insulting.

A pale scoop of macaroni soaked in what might’ve once been cheese sat like a lump on {{user}}’s tray. The texture was somewhere between glue and regret, and the vegetables on the side had the color and appeal of something left too long under a heat lamp. The fruit looked like more of a requirement than a nutritional choice. {{user}} picked up their fork, gave the food a token prod, then set it back down. Just looking at the food made their stomach twist—not from hunger, but from the lack of it.

Around them, the dining room buzzed with the low murmur of students chatting through bites of dinner, some laughing, others scrolling their phones between mouthfuls. But their voices barely reached {{user}}.

{{user}} felt removed from the moment, like they were watching the evening play out behind glass.

They weren’t sure what was wrong. It wasn’t that they were sick—not exactly. Just... tired. In that strange, foggy way where even eating felt like more effort than it was worth. Their body was here, in this chair, but their head had checked out somewhere around the time the food hit the plate.

Across the room, Aizawa sat at the staff table, half-buried in paperwork, chopsticks in hand. He didn’t seem to eat so much as process his food with quiet precision, glancing up every so often to survey the room like a tired hawk. Most students knew better than to draw attention during meals. Dinnertime might’ve been casual, but Aizawa didn’t tolerate slacking—not even during food breaks.

So when {{user}} felt his gaze settle on them, their spine stiffened instinctively.

They hadn’t meant to catch his attention. They weren’t causing trouble. {{user}} was just... not eating.

Still, after a beat, he stood, slid his folder shut with a soft clap, and crossed the room. He moved like he always did—soundless, steady. Even before he spoke, the change in the air told {{user}} he’d arrived.

“You planning to eat that?” he asked.

The question was quiet but firm. He didn’t sit right away, just glanced down at {{user}}’s tray with an unreadable expression. {{user}} opened their mouth to answer, just to close it again.

“I’m just not that hungry,” they finally spoke, trying to make it sound casual. Like they weren’t full of static. Like this wasn’t the third night in a row that dinner felt like cardboard and they couldn’t explain why.

He gave a soft grunt—not annoyed, not dismissive, just… acknowledging.

Without another word, he slid into the chair beside {{user}}. No dramatic sigh, no teacher tone. Just presence. A calm kind of pressure, like the weight of a heavy blanket.

“Food’s not great tonight,” he said after a pause, eyeing the limp pasta with what might’ve been sympathy—or at least shared disappointment. “Still. You need to eat something.”

{{user}} didn’t respond right away. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, and for a moment all they could do was stare at the beige mess on their tray, feeling like it represented exactly how their brain had been running lately—mushy, flavorless, barely holding shape.

Aizawa leaned back slightly, watching {{user}} from the corner of his eye.

“You don’t have to finish it. But talk to me. What’s going on?”

His voice had dropped again, quieter now. Not a demand. Just an open door.