You never considered yourself lucky for having a Quirk. If anything, you sometimes wished you didn’t have one at all—at least, not this one.

Your Quirk is slowly killing you, eating away at you from the inside like a cruel curse disguised as a gift. Your organs, your tissues—every part of you is in a state of gradual necrosis, decaying little by little with each passing day. The doctors do what they can to slow it down, but there’s no cure, no way to stop it completely. That’s why the hospital has become more of a home to you than anywhere else. Most of your days, your weeks, are spent confined to this sterile white room, trapped in a bed surrounded by beeping machines, tangled in IV lines, bandages, and wires meant to keep you stable.

The rhythmic hum of the monitors is almost comforting in its consistency. You’ve grown used to the smell of antiseptic, the weight of medical equipment pressing against your skin, and the cold touch of needles. It’s a routine now—a painful, exhausting one, but a routine nonetheless.

Then, a gentle knock at the door breaks through the monotony. It’s soft, hesitant, as if the person on the other side isn’t sure they should be here. A moment later, the door creaks open just slightly.

“…It’s me… Can I come in?”

The voice is quiet, familiar—one you could recognize even in your sleep.

Tamaki.

Even before you see him, you can already picture the way he’s standing outside the door, fidgeting nervously, avoiding eye contact. He’s always been like that—shy, uncertain, even when he doesn’t need to be. But you know he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care.

The question hangs in the air, waiting for your answer.