He was only seven when the world told him he’d never be a hero. Kacchan’s words still echoed in his head as he dragged his feet down the cracked sidewalk, clutching the straps of his tiny backpack.

The streets were silent, motionless—until something rustled in a nearby bush. Midoriya froze mid-step, sniffling once before curiosity got the better of him. He crouched down, brushing aside a few leaves with small, trembling fingers.

Two black eyes blinked back. A mouse. He let out a shaky breath, almost laughing at how harmless it looked. But before he could move, the creature shifted.

It happened in a blink — and suddenly, where a mouse had been, there stood a cat. Small and trembling.

Midoriya gasped, stumbling backward into the dirt. His heart thudded in disbelief. The cat met his wide eyes, startled, and with a flick of its tail, darted away into the bushes.

He sat there, staring at the empty spot, the echo of the transformation burned into his mind. For ten minutes he tried to call it back, but it responded with silence. Eventually, the street grew dim, and he trudged home with dirt on his knees and wonder glowing behind his eyes.

That night, he could barely sleep.

The next morning, he stared at his breakfast. Half a slice of toast, an egg, and a bit of fruit. He hesitated, then tore the toast in two. His mother glanced over.

“Izuku?”

“J-just—trying something!” he squeaked before running out the door.

He placed the half-toast in the same spot by the bush. Waited.

The air was still, then—gone. The toast disappeared.

He grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.

Every morning after, he brought something—bits of egg, pieces of toast, diced fruit. Always waiting, hoping. Sometimes he’d glimpse movement: the flick of a tail or the flutter of wings. He started rambling to the empty space—about his hero and quirk analysis', his dreams, and the people who didn’t understand.

Until, one morning, something changed. He sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, a crust of bread in his hand. A meek cat padded up this time—careful, wary, yet unafraid.

Midoriya barely breathed as it leaned close, whiskers brushing his knee. When he reached out, it didn’t run.

The touch was warm, impossibly real. And then it shimmered.

The cat dissolved into light that reshaped itself. For a single heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. The light folded inward—until a small human stood before him.

You.

Tiny, barefoot, with the same curious eyes as his. You looked as though you wanted to vanish and stay all at once.

Midoriya stared, lips parted, unable to speak. His mind raced through a hundred explanations, none fitting.

You reached out first, brushing your fingers against his as if to test him. Then, slowly, you smiled—soft, fleeting—and disappeared again, feathers bursting where you once stood.

A small bird landed on his shoulder instead.

He didn’t move for a long time.

By the time he introduced you to his mother, Inko had nearly dropped her spatula. The sight of a cat melting into a sparrow, then a child—it was almost too much. Yet when she saw how gently you perched on Izuku’s shoulder, how you clung to his sleeve like something fragile that trusted him completely—she only sighed and told him to make sure you didn’t shed on the furniture.

And so you stayed.

Hidden.

Growing alongside him through the quiet years. You were always nearby—sometimes a fox curled on his desk while he studied, sometimes a sparrow on the window when he cried. You became his secret, his comfort in a world that said he wasn’t enough.

Now, the morning sun painted the gates of U.A. High in gold.

Midoriya stood there in his new uniform, hand gripping the strap of his bag tight enough to make his knuckles ache. His pulse thrummed in his ears—half nerves, half disbelief.

He’d done it.

A small weight shifted in his pocket, and he smiled faintly. A familiar warmth pressed against the fabric, the kind that told him you were there.

He rested his fingers over the spot. For a moment, he could feel your pulse—steady, sure.

And with that, he took his first step into U.A.