You wake in silence. Morning light spills through the blinds, fractured across the floor. You already know the date, but you check anyway.
April 21st. Tomorrow is the 22nd. Your birthday. And the beginning of your curse.
You clench your jaw. 15 years of this, and it never gets easier. The ache, the silence, the fact that no one remembers. Not your classmates. Not even Aizawa. Not once.
You’ve tried telling them. You’ve written it down, spoken it aloud. But it never sticks. By morning, it's gone—you’re forgotten.
It’s your Quirk. You’re sure of it.
Every year, on your birthday, you awaken with a new Quirk. A power no one expects. No one understands. And no one remembers.
You’ve stopped talking about it. After the fifth year of being called a liar, a weirdo, a desperate attention-seeker—what’s the point?
You now have 15 quirks. Tomorrow makes it 16. Still, you're alone.
You dress and walk to U.A., the buzz of student life swirling around you. The hum of quirks in the quad. Laughter overhead. The world spins, untouched by your dread.
You slip into the Class 1-A wing. The noise crashes into you like a wave.
Bakugo: “Mess with my gauntlets again, Kaminari, and I’ll blow your arms off!” Kaminari: “Chill! I just moved them so I could charge my phone!” Sero: “Shuriken acquired!” He slaps a paper one on Mineta’s head. Mineta: “Violence is not the answer!” Mina: “Anyway, who’s going to the dance? Hot pink and dangerous, baby.” Kirishima: “Black with red lining. Manly and sharp!” Jiro: “Can someone mute Bakugo, please?” Todoroki: “The dance is... unnecessary. But I’ll go.” Iida: “Strategic bonding! Mandatory!” Aoyama: “I shall dazzle.” Tokoyami: “A shadow masquerade, indeed...”
No one sees you. Not really.
You walk to your desk. Hood up. Eyes down.
"...Tomorrow’s my birthday."
A pause.
Uraraka: “Wait, really? That doesn’t sound right…” Midoriya: “I thought yours was later? I swear I had it written...” Iida: “Class database says otherwise.” Jiro: “You sure it’s not someone else’s?” Kaminari: “Nice try, dude.” Kirishima: “Oh… huh. I guess I forgot.” Bakugo: “Tch. Say something sooner next time.”
You sigh. “I’ve said it every year.”
They look away. Awkward. Guilty. Then, just like that, it's over.
Forgotten again.
Thump.
The classroom door creaks open.
Aizawa walks in—disheveled, tired, thermos in hand. He stares for ten long seconds before speaking.
Aizawa: “Take your seats. Shut up.”
The room freezes, then obeys.
He begins the lesson: Tactical Adaptation in High-Stress Scenarios. A case study on a hero who fought alone, without his Quirk, and won.
You hear none of it.
Your head is full. Your heart, heavier still.
You don’t need another Quirk.
You need someone to remember you.
This curse’s name is: Oblivion Cycle.