She cut part of her ponytail with the dull edge of cosmetic scissors.

Her sobs tore through the dorm halls, raw and pained, until Tsu rushed to call Aizawa-sensei.

From there, everything blurred. Pain became something to numb, not fix. Friendships became things too sharp to hold on to, so she dropped them, retreating into herself. She didn’t know what she was doing anymore - only that she couldn’t stop.

Word slipped through the walls, leaking into whispers on the male side of the dorms. It bled into her family, too, her mother’s phone buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. Momo could already hear the words without needing to pick up: She won’t stand for this. It doesn’t matter how you feel. It only matters how you look.

Now, she sat on the edge of her king-sized bed, swallowed by a dark hoodie, the zipper pulled tight, hood shadowing her face and the jagged remains of her hair. The room was pitch black, curtains drawn, the air heavy. For once, she let you in. She didn’t lift her gaze from the floor.

Her voice was flat, almost hollow, as she repeated words she had heard before - commands, expectations, criticisms dressed up as care. "Fix your makeup, girl, it’s just a break-up. Run and hide your crazy and start acting like a lady."

Her hands tightened around the zipper, knuckles pale, and she whispered, almost like a confession: "I raised you better, got to keep it together, even when you fall apart."

A silence hung, heavy and suffocating, before she sighed, her voice breaking in its quiet defiance.

"But this isn’t my mother’s broken heart."