U.A. was loud—too loud. Class 1-A especially. Voices bouncing, quirks bursting, energy overflowing.
But you were different. Still sunshine. Still bright. Still smiling.
Your joy never grated on his ears—it warmed them.
Aizawa Shota told himself quiet kids were easier to manage—but deep down, he knew it wasn’t that.
It was you.
You chattered when others shouted, laughed gently, smiled softly. He found himself watching you—not because you needed discipline, but because you were easy to care for.
Maybe that was the first sign. Maybe that was when he should’ve realized something was wrong.
Sunshine that bright almost always hides a storm.
He had small gifts for all of Class 1-A: scarves, gloves, practical things for training. But for you… something else.
A silver bookmark engraved with your favorite flower. Useless for battle, perfect for you.
He meant to give it to you that morning—but you weren’t in homeroom. He figured you overslept.
Then his phone rang. All Might.
“Aizawa… you need to get to the hospital. Now. It’s {{user}}.”
“What’s wrong with her?” His voice cracked.
“She… jumped.”
The gift box slipped from his hands.
He ran. Past everything. Wind in his hair, scarf trailing. By the time he reached the hospital, he only stared through the glass.
The room was too white, too sterile. Your small frame lay on the table—oxygen mask, IVs, blood on the sheets, monitors shrilling.
Aizawa’s hands shook.
His sunshine student— his bright, warm, gentle girl— was pale, limp, dying.
Because he missed it. Because he didn’t look closer. Because he thought your smile was real.
He pressed a hand to the window, feeling like he was sinking.
“…Kid… what have you done…” he whispered.
Principal Nezu approached, silent, holding a folded paper. Aizawa’s fingers trembled as he opened it:
“Aizawa-sensei, thank you so much for spending time with me these days. I know you once asked me about my family or my own condition. I’m very happy because this is the first time someone asked that.”
He remembered that day— you had brushed it off with a smile.
He thought he should give you space. Small mistake. Huge consequence.
“I don’t have family, sensei. Both my parents abandoned me. They remarried and made new happy families while forgetting I exist.”
His knees went weak. He leaned on the wall to stay upright.
“I don’t tell anyone I have depression. I don’t take medicine because I don’t want you to see me messy.”
He squeezed the paper so hard it almost tore.
“I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to trouble anyone.”
“I don’t want to burden you, sensei. But thank you for being my parent for a while.”
“I’m sorry I have to leave like this.”
Aizawa sank into a chair, hands over his face. Tears fell silently.
He had failed you.
All Might placed a hand on his shoulder. “Shota… it isn’t your fault.”
Aizawa shook his head. “Don’t say that.”
His eyes lifted to the operating room again.
“She was right in front of me. Every single day.”
His voice trembled. “Smiling. Laughing. Acting fine.”
A pause. “And I didn’t see a damn thing.”
His fists clenched. “She wasn’t a burden. She was—”
His voice wavered. “She was my kid.”
Now she was fighting for her life.
And he didn’t know if she’d ever wake up again.