Archive of Our Own

It was just meant to be a temporary job.

Honestly. Really! You’d planned to work the summer before starting college that fall, working towards getting into medical school. And you’d sent in your admission and been accepted. You’d signed up for all your classes, gotten your textbooks, logged in to the online website and-

Well… It’s winter now. The streets of Japan are dusted with a fine layer of white, powdery snow and people mill about in large bundles of coats. Soft flurries drip down the dark skies and you watch them accumulate in piles through your spot inside. Cold. Everything is so cold. But inside you are tucked from the rest of the world, from its reach and touch. 

Temporarily anyways. 

There’s a reverberating purr followed by the familiar warmth of fur brushing against your leg. You glance downwards, a smile already curling on your lips as you catch sight of a friendly calico. Their eyes are squeezed shut in content and you lean down, unable to resist scritching them behind the ears. Immediately, they melt into your touch.

This one’s name is Patches. It’s wholly unoriginal, but the owner’s daughter had decided to name them. You had no say. After all, you were just a waitress. 

“How ya doin’ Patches?” you ask, voice low and soft. You’re both tucked away behind the podium littered with menus and the floor chart. It’s comfortable here; invisible to the outside world. Here, with Patches butting into your palm, there is no paper confirming you dropped out of college. Here, with Patches, there are no bills or expectations or disappointments.

No frost. No snow. 

Just warmth.

Temporarily anyways.

There’s a familiar ding of a doorbell and you straighten on instinct. You’re already plastering on as much of a customer service smile as you can, speaking without hesitation. The script spews from your mouth. “Welcome to Cute Cat Cafe, the home of Curious Cats and Coffee Cravings.” The rest of the script - mention of the menu, daily specials, and offering of a table - hangs on the tip of your tongue but you pause as you take in the sight before you. Even Patches purring halts for a moment. 

Before you stands what you would assume to be a zombie if it wasn’t for the fact that you haven’t been eaten alive yet. A mess of black hair greets your vision and pale skin peeks through, only accentuated by small tendrils of red. You quickly realize that those tendrils of red are his eyes. Bloodshot. Great, not only was there a zombie in the cafe but one that was high or some shit. Your throat bobs a bit as you grip onto the podium. Patches begins to purr again - a reminder that you’ve served plenty of odd people and that zombie-man is relatively tame compared to the worst.

An involuntary shiver threatens to crest down your back. Boomers. 

Realizing your smile has faltered, you quickly paint it back on your face. Hopefully you don’t look too strained as you gesture to the cafe. “How can I help you today, sir? We have plenty of tables available and even more cats.”

The man blinks almost lazily at you, as though you’re speaking a foreign language. And hell, maybe you are. You feel like you’re stuck in some weird cat purgatory. To be honest, it’s nothing new. You’ve felt this way for a while now. Zombie man is just reminding you outside of home. “One table please,” he finally says after a moment, voice low and gruff. The sound of him makes you blink owlishly before nodding, stepping over Patches to escort the man towards the dining area.

His presence feels both ominous and void at the same time. The prickling of the hair on the back of your neck reminds you he’s only a few steps behind, but he makes very little noise. It’s a little bit unnerving as you list the daily special and the Cool Cat of the day. “Don’t feed Gregarious George. He’s on a diet and likes to beg as though he hasn’t been fed in weeks. He’s fed every morning and every night. He’s a liar,” you hum as you place a menu on an open table. At that, Gregarious George leaps up onto the table and shoots you a soft mrow. You lock eyes with him. “You’re a manipulator, George. It’s not healthy.”

George, a fluffy black cat, just mrows once more before moving his sight to to Zombie man. The two look rather amusing as they face each other down: both messes drowning in black. Although for Zombie man it’s not due to too many cat treats. He just chooses to wear a baggy jumpsuit, you guess. “Thank you,” he says, firmly but not unkindly as he takes a seat. It’s then you realize a slight limp in his right leg. You can’t help but frown and squint a bit at that. Did one of the cats scratch him and you didn’t notice?

“No problem. When you’re ready to place your order, just ring the bell. It also makes more cats come,” you say, letting the script flow as your eyes raise to his belt. It’s a utility belt packed full with random gadgets. Eyedrops, first aid, a...grenade? What the fuck? Your frown deepens and that familiar prickle of your hair standing up returns. You glance up and meet that tired, bloodshot gaze. Your customer service smile turns a bit strained as you interlock your fingers, fidgeting nervously. “I-is there any drink I can get you started with?”

For a moment, you think he’ll put a curse on you and you’ll drop dead or turn into a cat. But instead, Zombie man just grunts and mumbles, “Chai tea, please” before opening the menu. He’s honestly a weird sight in the middle of the colorful, cozy cafe. A hunched over, mildly armed, emo Zombie man surrounded by over a dozen of cats.

Then again, it’s not the weirdest shit you’ve seen.

An involuntary shiver runs down your back. Gen Z-ers. 

“Of course,” you chirp, quickly writing down his order before spinning on your heel. There’s brief pricks of his gaze on your back as you disappear into the kitchen to prepare his order. It’s cold, by the stainless steel appliances. The chill of winter threatens to creep up your bones as you grab the ingredients and begin to put them together. The smells are hefty and loft as they permeate your sentences.

Sweet. Rich. Savory.

You briefly wonder what it would taste like; to feel the heat and temperature to strengthen your bones. When was the last time you had chai tea? You’re unsure. Your memories are lost to dead grass hidden under layers of snow. There’s nothing beyond the fraying hem of your shirt and the weight of your bed’s sheets. 

You finish brewing the chai tea and put it on a small, cute plate decorated with tiny cookies resembling cats. You blew the steam that wafts up from the liquid as you masterfully navigate back out onto the floor. Various cats attempt to get in your way but it’s second nature to step over them all. 

Zombie man has accumulated a small crowd of cats at his table, with George and three other kitties vying for his attention. The man absentmindedly scratches their heads. You think he looks softer surrounded by the cats and less like a man on the verge of death. You quickly plaster a smile back on your face as you slide the chai tea onto an open spot. The man lazily blinks your way and you clasp your hands behind your back. “One chai tea!” you say and the man grunts, not moving to grab the cup. You don’t really blame him. He’s busy petting like four cats. “If you need anything, there’s a small bell to your side. Hit it and I’ll come running, along with the other cats.” George purrs loudly at that and your smile becomes genuine.

Temporarily, anyways.

Silence falls, the man lost in the fur of the cats and so you turn to leave. You think you feel the hair on the back of your neck prickling but you don’t chance a glance back. It’s not your place. You don’t want to know.

You don’t want him to see you.

Job done, you return to your podium and Patches continues to purr and rub against your leg. You crouch back down and thread your fingers through their fur. And there, tucked behind the wood and in the spots of colored fur, you enjoy the warmth.

Temporarily, always. 

The man leaves after three hours. The cats follow him to the door and stretch along the windows, watching him leave. His bill is only just for the chai tea. It’s cold and empty by the time you bring it to the back and wash up.

You close two hours later and clean the entire building on your own. It’s nothing hard; the only other people to come in was some teenage couple and an elderly lady. You just clean, put away any food, pick up after the cats, and count the tills. 

It’s easy. 

It’s mundane.

It leaves you feeling empty as you bid the cats farewell and lock the door. They stretch along the window and watch you leave, burrowing in an oversized and patchy coat that reaches your knees. You can feel your bones rattle and shake as you get on the metro and take it to your station. You fear any harsh movement will wisp you away.

It almost sounds nice - to be whisked away like nothing more than a single leaf. Maybe you’ll end up as compost and used to burn a plant’s electricity. Maybe you’ll help power a car or reduce pollution. Yes, you think. That does sound nice. To do something good for this world, to make an impact for the better no matter how small.

To be more than a figure behind a podium, a failed college student, bones threatening to shatter and weeds beginning to overgrow.

Your boots get wet in the snow. Your zipper breaks as you pull it up. And your fingers stick out of the sleeves no matter how far you pull them down. But you make it home - nose red and cold - and slide the key into your apartment.

The night’s blue light barely illuminates the small area, but that’s okay. You throw your purse onto the floor and shrug out of your jacket, dropping it next to your purse. Muscle memory guides you to where you know your bed is and you flop down. The sheets bundle underneath your weight and the springs creak.

It is cold.

So cold.

You wonder if you freeze to death tonight. But the thought does not last. You simply shuck off your shoes and crawl under the sheets. There is nothing as you lay there for hours on end, watching the blue light shift and grow. 

There is nothing as you lay there for hours on end, feeling your stomach groan.

Zombie man comes twice a week in the hours when it is coldest and the sun has long since set. He sits in the same spot, orders the same drink, and pets the same cats. He is a man of routine and you are no one to judge. After all, you take the same route, eat the same things, and work every day at the same exact time. 

You are creatures of habit, which is why it’s surprising when you return from the kitchen one evening to see none other than Patches sitting on the man’s lap. You can’t help but arch a brow the cat’s way as you take in his content, purring figure. The man rakes his fingers smoothly over the multi-colored fur and even takes notice of Patches favorite spot. You must pause and stare for too long because there’s the soft noise of a throat being cleared. You snap out of your haze and see the man staring lazily at you through the mess of his bangs. A blush starts on your face as you set down his tea. 

“Sorry,” you lamely excuse, linking your fingers together. The man doesn’t budge. His expression doesn’t shift. “It’s just… Patches isn’t very friendly.”

The man hums a low, ghost of a noise before glancing down to Patches. The cat has no shame; spread out entirely across the man’s lap and arms. You feel a twinge of betrayal. “Is he yours?” asks Zombie man and you shake your head, glancing up. He’s watching you with a speculative look and you run your hand over your face. Shit, you’re frowning.

You should honestly smile and you try to. But zombie man’s eyebrows knit together and your smile falls. So you shake your head instead. “No,” you explain. You roll on the balls of your feet. The man’s gaze is intense. It feels like he’s stripping you bare to abandon your nude and shaking form in the snow banks outside. 

The man doesn’t seem convinced. “He hangs around you,” he observes. His fingers continue to move. He appears relaxed. Maybe he’s even a cat himself; dissecting prey before jumping. Goosebumps prick on your skin and you’re cold. You’re always so damn cold. 

“Ah, that’s just because I’ve been here for a while,” you explain, embarrassment burning your veins. “It takes Patches some time to warm up to people.” You frown a bit as you try to think of how many weeks Zombie man has been coming here now. Two? No. Three? Maybe. There’s a certain fogginess to your thoughts that makes it difficult to think. How much time has passed? The man hums in understanding and you add, “He likes you.”

Zombie man tilts his head in thought. His face is unreadable as he watches Patches purr in bliss. It’s true; Patches does like the man and Patches doesn’t like a lot of people. It’d taken you two months to befriend the cat. The man must be warm or something. And you’re cold.

So cold.

“I guess he does,” he agrees and the conversation trails off there. You stand awkwardly for a few moments as the man continues to pet Patches, scritching behind his ears and down his back. He stays away from the cat’s belly. It’s an unspoken rule to leave kitty belly alone lest you want scratches.

You have plenty of scars from straying too close and, well... other things.

Other unspoken things.

“Well, if you need anything…” You plaster that smile back on as you gesture to the small bell at the end of the table. The man doesn’t even glance its way, gaze still on you. The hair on the back of your neck stands straight and you swallow roughly. The smile turns even more forced. 

You turn and retreat to the podium. The small hairs only go back down after another few minutes. You release a breath you don’t remember taking. Relief cools your veins as the pressure to appear perfect drops. There is no cat to bend over and pet as you kneel down. There is nothing. There is no one.

Forever, always.

There are roughly six regulars who frequent the cafe. The first one is an elderly woman who lives across the street and stops in for an hour each day to greet the cats, get her coffee and then walk the city to maintain her health. The next two are middle aged moms who visit and discuss their kids after dropping them off to kindergarten. They frequently bring various books and discuss its contents over soup, salad and tea. 

The other three are an array of college students; one teenager who oftentimes naps with the cats in the beanbag corner, one twenty year old who cries in the fur of a tabby named Francis, and a twenty-three year old who runs around with the cats before eating up a storm. You’re honestly a bit jealous of their metabolism as they maintain their figure. They must be in vet school or even going into physical education.

All their names are as follows: Fuji, Kazumi, Miyoko, Iwao, Masa and Rika. 

And, well, that last is already addressed. Zombie man. You don’t know his name, which is already a bit awkward but it especially becomes an issue when the owner comes to you one day and says, “We got a new review.” 

You hum.

He continues. “From an Aizawa-san.”

You hum, again. 

“A regular.”

You hum, thrice.

“He said you deserve a raise and a coat.” You freeze and look up from your podium, where you’ve gotten lost in tracing the wood pattern with your eyes. The owner, Nakamura-san, is watching you with relatively amused eyes. His lips are thin but not in displeasure. “He said you seem cold a lot.” Your fingers shake at your sides. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Are you?” 

“No, shachou. I’m not.” Lie. “Don’t worry for me.”

“If you need it warmer, just let me know. Don’t be shy.” Nakamura offers a kind smile and then taps the podum. His hands are wrinkled with his age and calloused from his years working as a chef. Plenty of knives gone too far or surfaces too hot. “And if you get hungry, feel free to take some salad or soup. I don’t want to lose you to the wind.” He winks and you flush, nodding.

“Thank you very much, shachou. I appreciate it.” I can’t.

“You’re a good worker. The cats consider you a part of the family, and so does Mari. You’re great help. Let us know if you need anything.” He gives another few pats, as close to a hug or a pat on the back as he knows you can receive, before turning. There’s childish singing from the back and you don’t have to turn to know Mari is in the back making a mess.

There should be resentment. There should be anger at having to clean up. But there isn’t.

There is only exhaustion, frigid cold stinging your bones, and curiosity.

Aizawa. 

Zombie man...is Aizawa-san.

The owner of the cafe is a 43 year old man named Eiichi Nakamura. A renowned chef known all across Japan, he wanted to put the money he earned from his own restaurants and competitions to a good cause while pursuing his dream of opening his own restaurant. But after his wife died from unknown causes, he was left with a two year old daughter. Nakamura would go on to write that in that dark time, his cats were the only ones who could help Mari stop crying. 

Inspired by his cats and love for animals, he opened up the cafe only two years prior to your employment and adopted roughly ten cats from local shelters’ euthanasia lists. The number of cats has only increased as he took in strays, surrenders and even fosters. On top of having an abundance of cute cats to play or cuddle with, the menu is full of bistro-like food that Nakamura curated himself.

It’s a quiet, quaint place and you’re genuinely grateful to work there. It pays decently, with Nakamura understanding rent and skyrocketing prices, and isn’t strenuous. The most difficult part is the cleaning and you’ve become scarily good at it. Sometimes, you have to watch Mari but you’d be lying if you say you don’t enjoy your time with her. She’s a ray of sunshine among your dark, winter days and her laughter helps thaw the ice of your bones. 

Still, there are days where it’s too hard to smile for her. It’s too hard to keep up with her endless bouts of energy, and caring for her leaves you drained and exhausted for the rest of your shift. It’s not uncommon for you to open and close, with Nakamura really only trusting you with his store when he’s out doing other tasks. It’s not uncommon for him to be doing photoshoots, helping get cats adopted, or working at his other restaurant.... His five star restaurant.

It still kind of blows your mind that you work for the Japanese Gordon Ramsay. Or is Gordon Ramsay just a white version of Eiichi Nakamura? 

You’re practically slumped over asleep on the podium when Patches blasts past your feet and there’s a grunt. You straighten up, already pushing back any hair flopping in your face as you meet tired, bloodshot eyes. The hair on your neck stands up and you almost shudder, but instead you tug your cardigan tighter.

Zombie man.

No, no, you tell yourself. Aizawa-san. 

“Ah!” you exclaim, taking aback by the sight of him. You feel a bit silly, honestly. He’s been coming here for a month now and the sight of him still takes you by surprise. “Hello! Same table?”

He nods, and you move to escort him to his table. It’s a small booth in the corner where the cats love to sunbathe. You don’t hand him a menu. You already know what he wants.

“I’ll get a matcha tea ready for you,” you say as he sits down, two cats already slinking over. “If you need anything, I’ll be around.” You turn, ready to leave.

“You’re cold.”

You pause in your steps, task suddenly forgotten. He’s spoken, and to you. It makes your head flash in warning lights. He’s noticed. Fuck. You figured he was always wrapped up with the cats he wouldn’t take note of your...ministrations. You clasp your hands together. 

“I’m just sensitive to the cold,” you say, and it’s not a lie. It isn’t the whole truth, either. 

He watches you, appearing almost entirely apathetic. His words suggest otherwise, however. “You’re always shivering. You should wear a coat.”

You shrug, crossing your arms. You hope it preserves some heat. You are cold, but it’s nothing unusual. “I don’t need it. Just need to move around.” You smile and hope it’s convincing. Based on his arched brows, you doubt it. 

“Two matcha teas,” he says, and you linger. Why? Why two? He doesn’t give away what he’s doing, though, or his plans. So you just nod and move to the back, grabbing the matcha and whisking it into tea. It’s a reassuring smell; offering comfort in the uncertainty of now. You have no idea what Aizawa wants, or what he’s doing. There’s some game he’s playing and you feel as though you’re being dragged into it. 

When you come out of the back, he’s shrugged off his large coat and is dressed in a black shirt, exposing his arms and the litany of scars that decorate it. He watches you as you approach, setting both teas down in front of him. But then he waves his hand, and you pause. “Sit down,” he says, and your breath escapes you out of surprise.

“Sir?” you ask, and he grunts.

“Sit down.”

“Why?” you ask again, and he sighs, picking up his tea. He blows on it before shrugging.

“Because I want you to.”

You hover, unsure of what to do. The cafe doesn’t have any other visitors, and there’s typically only a few in the evenings like Aizawa. Your podium calls for you, its comfort known and familiar. But Aizawa, a customer, wants you to sit with him for whatever reason.You could refuse. Nakamura wouldn’t mind you looking out for your safety. But Aizawa doesn’t make you feel unsafe. 

So you sit, pulling your cardigan against you tighter as you smile awkwardly up at Aizawa. He sips his tea, quiet as he takes in the sight of you. You pick up your own tea and blow on it. You can’t remember the last time you had matcha. It makes your heart stutter. 

There’s silence between you two as you drink your tea. It’s warm and the taste is rich. You close your eyes at the bliss of the tea. 

“You’ve worked here for a while,” Aizawa finally says, and it’s not a question. You blink owlishly at him, a bit shocked that he’s spoken. But you nod and set down your cup.

“Yes,” you say. “I’ve worked here since the summer.”

He nods slowly, as if weighing your words. He looks down at his tea. You get the idea he isn’t one much for eye contact. “That’s quite some time. You must enjoy it here.”

You laugh a bit, soft and round at the edges. He cocks his head and uses a hand to scritch a tabby cat behind the ear. “I do,” you say. “The owner is good, and the pay is alright. What more can I ask for?”

“Plenty,” Aizawa says, matter-of-factly. You roll your eyes.

“You know what I mean,” you sigh and he nods, slowly again. He seems lethargic; exhausted and cold. You cock your head. “What do you do? For work?”

“I teach.” The tabby cat curls up on his leg and he moves to petting its body. “And hero work.”

You raise your eyebrows, surprised. You inspect him closer. There are bags under his eyes that aren’t born from just teaching. He must come here before patrol or whatever it is heroes do. “That’s an interesting choice,” you say and he snorts.

“You have no idea,” he drawls and you smile - really, genuinely smile. Aizawa’s eyes narrow and you look down to your tea. “Are you in school?”

“No,” you say, watching the steam roll off your tea. It’s comforting. “I used to be, but…” You trail off and he hums, understanding. “I just work here for the meantime.”

“You like it.” It’s a statement. You nod. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I do. Nakamura-san is kind, and his daughter comes by on some days. Then there’s the cats.” On cue, one jumps up beside you. You reach over and rub its head, noting how it purrs into your touch. “They’re nice too, besides the litter boxes.”

Aizawa snickers. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Seems like it.”

You take a sip of your tea. You still feel a little bit uneasy, but it’s not as bad now. Aizawa’s proven to be kind and normal, not some weirdo. It’s reassuring. “Where do you teach?” you ask and he hums as the tabby cat curls up in his lap. He pets it absentmindedly. 

“U.A,” he says and you smile.

“I’m sure that keeps you busy,” you joke and he nods. What an interesting combination; being a teacher and a hero. It must be hard to prepare the kids for the world hero work brings. But the kids are no doubt naive. It’s obvious Aizawa isn’t. “What year?”

“First,” he answers and you wince.

“They must be wild,” you comment and Aizawa nods, paying attention to the cat in his lap. You smile. What a sight; a tired, overworked man sitting in a cat cafe with a cat sleeping in his lap. He’s gruff and sharp around all the edges, but you find yourself wanting to run a finger along him anyways. Regardless if you get cut. “I remember those days…” You lean back and smile fondly, eying your tea. You trace its swirls. “Back when I was young and in school. So full of hope.” You shake your head. “Times change.”

Aizawa is silent, and you clear your throat. You stand, grabbing your cup of tea and offering a terse nod. “I have my duties to get back to,” you say. “Thank you for chatting with me. And for the tea.”

You turn, walking into the back. When the swing doors shut behind you, you set the tea down shakily. Your entire body is trembling. The warmth from the tea has now dissipated into chills. You brace yourself against a table and try to take deep breaths. But they come out forced, awkward. You feel stifled. You feel sick.

You turn and throw up into a nearby sink. All that wonderful matcha leaves your body. And you’re left collapsing to your knees, shaking and wiping away any vomit. You hope Aizawa hasn’t heard you. But by the top you get to your feet and return to your podium, he’s gone. And in his wake sits five yen. 

You take the money, fingers blue at the tips. And you tuck it away before getting back to work. 

You’re jogging when you run into him. It’s approximately one in the morning, and your vision is a bit blurry, and then you turn the corner and - BAM. You hit something solid, and go tumbling. You yelp and fall to the ground, skinning your knees on the cement. You feel pebbles dig into your palm and tear into the skin. The world spins and for a moment you think you’ve died, but then you’re turning around and seeing him.

Aizawa.

And honestly, he’s just fine. He fell too, but his hero reflexes must have prevented any possible damage. He’s frowning, mouth open to snap out some retort when he sees you. Bloody, messy, dizzy you. He stops at that and stands straight, approaching.

“It’s you,” he says and you offer a small, pained smile. You wave and his eyes flit to the blood on your palm. He sighs. “You need to be more careful,” he chastises and you wonder if this is how his students feel. You shrug, and look at him as he offers a hand. You just stare at him for a moment, still coming down to this world before you huff. And take his hand.

He pulls you to your feet and you brush off some of the dirt that’s gotten on your clothes. “Why are you running at one in the morning?” he asks and you huff. 

“I like to run at night,” you say, and it isn’t exactly a lie. But you’re not forthcoming with the information. He doesn’t need to know. No one needs to know. “Why are you out at one in the morning?” 

“I’m patrolling,” he says matter-of-factly. He arches a brow and inspects the blood dripping down your leg. “You’re hurt.” 

You shrug. “It’s nothing,” you say, and that’s true. You’ve endured worse. Much worse. Besides, the stinging pain is a nice distraction from your head. Still, you don’t want to worry Aizawa. Or embarrass yourself even more than you already have. “I live nearby. I’ll patch it up.”

Aizawa inspects you, eyes narrow and you fidget, uncomfortable. You wonder what he notices. What his hero senses reveal to him. Does he see through your mask? Does he see what a mess you are? You hope not. You pray not.

You don’t need his help. You don’t need anyone’s help. You’ve got it under control. You are control.

“Is something wrong?” he asks and you shake your head, plastering that plastic smile back on your face. Your time working at the cat cafe has taught you how to reassure people, to ensure they think you’re cheery and upbeat. It’s exhausting. 

“I’m kinda bleeding,” you say dryly and he sighs, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine, though. Everything is good.”

“You’re shaking,” he points out and shit. He’s right. You’re trembling. You ignore the flip and groan of your stomach. You offer another, brighter smile.

“I don’t like blood,” you lie, and yes, it is false. You like to hurt. You like to know you’re hurting. “It squicks me out.”

“Good thing you’re not a hero,” he says and you laugh. You? A hero? As if that was ever an option. Maybe once it was a dream, but all dreams die. It’s the rite of passage into adulthood. Give up, get a 8-5 job, and settle for whatever you get. You’ve learned this the hard way. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “It’s good.”

“What is your quirk anyways?” 

You chew your tongue. The world teeters at the edges. Do you tell him? Will he mock you? Will he judge you? After all, he’s a hero. He’s a hero and a teacher. He’s accomplished. He’s come far in life. And you? A minimum wage, drop-out student who works at a cat cafe?

You’re no hero.

What kind of hero can’t eat?

“I can numb certain parts of my body,” you say, finally. Aizawa cocks his head. You shrug and dust off your bloody knees. You don’t bother numbing the throbbing pain from falling. If anything, it keeps you grounded. It reminds you of who you are.

Control. You are control.

“That’s useful,” he says. “So falling doesn’t really bother you, does it?”

You shrug. “Yeah, I guess not.” You smile carefully. “Can’t hurt me.”

Liar, hisses that nasty voice in your head. Liar!

“Well, you should get back home,” Aizawa says. “It’s dangerous to be out this late.”

“I don’t mind it. Besides, won’t a handsome hero save me?” you joke.

Aizawa rolls his eyes. “We’re not around all the time,” he says. “So be careful.”

“Alright,” you relent. “I’ll head home now.”

He hums, nodding. You give a small wave before walking past him. He smells of patchouli and bergamot, a scent you can get lost in. But you don’t let yourself. You still have a mile to run.

So when you turn the corner, you take off. Just one more mile. One more mile and you can rest. 

Control.

You are control.

You were majoring in nursing, back when you were in school. You were determined and motivated to get into the program, to make a difference and help people. While you could numb pain, others couldn’t. Your duty would be to help these people. To ease their pain, their fear. 

You got good grades your first semester. You studied hard, spending your free time going over notes and completing assignments. You showed up to every lecture and paid attention. You even joined a study group and met her . Oh god, her.

So bright. So saturated and vibrant. The room rotated around her, her existence the very axis your Earth rotated around. She was the warmth of summer. She was the bitter bite of winter. She was the crunch of leaves, the hollow insides of a pumpkin, the muddy floods of spring.

She was every season. She was every moment.

She wrapped around you like a second skin. 

And then…

Well, then…

You don’t like to think about then. 

It happened. That’s all. It happened, and then you missed classes, and then you didn’t do schoolwork, and then you dropped out and…

Now it’s February. 

There’s snow on stone, her name engraved. 

And yeah...

It happened.

You’re cleaning the litter boxes when he comes in. As always, he’s dressed in a dark black jumpsuit. You fear he may sink into the shadows that dance before your eyes. You offer a small smile as he approaches where he regularly sits. The cats immediately gravitate towards him, curling around his legs and jumping into his lap.

“The usual?” you ask and he nods. You pop into the back kitchen, preparing the matcha Aizawa seems obsessed with. When you bring it to him, he gives you a stern look.

“The usual,” he says. “Means two matchas.”

“I don’t need one,” you say and he just stares at you. You wish you could numb emotions. You wish you could rid yourself of the fear you feel; at the numbers racing through your head, at the blue tip of your fingers and abundance of hair in your shower. You wish for many things.

But dreams are dead. So you plaster a fake smile on your face, turn back into the kitchen, and make another matcha. 

When you come back out, you take a seat across from Aizawa who is already drinking his tea. You clutch the mug tightly, trying to ignore how your heart races. This is fine. This is okay. “What was your major?” he asks.

“Nursing,” you say, and he hums around the matcha. You shakily take a sip too. Its rich flavor should comfort you. It doesn’t. “I was planning to be a RN.”

“That’s an admirable goal,” he says. “We need more nurses.”

“Who knows?” you say. “Maybe I could patch you up.” No. No you couldn’t. You made it through one semester. The most you could do is sterilize a wound and bandage it with gauze and wrap. 

He snorts. “I can handle myself.” He cocks his head. “What about you? Are you safe?”

You snicker. “Me?” you ask. “Does it not seem like I’m safe?”

“You were running at 1 in the morning,” he says, as if that’s enough reason for his concern. You shrug and sip your matcha. 

“I like to run at night,” you say.

“It’s dangerous.”

“So are a lot of things.”

“I’m sure you know.”

You set your tea down, and fix him with a hard stare. He reciprocates. “What are you saying?”

“Something is wrong,” he says. “I’m not sure what but…” He shakes his head. “My instincts tell me something is wrong.”

“A lot of things are wrong,” you say. “Global warming, corporate greed, the justice system, the unlivable wages jobs pay, and so on. You’re paranoid.”

He falls silent at that. You watch the steam rise from your matcha. Your heart is in your throat. Your stomach flips and flips and- “Do you want to go back to college?” he asks and you blink owlishly. You...didn’t expect that. 

You shrug. “I’m...not sure,” you admit. “I thought I would be back by now but…” You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I have a job. Apartment. I’m doing good.”

“So you don’t want to be a nurse?”

“I never said that.”

“But you need to go to school to become one.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So you want to go back?”

You can’t. That’s the thing. You can’t go back. You can’t wander those beige hallways decorated with campus flyers and students’ artwork. You can’t enter the old library without seeing her pink laptop on the table in the corner, which still smells like the coffee you drank every day. You can’t climb the stairs you collapsed in when you got the call.

“One day,” you declare, but it feels like a ghost; slithering out between your lips, possessed by some blind promise you gave up eons ago. “One day I’ll go back.”

Aizawa doesn’t seem convinced, but silence falls between you two. It’s amicable, it’s appreciated. You’re exhausted after so much talking. So you two drink your tea, watch the cats, and recover from the conversation.

If you only drink half of your tea, Aizawa doesn’t say anything. You just watch it dribble down the drain. Gone, lost, discarded…

What a familiar sight.

The study group consisted of four people: Kichi, Maru, Ken and her. Kichi was a small girl with her hair always in a bun, chewing on her pen compulsively and avidly re-reading textbooks. Maru was tall and buff from boxing in her spare time, and when there was free time, she taught you basic self defense. Ken was a quiet guy who had to constantly deal with the stigma of men becoming nurses, but he was easily one of the smartest students in the program. 

And then there was her. With waist-length brown hair, kind and understanding hazel eyes, and a brilliant smile that threatened to swallow you whole, she was vibrant. She was top of her class, and even graduated as a valedictorian. She was in the honors program, volunteered at the local animal shelter, and worked at her parents’ small business in her spare time. She worked hard. She was so smart, and talented, and...and…

Gone. She’s gone.

She smiled, but you realize now how fake it was. How carefully put together her image was. She was careful, she was intelligent and goddammit, she was sneaky. No one knew. No one expected. Until it was too late.

Now you visit her grave once a month, lay fresh flowers against her headstone, and pray. Pray she’s somewhere better than this cruel, cruel world.

She was the best.

And now? Now she’s dead.

All dreams die.

He brings in a cat.

You’re minding your own business, organizing the menus when the door chimes. You look up, already plastering your customer service smile on your face when you stop. He stands in the doorway, holding a bundle of towels. You frown. “Aizawa?” you ask.

He takes a step forward. His hair is a mess. And his hero uniform is drenched from the downpour of rain. “My apartments don’t allow pets,” he says in way of greeting. You cock your head. “So… I thought maybe…”

He lowers the bundle a bit and then you see it.

A pure black cat with glowing yellow eyes. Your jaw drops. It’s a beautiful cat, despite some skin missing from his right ear. He meows pitifully and you leap into action. You approach Aizawa and outstretch your arms. He deposits the cat into your grasp and you cradle it against your chest. It purrs helplessly and you spin on your heel, walking to the back. Aizawa follows, and you don’t object when he follows you into the employee only area.

Back here are a few crates, a few beds, some toys, cat food, and, yes! The heated bed. Nakamura bought it after one of the cats had kittens. Sometimes, when other cats get sick they prefer the heated bed too. But right now, with this shivering cat who's been in the rain for who knows how long, you know its importance. 

You turn the heating switch on and deposit the cat into the bed gently. It meows and meows, miserable and cold. But you rub behind its ears and whisper affirmations, reassuring this cat it will be fine. Aizawa stands behind you, watching and observing. He’s silent as you undo the wet towel and move to grab a fresh, warm one. You rewrap the cat and place some blankets on top of it. 

After you’re certain the cat is in a good place, you stand and huff. You turn to face Aizawa. “We don’t accept surrenders,” you point out.

“It’s not a surrender,” he says. “It’s a rescue.”

“We’re not a shelter either.”

“The shelters would’ve put it down.”

You sigh, and rub the back of your head. “I’ll talk to Nakamura tomorrow morning. I’m not sure if he’s gonna accept the cat. So I can’t promise its spot.”

Aizawa nods. “I know.”

You cock your head. “Where did you even find it?”

“It was in a box in a nearby alley. Someone just gave it up.” You see the anger in his eyes, and you feel similarly. You hate people who just give up on pets. There’s been multiple times where someone’s adopted a cat from the cafe and returned it a few days later. Some cats do go to good homes, but many stay here. You’re no rescue. And they have good lives here.

“Bastards,” you huff. 

He hums in agreement, and you dust off the cat hair on your leggings. “Well… want a matcha?”

He situates you with a hard stare. “Only if you have one too.”

“I’ll have a green tea.”

“Fine.”

You two spend the night talking. He only leaves when the cafe closes.

You dump the half-full matcha down the drain. The cat sleeps. Warm, safe…

You envy it.

“Why is there a new cat?”

You look up groggily from the podium to see Nakamura holding the new cat. It purrs contentedly and its tail flicks slowly. It’s clearly comfortable and friendly. You rub at your eyes, trying to wake up. You didn’t sleep well. Well, you never sleep well.

“A customer dropped it off,” you say. “I felt bad so…”

Nakamura hums and scritches the cat on its head. “We’re not a shelter.”

“The nearby shelters would euthanize it,” you say. 

“Yes,” Nakamura agrees. “They would.”

Silence falls, heavy and humid. Your heart thunders in your chest. Please, you think. Don’t make me get rid of it. I can’t face death again. 

“His name is Yami,” he says and you smile brightly. “He’ll need a trip to the vet. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes, Nakamura-san. I will.”

“Good.” He plants a kiss on Yami’s forehead. Yami meows. “Welcome, Yami-san.”

Aizawa will be happy. And who knows?

Maybe you both made a new friend.

You should’ve known better. You’re not dumb by any means. You’ve educated yourself on an array of topics, from algebra to physics to english. You’ve made Honors. You’ve been on the Dean’s list. She may have been smarter than you, but still. You consider yourself somewhat intelligent. 

Which is why you should’ve known this would happen. It was guaranteed to happen at one point or another. Statistics always count. And who were you to think you could avoid becoming one?

You slip.

The ice is black, hidden from the pale moonlight. You’re running, putting one foot in front of the other. Your breath comes out in brilliant, cloudy puffs. Your vision is swimming. The meager dinner of chicken and green beans jostles in your stomach. It makes you feel sick. 

You’re so focused on the five mile goal you’ve set for yourself that you’re not watching the ground. You trace the stars, wishing you could fly away. Maybe there - among the galaxies and planets and black holes - you could transcend form. Maybe there, dreams could live.

You hit the black ice, and then it’s all a blur.

Your breath whooshes out of you, your head smacking on the pavement. Your legs twist underneath you and you feel something crack. You cry out, the pain ricketing up your bones and into your very core. The world flickers black, you gasp, and then you can’t breathe. There’s no air. There’s nothing. Just endless black.

Maybe now you are among the stars.

But then there’s hands on you, slowly lifting you. You try to blink but you can’t. You can’t move.

“C’mon,” says a familiar voice. There’s hands under your head. A swear. “C’mon, get up.”

“Aizawa?” you manage to get out and there’s a sigh.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“You found me.”

“Yes, I did.” He’s silent and then. “You’re hurt. Bad.”

You want to laugh. Of course. Of course you’re hurt. Of course he’s found you. Of course you proved him right. 

“Bad?” you ask.

He’s silent for a minute before he’s talking rapidly. The words blend together as your ears ring. You try to blink away the darkness but it persists. It doesn’t feel like you can breathe. Can you? Can your lungs expand? Are you okay? Are you going to be okay?

Then he’s quiet again. “The ambulance is on its way,” he says.

“I don’t have insurance,” you whisper.

“I’ll cover it.”

“Aizawa-”

“I said I’ll cover it.”

The darkness takes over, and the last thing you hear is his voice. Warm, molten, present.

You can rest.

The first time you realized you loved her, you two were sitting on the roof of her apartment complex. You sat on the edge, dangling your legs precariously off the edge. A beer sat in each of your hands, its taste lingering on your lips. It’s bitter but hey - it’s cheap beer.

There was music softly playing, some indie band she’s obsessed with. You thought they were alright, but you prefer your own indie band. Both are underground, only really found through extensive browsing of Spotify. But you both were obsessed. 

She was humming along to the song, hair flying in the wind. She drank her beer and just lounged. That’s how she was; free, laid-back, just existing. She lived each moment fully. She existed completely.

You envied that about her. You wish you could just be.

“I wonder,” she said. “If the stars smile back.”

You’d laughed. “The stars?” you asked. “They don’t smile.”

“Who says so?” she said. “Maybe all those stars are civilizations. Maybe aliens live everywhere. And I know one, at least one, can smile.”

“You’ve been studying astronomy too much,” you said.

She’d grinned, brilliant and bright and- “If I want to make a difference,” she said. “I need to know my place in this universe. And I know we are infinitely small. But we can do big things. And I will. I will make a big difference.”

“You’ll save those smiles,” you told her. “I know it.”

She smiled, and you felt it then. The stutter, the warmth, the realization of- Oh God.

Ema. Her name was Ema.

You loved Ema. 

“Dehydration,” prattles the nurse. “Potassium deficiency. A heart murmur. And an array of other health conditions.” She looks up from her clipboard. You just watch her, silent. “You’re walking a fine line.”

“So what are you saying?” you bite out. “That I’m sick? With what? Anorexia?” You snort. “I’m not underweight.”

“You don’t have to be underweight to be dying,” says the nurse. “And that’s what you’re doing. You’re dying.”

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Is your hair falling out?” Your breath catches. “Are your nails thin and brittle? Are you always cold? Always lightheaded? Can’t sleep?” Your silence is the answer. “You’re sick, dear.”

“Get out,” you hiss. You point to the thin curtain separating your bed from the rest of the E.R. “Get the fuck out.”

The nurse situates you with a hard stare before shaking her head, sighing as she leaves. You sink back into your bed, breathing heavily. Anger is hot in your blood. Who is she to call you sick? You’re not sick. You’re fine! You’re strong. You’re strong. You’re-

“You didn’t have to swear,” says a familiar voice, and in walks Aizawa. You frown.

“You brought me to this shithole,” you say. “They suck.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, taking a seat beside you. The bags under his eyes are darker now, and you wonder how long he’s been waiting in the lobby. You’re not sure how long you’d been unconscious. The last thing you remember is falling. And then you’d woken up to a cast on your leg and that bitchy nurse.

“They’re just doing their job,” he says. “You should let them.”

You frown. “So you heard our conversation?” He nods slowly, as though he’s careful not to wake the beast. You sigh. “It’s nothing. Just stupid shit.”

“They think you have an eating disorder,” says Aizawa, slowly and carefully. You wonder if this is how he talks to his students. “That’s serious.”

“I don’t have an eating disorder,” you say. “I’m fine.”

“Your bone density is so low that you broke your leg in five different places. That’s not fine.”

Well, fuck. “I’m fine!” you snap. “Just...drop it!”

“You’re dying.”

“We all are!”

“No, you’re going to be dead in a few months at this rate. You need help.”

“No, I don’t! I need to go home and get cleaned up and go to work.”

“I called Nakamura. He doesn’t want you coming in until you’re healthy again.”

“You- What?! That’s my fucking job! That’s how I pay rent! What the hell am I gonna do now?” Panic swallows you, alongside the rage of this bullshit. Sick? You’re sick? As if. You still eat. You’re not underweight. You’re fine. Fine!

So what if your bone density has fallen to critical levels. So what if you have a heart murmur. So what if your hair is falling out and so what if the world spins every time you stand and so what?! So what!

You’re not sick.

“I’m fine,” you whisper. 

“No,” Aizawa says. “You’re not.” Slowly, carefully, he reaches across the bed and takes your hand into his. He links your fingers together. “But you will be.”

Ema felt like this. On those rare nights where you snuck to the roof and had one too many beers, she’d lean into you and hold your hand. She’d smell of Bud Lite and her favorite cheap perfume, but it intoxicated you more than the beers. “The stars,” she’d murmur. “Don’t even compare to you.”

But she can’t see the night sky anymore. Not six feet under.

A tear drips down your cheek. And you know what comes next.

The ward is a soft beige. It’s not cold, but it’s not warm. It just...is. 

You slowly walk forward, holding the pillow and blanket you’d brought with you. Only an hour ago, Aizawa and you had packed a suitcase. Your cats had wound around your legs, meowing curiously at this strange man. But they warmed up to Aizawa right away. He has a way with cats, as it seems.

“What will we do about them?” you’d asked, and Aizawa scritched one under its chin.

“Nakamura already volunteered to take them in,” he said. A pang of guilt twisted uncomfortably in your chest. Aizawa hummed. “He said it’s no problem.”

“It is though,” you said. “It is a problem.”

Aizawa was silent at that, understanding to not push you. He just helped you fold some pajamas and leggings. You’d never been in a psych ward before. This would be your first time. You honestly didn’t know what to expect.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he’d said as he pulled up to the hospital. He situated you with a firm if not caring gaze. “You can do this.”

You wanted to vomit. Your nerves were bundled so tightly in your stomach that you feared they may come up. You took a deep breath. “This is wrong,” you said. 

“No,” said Aizawa. “This is right.”

And now you stroll through the hallways alone, with only your pillow and blanket to keep you company. The staff has to go through your suitcase to make sure you’re not smuggling in any contraband. It feels so invasive, but so is this whole experience.

They want you to give up all the darkest corners, all the forgotten hallways, all the repressed rooms. They want to stroll into the house of you and tear off the wallpaper, peeking at what’s behind. They want you bare. 

And you? Well, you just want to crawl under your blankets and never come out.

Recovery? Gaining weight? Opening up about your past, your trauma, her? 

Fuck this.

“When can I leave?” you ask the woman leading you into the ward. 

She side-eyes you. “Technically, you can sign yourself out after 72 hours.”

72 hours. 72 hours too much. You frown. “And until then?”

“You attend classes, meet with your treatment team, and work towards recovery.”

“Does everyone here have an...eating disorder?” You still can’t accept you have one. It’s not true. It can’t be. You’re not sick. You’re at a healthy weight. So what if you have a bit of a control problem? It doesn’t affect anyone.

Except apparently, with Aizawa, it does.

“No,” says the woman. “This is a general psychiatric ward, so the patients have an array of mental illnesses.” She pauses before adding, “There are a few ED patients, however.”

So you won’t be alone. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad. For now, you take it as is. 

The woman turns and walks into an open, empty room. All there is is a plain bed propped against the wall, clean sheets firmly wrapped around it. Then there’s a desk with no chair, and a closet with no door. You notice there’s nothing you can throw, or rip, or use to self harm. Damn, they know their shit.

“This is your room,” says the woman. “Feel free to settle in. Dinner will be at five.”

You glance at the clock in your room, and see the LED lights blink ‘ 4:25.’ You’ve already been here for an hour. All you have is 71 hours left.

You can make it.

You can do it.

Just hold out. Play their games. And win.

You’re fine.

Right?

No, you are not fine.

You quickly learn that when dinner rolls around. Most patients eat in their rooms, alone. But you? You eat at a supervised table by the nurse’s station with two other girls, and a young man. They poke at their bland food with experienced disdain. You don’t even touch yours. It makes you want to throw up.

“What the fuck is this?” you ask.

“Turkey sandwiches with a vegetable medley and a slice of cake,” says the girl who’s hunched over, poking at the sandwich. Long blonde hair cascades down, framing her gaunt face. Dark bags hang under her eyes, but she can’t be older than seventeen. “You have to eat it all.”

“What if I don’t?” you ask.

The man slowly takes a bite of the sandwich. He chews it reluctantly, hands shaking. “They make you drink an Ensure,” he says in between bites. “And if you don’t drink the Ensures…”

The other girl points to her face.There, a tube is taped onto her cheek. It goes in her nose. “You get tubed,” she says. “Trust me, you do not want to get tubed.” She takes a bite of her vegetables. “This shit sucks.”

“I’m Amanda,” says the blonde. She offers a kind if not shaky smile. “And that’s Namie.”

The man raises a hand. “I’m Daichi,” he says, and you nod.

You introduce yourself, and they all wave. “Welcome to hell,” says Amanda. “Enjoy your stay.”

You don’t finish dinner.

For the next few days, life revolves around a schedule.

You get woken up at seven in the morning for vitals. After that, you and the other ED patients gather around your table and have breakfast. Once you’re done eating, you have a Goal Setting class, followed by group therapy, and ending the morning with a class on CBT. Lunch often consists of sandwiches, and Daichi constantly rips up the bread until the nurses yell at him.

“Fuck bread,” he grumbles.

“Yeah,” you all agree. “Fuck bread.”

The afternoon classes are similar, except sometimes there’s art therapy and oftentimes mindfulness. You try to skip the classes, but the nurses always lock your doors after eating. And considering you eat every three hours, there’s not much time to yourself. So you take to wandering the halls, counting each step and calculating how much you’ve eaten.

It’s too much. The food, the time, the calories. You want out. You want to leave.

But you have 48 hours left. So you bide your time.

And wait. 

Aizawa visits on the second day. He’s dressed in a cream colored sweater, of course wearing sweatpants, and with his hair pulled up in a bun. You’re not used to that natural, casual look. It makes you hesitate for a moment, something tangling up in your chest. You take a deep breath and approach the table he’s sitting at.

“So,” he says as you sit down. “Your first 24 hours. How were they?”

You huff and drum your fingers. “Sucks,” you say. “It’s fucking bullshit. All they do is make us cry about our past and then stuff us full of food.” You feel so bloated. It makes you sick. But if you were to throw up… They’d definitely monitor you more closely. You’re currently just barely getting by now. “It isn’t working.”

“You have to try,” says Aizawa. He situates you with a firm stare. “You can’t just expect to get better. You need to make an effort.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you bite. “I am making an effort. I’m eating the meals. I attend stupid therapy. I do the classes. I’m trying.”

“You’re planning to leave.” It’s not a question. He’s read you. You frown.

“I don’t belong here,” you say. “I’m not that sick. Not like the others. And I’m not going to get better behind locked doors. I need freedom.”

“You’re dying,” he says. “Every day you restrict… Every time you jog… You’re dying. And if you don’t start eating and trying to get better.” He shakes his head. “You will die. The doctor said so.”

“They said that shit to scare me,” you snap. “I’m fine!”

“You know you’re not. You said so.”

“I was emotional.”

“No, you were rational.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“You want to get better.” It’s a statement. “You need to be ready.”

Are you ready? That’s the question at hand. Are you ready to give up control? Are you ready to give up your habits? Are you ready to recover? You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you say, and you hope each time you say it, the more you’ll believe it.

“I’m fine,” says Ema. She’s two drinks in, holding her third, and she hovers on the roof. She watches the people pass below. There are dark bags under her eyes. She spent the entire previous night studying for an exam.

She failed.

“Don’t shut me out,” you beg, gently placing your hand on her forearm. “Please, Ema, don’t shut me out.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m an idiot? A failure? If I don’t get a 90 on the next exam, I’m going to fail the class. And then my parents will withdraw their support and I’ll be behind and-” She cuts off, taking a drink. She shakes her head. “I’m a fucking failure. I can’t do anything right.”

“You’re not an idiot,” you say, taking a seat beside her. The stars dance mildly in the sky. “Ema, you’re so smart. The class is just hard.”

“I should be better,” she says. “If I want to make a difference, I need to be better.”

“You are good,” you say, linking your fingers together. You raise them, and press kisses to her knuckles. “You are so good, Ema.”

“Not enough,” she hums. She finishes her beer. “Never enough.”

But your chest hurts. Your stomach distends. Your throat burns. Your fingers tremble. 

You’re not fine. But you can’t admit that.

Not yet.

OSFED.

That’s your diagnosis.

You sit a beige colored room decorated with random plants. You get the idea that this is supposed to be a warm, safe place. But all you get is coldness, hostility. You feel trapped.

You trace your thigh, noting the new flab the past meals have already added. It makes your head swim and heart race. You wonder if maybe God will spare you the cruelty of sitting in this hospital by your heart giving out. After all, you have a murmur.

“OSFED?” you say. What the fuck is that?

“Other Specified Feeding and Eating Disorder,” says a woman with her hair in a tight bun. She wears a tailored jacket with a pencil skirt. White pumps adorn her feet. She looks official. But you don’t let that intimidate you. “Essentially, you don’t meet the criteria for other eating disorders.”

“So you’re saying I’m not sick enough?” Your blood turns cold. Ice hot rage boils in your chest. You dig your nails into your thigh.

“No,” says a man. He wears a plaid shirt and scuffed jeans. He obviously tries to be casual in an attempt to connect with the patients. In reality, it just makes you want to punch him. “You’re sick. You’re as sick as a patient with anorexia or bulimia. However, the requirements for those diagnoses is very, very strict. It’s damn near impossible to get those diagnoses. Hence, OSFED.”

“It’s a blanket term,” says the woman. “Basically, it’s a catch-all. That way, patients don’t fall between the cracks.”

But the words dance in your head. Not sick enough. Not sick enough. Your brain laughs.

“ What did you expect?” it chortles. “ You’re fat. You’re disgusting. You’re pitiful.”

You stand. The man and woman glance up at you, surprised. You regard them with thinly veiled rage. “I see,” you say. “I’m just another blanket term. I’m not really sick.” You cock your head. “You can see me leave in 36 hours. And I can finally rest knowing that I’m fine.” 

“Please-”

You hiss, “I’m fine.” 

They let you leave, and you pace the hallways. Your door is locked.

A jail. This place is a fucking jail.

“Bad meeting?” asks Amanda. She sits at a large table, markers in hand. She’s coloring a drawing page the nurses printed out. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking a seat across from her. “They diagnosed me with EDNOS.”

Amanda nods, humming. “Same here. Shit sucks huh?” She laughs drily. “Basically being told you’re not sick enough.”

“Tell me about it. Just confirms my theory.”

“Your theory?”

“That I’m fine.”

Amanda slowly looks up at you, as though she doesn’t mean to startle you. Gently, she puts her markers down and leans back in her seat. “You’re fine?” she parrots.

You shrug. “Yeah. Nothing’s wrong with me. I just eat a bit weird.”

“You’re here.”

“Because I let my friend and the doctors get to me. But all they want is my money. All they want is to control me.”

“Doesn’t your eati-brain control you? How much you eat? What you eat?”

You pause. Yes. But you shake your head. “It’s willpower.”

“It’s suicidal.”

“I’m not dying.”

“Every day you’re not recovering, you’re dying.” She points to her chest. “I know. My organs began to fail.”

You blink owlishly. “Fail?”
“I lost so much weight so quickly that my body began to shut down. It doesn’t matter your weight. It doesn’t matter if it’s because of control or willpower. It will kill you. It almost did to me.”

You’re silent, tracing your thigh again. Recovering… From what? EDNOS? Is it even possible? Do you even deserve it? Want it?

“I wonder when I’ll die,” says Ema one night. The two of you are curled up on her couch, watching some sitcom you can’t remember. It’s just white noise. “I want to see the world. I want to meet all the people. I want to-”

“Make a difference?” you say and she grins widely. 

“How’d you know?”

You shrug. “Wild guess.”

“You know me so well.”

“Because I love you.”

Ema smiles. “I love you too. Beyond this life, into the next one. I will forever love you. Your soul. Your body. All of you.”

Death. When would she die? It’s all fucking stupid. The one person who deserved to live is dead. Gone. Forever. Buried six feet deep. Your breath feels electric as you stand. 

“I don’t care if I die,” you snap. “Maybe then I’ll feel some fucking peace.”

You storm off, but Ema’s words ring in your ears.

Beyond this life, into the next one.

Maybe you will die. Maybe one night your heart will stutter and stop. And then…

Well, maybe you’ll be among the stars. Maybe you’ll dance across the galaxies. Maybe you’ll find her light-years away. And maybe you’ll reunite. Come together, as one.

Again. Finally, again.

But for now, you curl up in a corner. And you cry.

Ema.

Aizawa.

After all, how can they love a body like this?

“When do you think it started?”

You look up from your lap, looking up to your therapist. She’s a tall woman wearing a pantsuit, hair long and wavy and eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses. She watches you, infinitely patient. The past two sessions you’ve had with her, you’ve said barely five words. 

Hello, Good Bye, fuck you. 

You frown. When did what start? 

“Your eating disorder,” she says. “When did it start?”

Oh. Your eating disorder. Your OSFED. The term still stings, a reminder that you’re not sick enough. But then again, your treatment team said it’s the most common eating disorder. Even Amanda, spindly, skinny Amanda, has OSFED. 

When did it begin? Was there ever a point in your life where you noticed a change, a shift in how you view food?

“You lost a lover,” she says and you stiffen. “Ema, was her name, right?”

“Don’t,” you murmur. Your fingers tighten on the arms of the chair. “Don’t use her.”

Your therapist cocks her head. “Use her?”

“As a reason. She’s not why I’m…” you swallow roughly. “Sick, or whatever. Whatever I am.”

“What do you think you are?”

“A fool,” you admit. “For a minute, I thought maybe I needed help. But now I see I’m a fool. I’m not sick. I don’t need help. Especially not from people like you.”

“Your body is deteriorating,” your therapist points out. “The labs show many phenomenons.”

“The labs are wrong,” you snap. “All of you, you’re wrong. I’m fine.”

Your therapist scribbles something down on her clipboard. You want to burn the paper. “Are you? Or does Ema’s death still bother you?”

“It was a year ago,” you say. “I’ve moved on.”

“Have you? Or do you continue to punish yourself?”

It is your fault. If you had just checked your phone… If you had just turned the ringer on… If you had insisted on staying… 

“She was on the roof,” you say, picking at the lint on the chair. “Drinking… And I had to go. I had a paper due that night. So I said goodbye, be careful and I left.” Your throat bobs as you swallow roughly. “I fucking left. If I hadn’t left…” You take a deep, shaky breath. “Maybe she’d be alive.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” says your therapist. 

She smiles. “Go,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” you ask. It’s late… 11 o’clock. And you have a paper due at midnight. But it can wait. Anything, everything can wait for her. “You’ve drank a lot…”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she says, and the smile remains. Fake. It’s so fake. But you don’t comment. Like a fool, you stay silent. “So go. Be a good student. One of us has to do good.”

“You’ll pass the class next semester,” you say. “It’ll be better. I promise.”

“Better,” Ema echoes. She tests the word out with her tongue. “Better… Yeah, I’ll be better.”

You kiss her, and turn to go. You don’t notice her take another beer out. You don’t notice the bottle of prescription pills sitting on her dresser. You don’t notice the loss of her smile.

You don’t notice.

“I’m a fool,” you say. Better. She couldn’t get better. How can you? “I deserve to suffer.”

“You deserve to starve?”

Worse. You deserve worse. But for now you shrug. “There’s no redemption,” you say. “Not for me.”

“Everyone can redeem themselves. But first, you have to forgive yourself.”

Forgive yourself? For letting Ema die? You want to laugh. But instead you smile. The same sneaky, fake smile Ema wore. “Forgive myself,” you parrot. 

“And grieve.”

“Grieve.”

“And move on.”

“Move on.”

“You can do it.”

Can you?

Do you want to?

At 70 hours, you pack your bags. Daichi, Amanda, and Namie hover in your doorway. 

“Are you sure you should go?” asks Namie. She itches at the tape on her face. You have no idea how she can stand having a tube. You don’t want to end up like her. You don’t want to end up like anyone from this damn place.

“I’m not sick,” you say, and then you pause. The patients give you long, knowing looks. You sigh and face them completely. “I’m fine. Really. I came to this place to make my…” What is Aizawa? Just a person? Just a hero? Or a friend. You take a deep breath. “To make someone happy.”

“Don’t you deserve to be happy?” asks Amanda. She crosses her arms and leans against the doorway. “Don’t you deserve to live a good life?”

“My life is good,” you bite. “I have a good job, I have my own apartment, two cute cats and…” You trail off. That’s all you have, really. Work, home, and cats. What about friends? What about family? What about school? Your dream?

All dreams die. They lay beside Ema. And you can never dig them up. You will not exhume your past.

“You ended up here,” Daichi says. He wags a finger. “Life wasn’t that good.”

You huff and turn to stuff your suitcase with all your clothes. You’d packed enough for easily a week, but there’s no way you’re staying here. They just want to fatten you up. They just want to dig into your business. They just want to-

What do they want here? To make you better? To dredge up your past and make you relive all the pain? To control patients and force feed them? To make you cry and confess yes, you’re sick and yes, you do want to get better.

Do you want to get better?

You shake your head. You’re fine. Just fine. So what if you don’t eat ‘enough’? So what if your bone density is dangerously low? So what if your life revolves around a cat cafe and sleeping all day?

It’s your life. You quite like it.

Right?

“I’ll be okay. Really.” You flash a smile. Fake. Sneaky. “Hopefully, I won’t see you guys again.”

“You will,” says Amanda, and she turns to go. “Hopefully, alive still.”

She walks away. The other two hover, then leave too. They leave you alone, among the mess of your things. You just stare at where they were moments ago. 

Alone. As always. 

Sigh.

It’s snowing when you step outside. The sweater you wear doesn’t do enough to keep your warm, so you cross your arms and shiver. Your uber was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. You check the app. They’re still far away. Fuck.

“So you really did it,” says a familiar voice, and you turn to see Aizawa. He’s out of his hero uniform again. This time, he wears a dark blue sweater with grey sweatpants. It’s utterly casual. It’s odd to see him so...informal. 

You shrug. “It wasn’t helping,” you say and he shakes his head, sighing. 

“Did you let them help?” You’re silent. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course not.”

“I don’t need ‘help’,” you say, using air quotations. “I’m fine.”

Aizawa situates you with a long, firm stare. His expression is unreadable, and it makes you squirm. You can’t tell if he’s disappointed, sad, or mad. Maybe he’s all three. Something like guilt stirs in your chest but you suppress it. You’re fine. You are. You are!

“Let’s get you home,” he says, and he turns to leave.

You wave your phone. “I have an uber!”

“Not anymore.”

You sigh, cancel the ride, and follow after Aizawa. Lord help you.

You return home, and you return to work the following day. Nakamura and Mari are happy to see you, the latter jumping up and down and hugging you. You grin and pick her up, spinning her around after you set your crutches to the side. You ignore the pain in your arms and leg. A reminder that you’re weak… Weak and brittle and dying.

It doesn’t bother you… the fact that you may be dying. It should. Most people would be terrified. But you? You don’t mind. If it happens, it happens.

Aizawa visits you at the cafe as usual, ordering two matchas and petting the cats. He sometimes pushes you, asking you if you’re eating or taking your meds or getting sleep. You answer the questions to please him, but it’s all lies.

No, you’re not eating. No, you’re not taking your meds. And no, you’re not getting sleep. You keep dreaming of your phone ring, ring, ringing in your ears. But when you click on your phone, alcohol and blood oozes out. In the distance, Ema sings. “ The stars,” she says. “ They don’t compare to you.”

You failed her. You let her down in her time of need. You are why she died. 

So, no, things aren’t going great. But at least you’re not in the hospital. And according to your scale, you’re at the same weight you were before being admitted.

You were a fool… To even go in the first place. You thought you may need help. You thought it’d satisfy Aizawa. But none of that is true. You don’t need help. It didn’t please Aizawa.

You’re stuck. In a limbo, a world of between. Between suffering, remembering, starving, and recovering, and living, and grieving. 

Ema is dead.

You wonder if maybe Aizawa and the doctors are right, and you’ll be dead too.

Oh well.

“What will you do now?” asks Aizawa one day. There’s a blizzard outside. You trace the snowflakes, and taste the wind. “You’re not getting any better.”

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just fine.”

“You’re losing weight.”

“Fine.”

“You have bags under your eyes.”

“Fine.”

“You-”

“I’m fucking fine, okay?” you snap. He doesn’t flinch. You huff and splay your hands on the table. “I’m coping, okay?”

“With what? What’s going on that you won’t tell me?”

“Nothing, okay? It’s-”

“It’s not nothing,” he bites, but as always, he’s patient. Infinitely patient. “Something is going on, and you’re holding back.”

You suck in a breath. Is it that obviou? “It’s just… It’s in the past.”

“It follows you.”

“Doesn’t all our past?”

He’s silent at that. You know you caught him. You lean back in your seat, absently scritching Patches. At least he’s stayed by your side this entire time. But then again, so has Aizawa. For some odd reason, he stays.

“There was a girl,” he says, watching his matcha steam. “A teenage girl. She was one of my students. She suffered too. Not from an eating disorder, but from depression. At first, she was ecstatic. She made friends, participated in activities, and did all her work. She was the top of her class.” He shakes his head, and you can practically see the memories swimming in his eyes. “But then slowly, she withdrew. Over time, she grew quiet, passive. She stopped answering questions. She stopped being with her friends. She failed all her schoolwork.” He takes a deep breath. “We had to...dismiss her from the school.”

You want to say that’s unfair, that's shitty. But you know it wasn’t Aizawa’s decision. You can tell by the way his knuckles turn white around the teacup. “And then?”

“She committed suicide,” he says, and your heart thump-thumps erratically. “She took a bunch of pills, and that was it.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” you murmur. “I had no idea.”

“No one ever does,” he says. He leans back in his seat. “No one ever knows what someone’s been through.” He meets your gaze. “Even me.”

You feel sorrow. You feel guilty for not opening up, but you know it’s for the best. Aizawa will hate you. You hate yourself. And for some odd, selfish reason, you don’t want Aizawa to hate you. You don’t want to lose him like you have with everyone else.

“So when you’re ready to talk,” he raises his tea cup. “I’ll be here.”

He takes a sip. You do too.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

It’s the first step. 

You go through life. You go through the motions. They’re familiar, almost friendly. It feels like home to follow the same routine.

You wake up at seven, go to work at eight, work until four, come home, exercise (as much as your leg cast allows you to) and go to sleep. You eat as little as possible, but still do sometimes snap and eat everything in the fridge. You try not to focus on the term, the diagnosis.

OSFED. 

Fucking bastards.

But then, after two months, they take off your cast. Your leg smells bad, and is super hairy, but honestly you don’t care. Finally, you’re free. 

Finally, you can fucking run.

The moment you get home, you strip off your uniform and slip into your running gear. They’re a bit loose compared to the last time you donned them, but they still fit. Briefly, you feel fear and sorrow. Number… What’s your number?

You step on your scale, and sigh in relief. It’s low. Lower than it was before your inpatient stint. You feel a brief wave of pride, before it being replaced by dread. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. You’re never enough.

You failed college. You failed Ema. You failed Aizawa.

And you fail yourself.

You put on a headband to slick your hair back, shaking your head. No more. No longer will you hold back. Now, you’re serious. You’ll fight tooth and nail to be better, to do better. Do more work at Nakamura’s. Offer to watch Mari more. Make better matcha for Aizawa. Get lower, lower, lower until… until…

Until what?

You don’t know. You just feel the drive, the need to lose more weight, to lose more of yourself. You want to reforge yourself from the fire and be someone new. Someone better.

Someone that doesn’t let their girlfriend die.

You step outside, into the hot May air, and take off.

You will run until your ankles bleed.

They fire you.

Yes, you. The one who comes in early. The one who stays late. The one who watches Mari. The one who’s friends with every cat. The one who’s adored by all the regulars. The one who works as hard as you do.

You’re fired.

“We can’t have you working here anymore,” says Nakamura. Your heart does this skip, a stuttering pitter-patter. Your blood turns cold and you blink owlishly up at Nakamura. He brought you into the kitchen to do this. The smells make you want to throw up, and you just might because of this.

“What?” you whisper. “What? Me?”

He nods, and there’s a sad expression on his face. You clutch the counter, scared you’ll collapse. Your world is spinning. “You’re sick,” he says. “And you’re getting sicker. I can’t have someone working here that is dying. I can’t have you dying.”

Because of your eating disorder? Because of your OSFED? You’re being fired because you’re sick? 

Doesn’t this violate employment laws? 

But you won’t sue. Not Nakamura. He’s a good man. He has a child. He’s successful. You care for him and Mari. You can’t ruin their lives. You won’t ruin their lives. You’ve already done plenty of that for Ema.

“I’m not sick ,” you say, trembling. “I’m fine!”

“You’re not eating,” he says. “You’re excessively exercising.”

“How do you know?” you ask. Something dark and twisted stirs in your chest. There’s no way he would know. He barely knows anything about you. You keep it that way. You keep everyone six feet away. 

Except…

“Who told you?”

Nakamura shakes his head, and you know.

Aizawa.

You stalk through the streets, running shoes digging painfully into your blisters. But the rage you feel so completely and wholly washes out the pain. You feel nothing but anger. You feel nothing but loss.

Because of him. 

You know where U.A is. Everyone knows. It's the most acclaimed school in the region. You don’t even need to use your phone’s GPS. You just know. And you let your body guide you.

You get to the entrance, and there’s a guard at his post. You stalk up to him and hiss, “Aizawa. Now.”

“Miss, he’s working-”

“I don’t give a fuck. Let me in. Now.”

The guard regards you. You wonder how you look; sweaty, out of breath, exhausted, and angry. Not just angry. Livid. How dare he step into your life, and then ruin it. How dare he lie to you and say he’s your friend, only to go behind your back and stab it. How dare he. How dare he!

It’s all you have; your job. Well, not your job anymore.

You’re fired.

The guard reaches up, hears something in his earpiece, then nods. He steps aside and says, “You’re allowed in.”

You huff, and swiftly pass the gates. You storm inside, ignoring the kids looking at you curiously. You stop one boy with fluffy green hair and asked where the teacher lounge is. He points you down the hallway, and you thank him before taking off. You’re like a torpedo; closing in on its target, and ready to sink it.

How dare he.

You slam the door open, and a myriad of people look up. You recognize some of them. After all, quite a few are hotshot heroes. You see Midnight, Present Mic, fucking All Might, and then him. Aizawa. Eraserhead. He looks up from some papers and you growl, stalking towards him.

“You bastard ,” you snap, and he stands. You jab a finger straight into his chest. “How dare you-”

“Hands off,” says Present Mic, and you spin on him. There’s a serious, protective expression on his face. Even Midnight looks ready to jump into action. 

“This man reported me to my boss, and got me fired,” you hiss. “So pardon me if I’m a bit mad.”

Present Mic pulls back, and regards Aizawa. The trash man reaches up and tugs his scarf higher. “Really, Aizawa?” he asks. 

“It was for her own good,” he says. “She’s...sick.”

“I’ve told you a million times that I’m fucking fine!” you snap. “And then you go behind my back and get me fired? I trusted you! I...I-” You break off, and something wet and hot drips down your face. You reach up and wipe away, smearing tears on your sleeve. You shake your head. “I… I opened up to you and let you in my life and now? Now you ruin it.” You take a deep breath. “You ruined my life.”

“This isn’t the place-”

“Oh? Are you embarrassed? Embarrassed in your job?” You laugh bitterly. “It must be nice to even have one. ”

“You need treatment,” he says.

“No! I’m fine! I’m fucking fine!” you yell. “You have no right! No right!”

“I’m a hero. I look out for people.”

“Well, then look out for this.” You flash him your middle finger. “Go fuck yourself, and your stupid, gross matcha.”

You spin on your heel, and leave him in the dust. Tears drip down your cheeks as you stroll through the hallways. Students watch you go. They see you disappear into the day, into yourself.

And you hope you can never come out.

You’re five drinks in, and all you can taste is her.

She tasted sweet, at first. Like the fruity drink she’d mixed and made and subsequently drank. She tasted like future promises and present love and past decisions that lead you here, in her arms, on her roof and kissing her mouth. But over time, the sweetness became bitter; cheap beer, cigarettes, stained textbook pages.

“I’m dying,” she whispered that night. “All the schoolwork, all the actual work, all of it. I think I’m dying.”

“You’ll be okay,” you told her. “You can retake the class next semester.”

She’d taken a long swig of her beer, swishing it around in her mouth. She shook her head. “Is this all life offers? Work, work, work?” She let out a bitter laugh. The music sounded too happy. Too lively. Too...much. “I want to see the world, but what does the world really offer?”

“So much,” you told her. 

Then, after some more talking, you left to finish your paper. You were so ignorant, so selfish, so wrapped up in your own issues. You didn’t think. You just went home, silenced your phone to prevent distractions, and worked on your paper.

She called thirteen times. She left eleven voicemails. First, of her saying the beer isn’t as good without you. Then, saying she misses your warmth. Finally, with her sobbing and saying she’s a failure, she’ll never see the world, she’s stuck, she’s stuck.

Stuck.

And then, she did it.

She took the pills. Swallowed it down with beer. 

And you turned your paper in on time.

You found her the next day, collapsed in the bathtub with a bottle of beer still in hand. Her eyes were closed, and she looked peaceful. You shook her. “Ema,” you begged. Tears streamed down your face. “Ema, please, wake up.” You shook. “Ema!” You shook. “ EMA!”

She was dead.

Dead, from an overdose.

And you? You left her alone. You let her die alone, scared, cold, empty.

You let Ema die. 

And now, as you sit in your own bathtub with a lost job and no friends and distant family, you think you feel what Ema did in that moment. Alone. Empty. Lost. A failure. You tried so hard. You did amazing in school. You did amazing your first semester of college. You did amazing at Nakamura’s. You did amazing at losing weight. You were amazing.

And now?

Now you have no one, nothing. 

You tremble. Tears stream down your face. Your cats paw at the door.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur to yourself. “I’m so sorry Ema.” You lift the bottle of pills, and Ema’s favorite beer. You pop the cap off, taking a swig. You have no idea why she liked this brand. It fucking sucks.

“Well,” you say. “I guess I’ll be able to apologize in person.” You laugh. “I never thought I’d be the statistic. But I’m not surprised.” You drink. “No, I’m not.”

You open the lid on the pills, dump them in your mouth, take a swig of beer and

Swallow. 

“What did you do?”

You laugh. The world swims. Everything is hazy and fuzzy at the edges. “I did it,” you say, slurring. “Finally, after all this time, I did it.”

“Did what?” There’s the rustle of keys on the other end of the line. You think you hear a muffled curse. “What did you do?”

“I took the pills,” you say. “The ones Ema took. She took half the bottle, I took the other half. Isn’t that poetic?” You laugh. “Such romance.”

“You fool,” he hisses. “You’re going to die!”

“I know,” you hum, and you smash the beer bottle against the porcelain of your tub. It shatters everywhere. You laugh. “I know!”

You hang up.

You pass

Out.

He sits beside you, head between his knees and fingers pulling at his hair. He’s in pink sweatpants and a ratty black sweater. No doubt there are bags under his eyes.

“Aizawa,” you croak. You had to drink activated charcoal, and your mouth is so fucking dry. “Aizawa-”

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Just...don’t.”

You fall silent, and listen to the steady beat of your heart. There are cuts along your arms from the shatter of the beer bottle earlier. Everything feels so hazy. It’s like you’re living behind foggy lenses. 

“You could’ve died,” he says.

“I know.”

“Do you know what that would do?” he snaps. “To your friends, to Nakamura, to Mari, to your family…” He takes a deep, rattling breath. To me hovers in the air, unsaid but understood. “Do you?”

“No more burden,” you say, picking at the cotton of the blanket on top of you. A nurse stands by the door. She watches you sadly. “No more annoyance.”

“You’re not a burden,” Aizawa murmurs. “You’re never a burden.”

“I am,” you insist. “I know I am.”

“No,” he whispers. “You’re not.”

You pass out.

You end up in the ward.

You’re not sure how, or when, or what’s happened. Everything blends into colors and feelings and words you cannot recall. Something like saying goodbye to a red-eyed Aizawa. Something like being rolled into an elevator. Something like counting the floors until you’re here.

The ward.

Daichi, Amanda, and Namie all sit around the table by the nurse’s station. They look up to see you.

“Well,” says Amanda. “At least you’re alive.”

“Well,” you say. “Fuck.”

No one laughs. 

“You tried to kill yourself.”

You pick the fabric of your sweatpants. Tiny balls of lint roll off. Rain patters against the window. Outside is a world of grey. Summer rolls in swiftly.

“Yes,” you say. 

Your therapist cocks her head. She regards you over the thick rim of her glasses. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shrug, uninterested. “Not really,” you say. “I had it coming.”

Your therapist shifts in her seat. “You think you deserved it?”

“Because I do,” you hum. You lean back, splaying your legs out. Too large. You want to cut off the fat that persists. “I let Ema die. I deserve the same fate.”

“Your girlfriend,” your therapist says and you nod. “The one who died from suicide. She’s why you tried to kill yourself?”

“It’s not her fault,” you snap, icy hot rage sparking through you as quick as thunder. “She did nothing wrong. Fuck, she did everything right. She was the top of her class. She lead study groups. She did extracurriculars and worked and was…” A deep breath. “She was amazing.” Your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. “It’s not her fault.”

The therapist is silent for a minute. She scribbles something down on her notepad. “Your disordered eating… Did you struggle with it prior to Ema’s death?”

“No,” you admit. “It started in the spring after she...left. I wasn’t doing good in school and just needed something to go right. So I began to control what I ate.” You shake your head. “It felt good. The pain. The hunger. The restriction.”

“And it made you feel better?”

You nod. “When all I could think about was food or failing school or hurting myself, I didn’t think of her.” You rip off the stray string from your sweatpants. “So, I failed. And I starved. And I hurt.”

“So, what do you hope to accomplish in your second visit here?”

You meet her gaze. Her glasses are ugly. But so are you; rotten to the core. “Survive. I’ll survive.”

“Not live?”

You laugh. “Ema is dead. There is no living.”

You poke at dinner. It’s salmon cooked with mashed potatoes and a slice of chocolate cake. Some of the others eat it slowly. Others don’t eat at all. You just poke it. Over, and over, and over again. It doesn’t go away. It doesn’t get smaller.

Like all other cruel things in your life, it persists.

“You gotta eat,” says Amanda. She’s halfway through the slice of cake. “You gotta get your points.”

“It’s pointless,” you sigh. “What good is chocolate cake going to do for me?”

“It’ll make you feel better,” Daichi says. He’s already done with his plate. Compared to your first stay here, his face has become fuller, more lively. There’s actually light in his eyes. You figure he’ll be going home soon. “Chocolate cake solves everything.”

You stab the cake. “Guess it’ll kill me.”

“Stop being so down,” huffs Amanda. “Not everything is about death.”

“Say that when your girlfriend kills herself. I dare you.” It slips out, finally. Completely. It just… You just say it. Like it’s nothing. Guilt swells in your chest. Ema. Oh, Ema. But the others’ expressions morph. Amanda looks ashamed. Daichi looks worried. And Namie looks… confused. 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” says Amanda. “I didn’t know.”

You shrug. “No one does.” You pause. “Well, no one did.”

Daichi shakes his head. “You’ve been carrying all that weight until now?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything,” murmurs Namie. Her plate is untouched too. But at least she’s talking unlike the other two ED patients. “You lost someone...someone you loved. You don’t just...forget.”

“Is that why you’re here?” asks Amanda. “Because...she committed suicide?”

“It’s not her fault.”

“No,” agrees Daichi. “It’s not.”

“I just...had to do something. I had to be punished. Somehow. Someway.”

Everyone is silent. Some of them eat quietly, slowly. They measure their movements instead of food, restrained to this being, this time. You don’t eat. You just stare. And remember the perfume she wore, the way she laughed, the feel of her fingers intertwined with yours.

She’s gone.

You remain.

How fucking-

“You deserve to live,” says Namie. She takes a bite of her salmon. “No matter what, you deserve to live.”

You want to argue. You want to fight back. But instead, you take a bite of chocolate cake.

It doesn’t make you feel better.

The activity at group therapy is meditation. You try not to go, but your treatment team insists and the nurses lock your door. They won’t let you pace the halls, and there are no good books here. So your last resort is to attend therapy.

The others from all the wards have gathered, and sit on yoga mats. You take a seat beside Amanda, Daichi, and Namie. They look up and offer a wave. You smile...barely.

The therapist leading the session is a young woman with a brown bob of hair. She wears a long tunic and yoga pants. You think she looks like every hippie millennial around. She’d make it big on youtube.

“Has anyone ever tried meditation before?” she asks, and a few raise their hands. Even Daichi raises his hand. You give him a curious look. He shrugs.

“She lead another session a week or so ago,” he whispers and you hum. Right… you haven’t been here for that. Amanda shakes her head.

“I skipped it,” she murmurs. “I’m stuck in my head enough already.”

You can’t help but agree with her.

“So, it begins with taking a seat. Sit on your mat, and bend your knees so your feet touch.” She demonstrates how to sit, and the rest of you mimic her movements. “Then, feel your body. Feel your heartbeat, how your blood flows, how it feels to be alive.” Shitty, you think. It feels shitty to be alive. “Then, focus on your breath.” She breathes in deeply. You try too. “In, and out, in and out.”

“That’s what she said,” whispers Amanda. You can’t help but snort. Daichi shoots her a dangerous look. Amanda just shrugs.

“You may think of other things, but try to just focus on your breathing. How it feels. How it expands your chest, then depresses it. In, out, in…”

Ema liked to meditate. She said it helped her connect with the universe, whatever the fuck that meant. She would just sit on her roof, beer bottles scattered about, and be. Just be her. You would watch sometimes, fascinated. But you wouldn’t join. You were too busy.

Now you regret it. You regret not just being with her. The two of you, together, against this world. Hand in hand, beer bottle clacking beer bottle, sitting with your feet hanging off over the edge, and musing what the future has to hold. 

“Today,” she said one night. “When meditating, I wondered what happens when we die. And I think I found the answer.” She had looked you dead in the eye, and smiled so tenderly it still makes your heart throb. “I think we go back to the stars. I think we return to the state of simply existing; atoms bumping into atoms, stars using their fuel for millennia, the universe creating from a single point. I think we go back to the bare minimum. And isn’t that nice?” She’d taken your hand, and pressed a kiss to each knuckle. “Maybe, maybe we’ll find each other again. Maybe we’ll create a star.”

“You’re not dying anytime soon,” you told her, and she’d laughed. 

“No,” she agreed. “But even if I did, I want you to know I’m here. In the atoms, in the stars, in the universe. I’m here. In every form, every shape, every existence.”

“You’re drunk,” you said.

She’d clacked her beer bottle against yours. “To living.”

You kissed her. “To living.”

You open your eyes, and they sting. Something stings. Fuck, it burns. You reach up and wipe at them only to find them wet. Way wetter than usual. And, fuck, your nose is running. Oh my God, you’re crying.

You’re fucking crying.

You sniffle, tears streaming down your face. Ema’s words reverbrate in your head. I’m here. You stand up and try to wipe the tears away, but they’re coming too fast. Something tight and terrifying twists in your chest. You let out a sob. I’m here. The therapist stands. You spin on your heel and make a mad dash to your room. I’m here.

It’s still locked. You turn, press your back to the door, and slide down. You drop your head into your hands and sob.

I’m here. 

You’re existing. Not living. Not anymore without her. Without food. Without letting others in. You’re existing. You’re no longer atoms. You’re no longer a star. You’re a human trapped without her. Without Aizawa. Without Nakamura and Mari and your family and-

“It’s okay,” says a voice, and you look up to see Amanda, Daichi, and Namie. They sit around you. “It’s okay,” they repeat. 

“It’s not,” you sob. “Ema is dead. I pushed Aizawa away. I ruined my body. It’s not okay.”

“No,” Amanda says. “It’s not. But it will be. I promise.”

“How?” you whisper, voice cracking. “How will it get better?”

“By letting yourself get help,” says Daichi. “Eat, go to therapy, take your meds… Heal. Slowly, but surely.”

“I don’t deserve it. I let her die.”

Amanda shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. It’s the world’s. Be angry. Be sad. But know this - it’s not your fault. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for a tragedy. You don’t have to keep starving and hurting and isolating. You can live. You can live. ”

Life. What a terrifying concept. 

But what a beautiful one too.

Of chocolate cake. Of rescuing cats. Of pursuing med school. Of returning to work. Of having tea with Aizawa.

You want it back.

You want it all back.

“I fucked up,” you whisper. “I’m so fucked up.”

“That’s the beautiful thing about life,” Daichi hums. “Is that no matter how bad you fuck up, it stays waiting for when you’re ready.” He pauses, then adds, “Are you ready?”

You hesitate.

The starving. The running. The pain. You’re tired of it. You’re tired of hurting. You want to live. You want what you had with Ema. But she’s dead - returning to the atoms and stars and big bang. But you? You’re alive.

You’re living. 

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

They offer you a hand, and help you get to your feet. You wipe away the tears. 

“Okay.”

Getting better isn’t easy. 

You have to take all the meds your psychiatrist prescribes, and the side effects aren’t exactly comfortable. For one, you’re absolutely ravenous. And another, you wake up at 3 am with dry mouth. 

Then, you have to eat all of three meals, and three snacks. It’s hard to shovel the food down your throat, barely tasting it at first. All you can think about is the numbers, the way your pants don’t fit as loosely, your team says you’re making progress. You fear you may be ugly.

“You look good,” says Aizawa, sitting across from you during visitation hours. He’s wearing a cat sweater with grey sweatpants. It makes you smile. At least some things never change. “You’re glowing.”

“Am I?” You touch your face, wondering what he sees there. Are you puffy? Bloated? Dead-looking? You frown. “I feel disgusting.”

Aizawa shakes his head. “You’re not.” He pauses. “I’m proud of you.”

Something flutters in your chest at that. You feel light, breezy. You feel like how Ema made you feel; alive, and happy, and… You shrug. “It’s no big deal,” you dismiss and Aizawa sighs.

“It is. You made the decision to get better. That’s a huge step.”

“I guess. It just… I don’t know. I don’t want to live a life like how I did, but I don’t want to die. So, I guess this was the best option.” You pick at the grippy-bottoms of your socks. “The food sucks though.”

Aizawa is silent for a moment before leaning in and saying, “They allow off-site leaves for a few hours. We could get good food.”

You purse your lips. The numbers run rapidly through your head. What’s safe? What’s good? What’s healthy? Can you burn it off? Pace enough to lose it? But then you silence them all with a gentle hand. It’s okay, you tell yourself. Food is good. Food is good. Life is good.

“Okay,” you agree. “But I want Nakamura’s food.”

Aizawa smiles. You do too. “Deal.”

Aizawa picks you up a few days later after you get approval from your treatment team for a 3 hour outing. He takes you to Nakamura’s cafe, where the cats lounge and sleep. But the moment you walk in, they flock to you and Aizawa. They wind around your legs and meow insistently, almost as though they’re asking where you’ve been. You can’t help but smile and laugh, leaning down to pick them up and give cuddles. 

Aizawa watches you silently, but you think there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“So, you’ve returned,” says a familiar voice, and you look up to see Nakamura himself. He’s dressed in his chef’s uniform, arms crossed with an amused expression. You stand up straight and nod. 

“I wanted the best,” you say and he chuckles, scratching the back of his head.

“I don’t even remember what your favorite dish was,” he admits and you shrug. 

“Make your favorite,” says Aizawa. “With two matchas please.” 

“You got it.” Nakamura turns to go, before gesturing to a booth. “Take a seat. I’ll have it out soon.”

You and Aizawa sit down across from one another. You get hit with a wave of deja vu. You’ve been here so many times, nursing a cup of tea. But now… Now you’re eating. You’re going to eat.

It terrifies you for a moment; not knowing what you’ll consume, not knowing the nutrition… A ball of anxiety wads up in your chest and you take a deep breath. Food is good. Food is good. Life is good.

“You’re doing good,” says Aizawa. 

Your lips thin, an obvious sign of your displeasure. He smiles softly. “I’m trying,” you say and he nods, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I know you are,” he says. “And you’re doing good.”

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear before resting your head on your hand. You try to stay casual, stay normal. Eating shouldn’t be hard, shouldn’t be forced. It’s normal. Eating is normal. “So, how are the kids?”

Aizawa speaks at length about his students. You figure he’s talking as much as possible to keep your mind off the fact Nakamura is making some high calorie dish in the back. They obviously wanna help you regain some of your lost weight, and get to your set point. But right now, all you focus on is Aizawa. Midoriya has gotten in five ‘fights’ with Bakugou, most of them started by the latter. Mineta has been creeping on the girls, and Aizawa has suspended him twice. Ida has run two marathons, one with his quirk and the other without.

It’s amusing and interesting to hear all the stories Aizawa has to share. For the first time in a while, you laugh and smile and feel...normal. This is how it was before. Before Ema killed herself. Before this eating disorder formed out of the need for control, for power… Maybe there is life after her.

Part of you feels guilty. She doesn’t get to live, so why do you? When you failed her? The two of you were supposed to travel the world together, supposed to finish school together, supposed to stay together. And now? You’re alone, sick, and trapped.

But at the same time, you feel free. You know you did nothing wrong, deep down. You know you’re strong and loved and powerful without your eating disorder. You’re more than your past. You’re more than your mistakes.

“The girl,” you say after Aizawa falls silent. “The one that killed herself. What happened...after?”

He’s quiet for a moment before taking a drink of his tea. His eyes are far-away, distant in what happened. “Her parents,” he says. “Continue to grieve. They lost their little girl. Every year, we hold a small vigil for her. And they come everytime.” He shakes his head. “It never gets easier for them. They still have her room the same. They still pray she’ll come back. They grow old with grief while their daughter never gets the chance to grow old with them.” He pauses, then says, “Your parents would do the same if they lost you. Do they know?” he asks. “About your attempt? Your hospitalization.”

You slowly shake your head, and grip your cup of tea. “No,” you admit. “I haven’t gotten the courage.”

“They deserve to know,” he says. “They love you. They will always love you.”

You purse your lips. “I just… I don’t want to disappoint them anymore than I already have.”

“You’re not a disappointment. You’re one of the strongest people I know.” He cracks a smile. “And I know All Might.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever,” you say. “But maybe… Maybe I’ll tell them. One day.”

Aizawa nods, satisfied with that answer. And the two of you begin to talk about recent movies you’ve seen. 

After a few more minutes, the kitchen doors swing open and Nakamura walks in. He carries a large dish of Katsudon for you and Aizawa. Your head spins at the sight, and your stomach does a flip. Suddenly, you want to run away. Suddenly, you want to back the fuck out. But you stay seated.

“Here you go,” he says, sliding the dishes towards you and Aizawa. “Katsudon for my favorite customers.” You offer a shaky smile, and Nakamura grins. “Now,” he says, wiping his hands off on his apron. “Enjoy!” With that, he turns and leaves.

Aizawa picks up his utensils, and pauses to look at you. You just stare at your food, skin going cold and pale. You want to vomit. You want to cry. You want to get the fuck away. Your nails dig into your thighs.

How many calories? How many grams of fat? Of carbs? How many miligrams of sodium? What about protein? Is it somewhat healthy? Somewhat good for you? What is it? What is it? What-

“Hey,” Aizawa says, and you meet his gaze. He raises his bowl. “It’s good.” He takes a bite. “Really good.”

You take a deep breath. Food is good. Food is life. Life is good. 

“Yeah,” you say. “It is.”

You take a bite. And then another. And then another, another, another… 

“You’re doing good,” Aizawa says. “Really good.”

Another.

Another.

Until you finish the whole fucking bowl.

You push it aside, take a deep breath, and smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “It was really good.”

It gets easier; the eating. Your treatment team is thrilled about you eating the katsudon, and bump up your privileges. You can go outside now for a walk everyday. You can choose your main dish. You can even go on your phone. 

Daichi, Amanda and Namie are all proud of you, cheering you on. They even do so good that they get privileges too. You guys go on a walk together everyday, taking cheesy selfies and watching your favorite movies. The staff even lets you have popcorn.

You’re there for another month. Some of the patients come and go, but your crew stays the same until…

“They’re discharging me,” says Amanda one day. “I’m good to go.”

Something somersaults in your chest. You’ve come to consider Amanda a friend. The two of you have each other’s numbers together, talk all the time, and so on. But another part of you is happy for her, for getting out of here. You smile.

“Fuck yes,” you cheer. You can’t hug her, but the two of you do an air high-five. “You got this, bitch.”

She spends the next few hours packing, before coming out with all her stuff. She’s dressed in normal clothes, besides the grippy socks. And you’re so proud to see how far she’s come. You tear up.

“Well,” she says to you, Daichi, and Namie. “This is it.”

“Don’t come back,” says Namie. 

“Otherwise I’ll kick your ass,” says Daichi.

Amanda smiles, glances behind her at the staff, and then whispers, “Fuck it” and hugs all three of you. You squeal and the others cheer as she bear hugs you all. Tears drip down your cheek as she pulls away. 

“I love you guys,” she sniffles. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

With that, she picks up her stuff and leaves through the locked door. The three of you usher over to watch through the window on it, and you’re surprised to see a man and woman waiting at the end of the hallway. They cry and hug Amanda.

It’s her parents, you realize. They’re here for her.

Something hollow pangs in your chest at that. You step back. Her parents… They know. They’ve been supporting her through the whole thing. Because she let them. And they love her. And your parents?

Do they love you?

You chew your lip, hands shaking at your sides. You can’t remember the last time you talked with them. You’ve spent the past year essentially isolating yourself. You have no friends. You talk with no family. It’s just been you...alone...suffering…

Who should go through this alone?

You take a deep breath, and approach the nurse’s station. They glance up. “Can I make a phone call?” you ask, and they nod, handing you a wireless phone. You wander back into your room, and sit on your bed. 

You dial in a familiar number, and bring the phone up to your ear. It connects within seconds.

“Hello?” says a voice you know.

“Mom?” you say. “It’s me.”

After six months of treatment, you’re discharged. Daichi left a month ago, and Namie two weeks prior, so you walk out with the knowledge you have friends on the other side. You grip your belongings tightly as you walk through the locked door.

At the end of the hallway stands five people. Your mom, your dad, Aizawa, Nakamura, and Mari. You smile brightly and approach. Your mom cries as she reaches out to you, taking your face in her hands. “Look at you,” she says. “My baby girl.”

Your dad places his hand on your shoulder. “So proud of you,” he says. “My strong girl.”

“You did it,” says Nakamura. And Mari bounces up and down.

“You did it!” she repeats loudly. “You did it!”

Then, you turn to face Aizawa. His expression is blank for a moment before he slowly reaches for you. It’s not a hug. No, Aizawa isn’t really the hugging type of guy. Instead, he gingerly, tenderly takes your hand. The fingers that were once so boney and pronounced now appear smooth. And you’re warm. You’re no longer freezing, no longer exhausted, no longer terrified.

No, you’re content. You’re safe. You’re happy. 

“I see you,” says Aizawa. “I see you, and I’m here for you.”

Your fingers intertwine and you know.

You’re alive. 

It’s a temporary job. It is! It’s something to get you through medical school, to pay off medical bills and afford rent. You work there a few days a week for a few hours, petting the cafe’s cats and serving customers. It’s easy work. It’s enjoyable work.

There are a few regulars, but one in particular stands out. He visits you once a day, usually before his patrol or after school. He slowly walks in, hiding in his scarf and brightening only at the sight of your smile. He always sits at the same seat, in a corner near the back. The cats flock to him, purring and winding around his legs.

He always insists that you sit down with him, drinking matcha tea together. It’s routine. It’s constant, a reminder that someone exists besides you. He doesn’t push you, just happy to be along for the ride of your shift, of your recovery. One day, you’re barely swallowing down the matcha. The next?

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you say.

“You can,” he says. “You’ve done a million hard things. And here you are.”

You poke the slice of cheesecake with your fork. You can practically taste its richness. It makes your heart thunder. “Can I?”

“Do you have a dream?” he asks.

You hesitate, then nod. “Yes.”

“This is one step towards it. This moment is one step toward the next.” He reaches across the table, and squeezes your hand. He’s warm, just like she was. He’s kind, just like she was. But she is dead. She is among the stars. 

But she … she would want this. So slowly, tenderly, you take a bite of the cheesecake. And another. Another. Another, until there is nothing left but crumbs. It sits awkwardly in your stomach, but you know the feeling will pass.

He smiles, a rare sight. “You’re alive,” he says.

And yes, you are.

You’re living.