I haven’t been touched in months. 
Not gently. Not without pain following right after. It’s strange what the body forgets first—warmth, softness, what it feels like to be held without tension in your shoulders or blood on your hands. I used to take that for granted. Back at U.A., it happened all the time. Casual high-fives. Hugs after a win. Her hand brushing mine during drills.

I didn’t think much of it back then. It was normal. Comfortable.

Now? That single memory is louder than gunfire in my head.

I patrol near her apartment too often. It's not strategy anymore—it's habit. Need.
 Sometimes I get close. Too close.
 And sometimes I stop myself from knocking just to avoid the ache of knowing she might answer with fear in her eyes instead of recognition.

She knew me. Trained with me. We were friends once—maybe something more, if the world hadn’t gone to hell.

But the version of me she knew doesn’t exist anymore.
 Now there’s just the silence, the mask, and this unbearable craving to feel something that doesn’t end in violence.

And still… I find myself reaching for her name in the dark.