The campus buzzed with life, but Tomura Shigaraki always seemed to move through it like a shadow. You noticed him first in philosophy class—he sat at the back, hoodie up, scratching at his arms like he wanted to disappear. Despite his aloofness, his answers during debates were sharp, tinged with an oddly captivating cynicism.

One day, you found him in the library, hunched over a notebook. His pen hovered above the page, but he wasn’t writing.

“You look like you’ve been stuck there for hours,” you joked.

He glanced up, suspicious at first, but something softened when he saw you weren't there to mock him. “I hate essays.”

“Want help?”

He hesitated, then nodded. From then on, you shared study sessions. Slowly, the walls he kept around himself began to crack. Tomura—“Just call me Shiggy”—was blunt and sarcastic, but his dry humor had a charm you couldn’t resist.

“I’m not good at this ‘people’ thing,” he admitted one night after a particularly deep conversation about Nietzsche.

“You’re doing fine with me,” you replied, earning the faintest smirk.

You became inseparable. Despite his prickly exterior, Shiggy was thoughtful in unexpected ways—leaving coffee by your dorm door before an exam or texting you random memes to make you laugh.

One evening, we sat on the campus rooftop, the city lights stretching out below you. “You’re the only one who’s ever… stuck around,” he murmured, staring at his hands.

“I like sticking around for you,” I said softly. His gaze met yours, raw and vulnerable. Slowly, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing mine. “Careful,” he whispered, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I might get used to you.”

“Good,” you said, intertwining your fingers. In that moment, the world felt smaller—just Shiggy and you, two souls finding solace in each other.