The concert arena was alive with energy, a sea of lights swaying to the rhythm of the music. Aizawa sat in the back row, his arms crossed, eyes tired but attentive. He wasn't much for public events, but this one had been unavoidable—a rare day off, a ticket gifted by an insistent friend.

When the lights dimmed, and the first chords rang out, his breath caught. Standing under the spotlight was someone he hadn't seen in a decade: you.

Your voice, rich and aching with emotion, filled the air, captivating the crowd. Aizawa leaned forward in his seat, his usually impassive face etched with disbelief. Memories flooded back—of laughter, frustration, and the day you handed in your resignation at UA, your voice trembling as you said, “I need to find my own way.”

Now, here you were, the same determination shining through every note. The audience sang along, hanging onto your every word, but all Aizawa could hear was the echo of your parting words. His chest tightened as he realized how far you'd come—and how far apart you'd grown.