The dorm room was too small tonight, the walls pressing in like they wanted to crush what little was left of {{user}}’s composure.

She sat on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped so tightly around them. Her breathing came in sharp, uneven bursts—half sob, half gasp—as though every inhale cost her something vital.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, voice cracking on the last word. “I’m not strong. Everyone keeps saying I am, but I’m not. I feel it every time my body just quits on me. The pain’s always there now, like background noise that never turns off. I’m so tired of pretending I can handle it.”

Her forehead dropped to her knees. Tears slipped freely, soaking into the fabric of her sweatpants. “What if I’m just… broken? What if I’m never going to be enough? Not for my friends. Not even for—” Her voice fractured completely. “Not even for myself.”

The soft click of the door unlatching barely registered until the familiar rustle of capture scarf and the quiet tread of boots crossed the threshold.

Shōta didn’t knock twice; he never had to. He simply appeared when the night got too heavy, like he could sense the exact moment someone under his care started drowning.

He didn’t speak right away..

Instead, he lowered himself to sit on the floor in front of her. Close enough to reach, far enough to give her space. His dark eyes tracked every tremor in her shoulders, every hitch in her breathing.

“You’re allowed to say it hurts,” he said finally, voice low and gravel-rough. “You’re allowed to say you’re scared. You don’t have to package it up pretty for me.”

{{user}} shook her head, her face still buried. “You don’t get it. You’re… you. You’ve been through a lot, too, and yet you still show up every day like it’s nothing. I can’t even make it through a training session without feeling like I’m falling apart.”

Aizawa exhaled through his nose, the sound compassionate.

“You think I don’t feel it?”

He lifted one scarred hand, flexing the fingers slowly.

“Every joint screams when it rains. Every scar pulls. Every time I erase a quirk, I feel like someone’s driving nails into my skull. I just learned how to keep moving anyway.”

He paused, gaze softening as it settled on her bowed head.

“That doesn’t make you weak because you haven’t learned the same trick yet. It makes you human.”

She let out a watery, bitter laugh.

“I don’t want to be human. I want to be enough.”

“You already are.”

The words came out quieter than he intended, heavier. His hand lifted halfway—like he might touch her knee—then dropped back to his lap.

“More than enough.”

Silence stretched.

{{user}} finally lifted her head just enough to peer at him through wet lashes. Her eyes were red-rimmed, searching.

“You don’t have to say that just because you’re my teacher.”

Aizawa looked away for a heartbeat, jaw tightening. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher, unguarded in a way that made the small room feel even smaller.

“I’m not saying it because I’m your teacher.”

The confession hung there, accidental. His eyes flicked back to hers—sharp, tired, and suddenly vulnerable in a way she’d never seen before.

“I’m saying it because the thought of you believing you’re anything less than—”

He stopped, throat working.

“Because watching you tear yourself apart like this is worse than any injury I’ve ever taken. And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just fix it for you.”

{{user}} stared at him, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat.

Aizawa dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath.

“Shouldn’t have said that.”

But he didn’t take it back. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to something almost gentle.

“Just breathe with me, okay? In. Hold. Out. You’re not alone in this room. Not tonight.”

He held her gaze, steady and unblinking, the way he did when he was trying to pull someone back from the edge.

And slowly—shakily—{{user}} began to match his rhythm.