The argument shouldn’t have mattered—but it did. It started with a small mistake, like most things that unravel do. You’d only knocked over a stack of papers while trying to tidy up, trying to ease his day just a little. But Aizawa was already fraying at the edges, worn thin from another relentless shift at U.A.—the chaos, the students, the weight of always having to be strong.

His eyes narrowed as the papers scattered like feathers. “Can you do anything right?” he snapped, his voice colder than the apartment had ever felt.

You froze, the words cutting through more than they should’ve. You weren’t fragile—but that one landed deep.

“I… I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah? Well, you're not.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing. “You only make things harder.”

Silence.

Then, without looking at you: “Sometimes I wonder why you’re even here.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Your fingers gripped the papers too tightly.

And then— “You’re not my real kid.”

The room collapsed into silence. Something inside you broke, quietly. Not loud like the papers. Not loud like his voice. Just… gone.