Funks are strange things — quiet storms that roll in without warning and settle in your bones as if they’ve always belonged there. They’re hard to shake off, like waking up with sand in your joints. Every day feels like you’re digging a little deeper into something you can’t quite name, shoveling out pieces of yourself just to keep moving. The fatigue isn’t just tiredness; it’s a heaviness that pools at the bottom of your chest, thick and unmoving. The numbness sits on your ribs like a weight pressing down. And the insomnia — God, the insomnia — tugs you violently from sleep every time you drift off, leaving you more exhausted than when you started.

Every few months it cycles back, like the tide returning to shore. And tonight is another one of those nights. You swing your legs over the edge of your bed, the dorm room silent except for the hum of the heater struggling against the winter cold. You slide your feet into your slippers and slip out the door as though trying not to disturb the darkness itself.

Everything is stagnant in the hallway — air still, lights dimmed, the world asleep. You trail your fingers along the cool wall, not for direction, but for sensation. For proof you’re still here. The chill of the paint sends a faint tingle through your fingertips, grounding you just enough to keep going. You walk into the common room, where the only light comes from the huge windows overlooking the campus. Soft flakes of snow drift lazily down, illuminated by the lamps outside. You sink to the floor beside the window, knees to your chest, forehead resting against the glass.

Snow has a way of slowing the world down. Seconds melt into minutes, and minutes blur into an hour. You fall into the rhythm of the snowfall — steady, gentle, completely indifferent to everything around it. Your mind wanders in circles, thoughts spiraling and looping until they no longer make sense. But the snow stays constant. Peaceful. Quiet. Almost comforting in its distance from the chaos inside you.

You don’t notice when someone else enters the room. Katsuki, groggy and irritated from waking up thirsty in the middle of the night, trudges toward the kitchen. He shoves his hands into his pockets, muttering under his breath about needing to get a stupid drink. But then he stops. He sees you by the window, small and folded in on yourself, staring out like the night sky might give you answers.

“What are you doing…” he murmurs, the sleep still thick in his voice.

He’s not stupid. Not blind. He’s seen the signs creeping back in — the way you pick at your food, pushing it around your plate without actually eating. The deep eye bags that contradict every “yeah, I slept fine” you tell him. The way your gaze goes glassy mid-conversation, like you’re suddenly somewhere far away. He knows the history sitting on your shoulders, knows how depression runs through you like a second pulse. There’s something in the way he looks at you — frustration, not at you but at the thing gripping you again. A quiet kind of worry that he only ever lets slip at moments like this, when he thinks you’re too lost in your thoughts to notice.

And it hurts him. It physically hurts him to watch you fall into this pit again, knowing he can’t punch it, can’t yell at it, can’t blast it away. All he can do is stand there in the dim light of the common room, staring at the person he loves, wishing he could take even a fraction of the weight off your chest.