The door clicked softly when the nurse finally allowed him inside.
Aizawa entered the dim hospital room like he was stepping into sacred ground—slow, quiet, terrified.
The curtain was half‑drawn, the fluorescent lights low, machines breathing softly in your place.
And there you were. Small. Too small.
Your body looked swallowed by the white sheets, drowning in them. IV lines ran down your thin arms, your skin pale and almost translucent under the cold light.
Aizawa’s breath hitched in his throat.
No teacher should ever see a student like this.
No adult should ever let a child fall this far.
He approached your bedside, the world muffled around him. His eyes never left you—not even once—as he slowly, gingerly lowered himself into the chair beside you.
His hand hovered over yours for a long moment.
He was afraid to touch you. Afraid you might break.
Afraid he already did break you.
Finally, with trembling fingers, he slid his hand beneath yours and held it—so carefully, as if one wrong move would shatter you completely.
Your hand felt… Light.
Too light. Cold. Smaller than he remembered.
He brushed his thumb over your knuckles. They looked like they belonged to someone starving for warmth, someone who had been alone for far too long.
His chest tightened painfully.
“… You were always right in front of me,” he whispered, voice rough, “and I didn’t see.”
Your breathing through the oxygen mask fogged the plastic slightly with each weak inhale.
It was the only thing proving you were still here. Still alive.
Just barely.
He exhaled shakily, tightening his hold just enough to feel like he existed in your world again.
“If I had known,” he whispered, leaning down a little, “I would have been there.”
His voice cracked around the words he’d never said aloud.
“I would’ve been your dad.”
His thumb trembled over your hand.
“Hell—if you needed one—” He swallowed.
Hard. Painfully. “—I would’ve been your mom too.”
He let out a choked breath, eyes burning.
“I would’ve been all of them. Every role they failed to give you.”
Your chest rose weakly. Barely.
“And you—” he whispered, his voice almost a broken hush, “you didn’t have to smile alone. You didn’t have to hide everything. You didn’t have to act so strong.”
He wiped a stray tear from your cheek that wasn’t yours— it had fallen from him.
“You’re just a kid,” he said softly. “My kid, whether you knew it or not.”
He blinked hard, swallowing down the ache burning in his throat.
“I’m here now,” he murmured softly, voice steadying even as his heart broke.
“I’m not leaving again.”
And so Aizawa stayed like that—
For the first time in years, Aizawa Shota bowed his head over a student’s hand and cried— quietly, painfully, lovingly.
Because he would have taken every burden she carried.
If only he knew.