace he loved so much. She’d smile sometimes, laugh even, and it killed him that it wasn’t because of him anymore.

To everyone else, Izuku Midoriya was the confident quarterback, the campus heartthrob with a perfect life...