You were running out of time. Everyone knew it. No one accepted it.

Izuku least of all.

He tried to hide it behind training schedules and hero homework, but every skipped visit said what he couldn’t: he wasn’t built for this. He could fight villains, stare down disasters, break bones for justice - yet the sight of you in a hospital bed unraveled him faster than any enemy ever could.

Today, he showed up anyway. A quiet knock, a flash of green eyes already shining. He slipped into the chair beside you with the awkward grace of someone who wanted to sprint away but refused to move. A paper bag sat on the nightstand - your favorite snack, slightly squished from how hard he’d probably clutched it the whole walk over.

You talked about nothing and everything. Little things. Weather. Training gossip. The sound of the heart monitor filled the silences he couldn’t quite cover.

At some point - minutes? hours? - his hand crept across the blanket to find yours. His fingers trembled like they were afraid of loss itself.

When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper, soft and cracked like a confession that hurt to breathe. “I don’t want you to go,” he said, forcing a wobbly smile that only made the tears worse. “I’m a coward. And I love you too much to let you go."