Chapter Five: Let It Go

Momo's Perspective

His words echoed in my head, each syllable cutting through the quiet like a dull blade: "Let it go, Momo. I already have."

I stood there, watching Izuku Midoriya—Deku—fade into the shadows of the corridor, his figure swallowed by the dim light of the hallway. That voice, rough and cold, didn't belong to the boy I remembered. The boy who had stood beside me, who had inspired us all, wasn't here anymore. Instead, there was this man—worn, distant, haunted.

I felt a tug on my sleeve and looked down to see one of my students, a bright-eyed girl no older than fourteen, looking up at me in awe and confusion.

"Sensei, was that really Deku? The Deku?" she asked, her voice soft, as if she didn't quite believe what she'd just seen.

I nodded slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yes. That was him."

But my heart wasn't in my words. The man they had seen, the man I had just spoken to, wasn't the Deku they had all grown up idolizing. He wasn't the same person who had saved countless lives and inspired entire generations of heroes. That Deku was gone, replaced by someone I barely recognized. His eyes, once so full of hope and determination, were hollow, lost in a sea of memories and regrets.

"He didn't seem like a hero," the girl added, her brow furrowed.

I wanted to defend him. I wanted to tell her that Deku was still a hero, that he was just going through something, that he would come back from whatever darkness had taken hold of him. But I couldn't. I didn't have the words.

Because the truth was, I didn't know if he would come back.

"Go back to class," I told her gently, giving her a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "I'll be there shortly."

As she left, I felt the weight of the conversation with Deku press down on me. He had looked so… tired. So far removed from the person he once was. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had failed him somehow. That we all had.

And that last sentence he'd thrown at me—"Let it go, Momo. I already have."—echoed in my mind like a warning.

But how could I let it go? How could I stand by and watch him disappear into himself like that?

I needed to talk to someone. Someone who understood what Deku was going through, someone who had known him better than anyone.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers hovering over the contact list for a moment before I found her name.

Ochaco Uraraka.

I hesitated, wondering if this was the right thing to do. But if anyone could help me make sense of this, it was Ochaco. She had been closer to Midoriya than anyone else in our class. And though their relationship had never crossed into romance, there was an unspoken bond between them—a bond forged in battle, in hardship, and in a shared dream of becoming heroes.

I hit the call button, my heart pounding as the phone rang. After a few rings, I heard her familiar voice, warm and slightly breathless.

"Momo? Hey! It's been a while!" Ochaco's voice came through the line, bright and full of the same energy I remembered from our school days.

I tried to keep my voice steady. "Hey, Ochaco. I… I need to talk to you about something. It's about Midoriya."

There was a brief pause on the other end, and I could hear her breath hitch slightly. "Deku? What's going on? Did something happen?"

I took a deep breath, leaning against the wall as I tried to explain. "I ran into him today. Aizawa called him in for something, and I happened to see him. He… Ochaco, he's not the same. He's… different. It's like he's completely shut off from everything."

Ochaco sighed, and I could almost picture her running a hand through her hair, something she always did when she was worried. "Yeah, I know. I've seen it too. Bakugo ran into him not too long ago, and it was the same thing. He's just… gone."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. If even Bakugo had noticed it, then things were worse than I thought.

"What did Bakugo say?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ochaco let out a tired laugh. "He wasn't happy about it, that's for sure. You know how he is—he wants to fix things by blowing them up. But this… this isn't something he can just punch his way through."

I could hear the frustration in her voice, the helplessness that we all felt when it came to Deku. We had all been inspired by him, all looked up to him as the beacon of what a hero should be. But now, seeing him like this… it was like watching a star burn out, slowly fading into darkness.

"He's changed so much," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "He told me to let it go. That he already has."

Ochaco was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, more serious. "I don't think he's let anything go, Momo. I think he's just buried it all. And it's eating him alive."

The weight of her words settled over me like a heavy blanket, suffocating in its truth. I knew she was right. Midoriya hadn't let go of anything—he had just locked it away, deep inside, where no one could reach it.

Ochaco sighed again, the sound laced with exhaustion. "You know, it's funny… Little Izuku—our son—he's so much like Deku was when he was younger. Always running around, always curious, always trying to help. He's a handful, but he reminds me so much of the boy Deku used to be."

I smiled at the thought, though it was bittersweet. "I bet he does. You named him after Deku, didn't you?"

Ochaco chuckled softly. "Yeah. Bakugo's idea, actually. As much as he'll never admit it, Deku was the one who made us all better. Even Bakugo."

Hearing that made my chest tighten. If even Bakugo had that kind of respect for Deku, then maybe… maybe there was still hope. Maybe we could reach him, somehow.

I bit my lip, a thought forming in the back of my mind. "Ochaco… do you think Toru would know how to reach him?"

There was a pause on the other end, and I could hear Ochaco considering it. "You know, she might. She's always had a way of… grounding him. Of seeing him when no one else could. Maybe we should get her on the line."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Yeah. Let's call her."

Ochaco added Toru to the call, and we waited as the phone rang. My mind was racing, wondering if this was the right thing to do, if we could somehow pull Midoriya back from the edge before it was too late. But as the seconds ticked by, I realized that we had to try. We couldn't just let him disappear into the shadows. Not without a fight.

Toru's voice came through the line, soft and familiar. "Hello? What's going on?"

Ochaco spoke first, her tone serious. "Toru, it's about Deku. We think… we think he's in trouble. And we need your help."

Toru was quiet for a moment, but when she spoke, there was a steel in her voice that I hadn't expected. "I've been trying to keep him grounded, but he's slipping away. We need to do something before he's gone for good."

My heart pounded in my chest, and I knew, in that moment, that we were all thinking the same thing.

We weren't just trying to help Deku.

We were trying to save him.

Toru's Perspective

I sighed, staring down at my phone, the screen still glowing with the call from Ochaco and Momo. Of course, they had called. I knew this was coming. I'd known for a while now, ever since I saw Bakugo storm into Izuku's office yesterday. He didn't even try to hide the anger in his walk, and I overheard enough of Naomasa's phone call to piece together what was going on.

It wasn't hard to see that the cracks in Izuku had grown deeper—so deep, in fact, that even the people who had once called him a friend were now reaching out to try and pull him back from the edge. But Izuku? He'd already fallen.

"Izuku, you're such an idiot," I muttered under my breath, rubbing my forehead as the weight of it all settled in.

He always did this. Always carried the world on his shoulders, thinking he was the only one who could bear the burden. Even now, after everything he had been through, after the darkness had swallowed him whole, he still believed he had to protect everyone—even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

I could feel Momo and Ochaco waiting on the other end of the line, but I needed a moment to collect myself. It wasn't that I didn't care—quite the opposite. I cared too much. Too much to watch him fall any further than he already had.

Taking a deep breath, I finally spoke. "I've been keeping an eye on him for a while now. Trying to keep him grounded, trying to remind him that he's not alone. But he's slipping away faster than I can hold him."

Momo's voice came through first, soft and full of concern. "Do you think we can reach him, Toru? I don't know if he even heard a word I said earlier."

I closed my eyes, leaning back in my chair as I stared at the mess of papers strewn across the desk. "It's not that he didn't hear you, Momo. It's that he's convinced himself none of it matters anymore." My voice came out quieter than I intended, laced with a sadness I couldn't hide. "He's given up on the idea that anyone can save him."

Ochaco sighed, her voice laced with frustration. "But that's not true! He's always been the one to save everyone else—why can't he see that we're here for him?"

I rubbed my eyes, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me. "Because that's how he's always been, Ochaco. He thinks he has to be the savior, that no one else can carry the load. And now, after everything that's happened, he doesn't believe he deserves to be saved."

There was a heavy silence on the line, and I could feel the same helplessness from Momo and Ochaco that I had been grappling with for months. Izuku wasn't just retreating into himself—he was building walls so high and so thick that none of us could break through. Not even me, and I had tried harder than anyone else.

Finally, Ochaco broke the silence. "Toru… you've spent the most time with him. Do you think there's anything we can do? I don't want to just stand by and watch him disappear."

I hesitated. It was hard to admit the truth, but they deserved to know. "I don't know. I don't know if anyone can reach him right now."

Momo's voice was softer when she spoke again, but there was a steely determination beneath it. "We can't give up on him. We owe him that much."

I smiled sadly, though they couldn't see it. "I'm not giving up on him, Momo. I'm just… I'm just trying to figure out how to reach him without pushing him further away." I glanced around the room, my gaze falling on the small bag of food I'd left for Izuku earlier, still untouched on the corner of his desk. "He doesn't think he deserves any of this—the care, the concern. He's been punishing himself for so long that he's forgotten what it's like to let anyone in."

Ochaco's voice came through next, quiet but firm. "You're right, but that doesn't mean we stop trying." There was a pause, and I could practically hear her chewing on her bottom lip, the way she always did when she was thinking. "Toru… you've been with him through all of this. I think you're the only one who can get through to him."

I stared at my phone, the weight of Ochaco's words settling heavily on me. Could I really reach him? Was I the one who could break through those walls?

"I'll keep trying," I said quietly. "I'll do whatever I can to make sure he doesn't get completely lost in the dark."

Momo's voice came next, full of hope. "We'll help however we can, Toru. He means too much to all of us to let him go without a fight."

I nodded, though they couldn't see me. "I know. I just hope we're not too late."

Ochaco sighed softly. "We're not giving up on him. Not now, not ever. Just… keep us posted, okay? If anything changes, if you need help, you call us."

I smiled a little, feeling the warmth of their concern even through the phone. "I will. Thank you, both of you."

As I hung up the call, the silence of the office felt heavier than before. I looked down at my phone, my fingers tracing the edges of the screen. Izuku, I thought, why are you making this so damn hard on yourself?

He wasn't the same person he used to be. But neither was I. And that was the cruel irony of it all—we had both changed, but we were still locked in this strange dance, circling each other but never quite connecting the way we used to.

With a sigh, I stood up and walked over to the desk, picking up the blanket I'd left for him earlier, still draped over the back of the chair. He was probably passed out again, running himself ragged like he always did. I was always leaving these little gestures behind—food, blankets, reminders that someone still cared. But I wasn't sure he even noticed anymore.

As I sat down in his chair, staring at the empty desk in front of me, I couldn't help but feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. Izuku Midoriya, the boy who had once inspired us all, who had been the heart and soul of our class, was slipping away. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to reach him.

But I wasn't giving up. Not yet.

Because if there was one thing Izuku had taught me, it was that you never stopped fighting.

And I was going to fight for him, even if he couldn't fight for himself anymore.

Toru's Perspective

The office was quiet, the soft hum of the rain outside lulling me into a contemplative stillness as I sat at Izuku's desk, staring down at the mess of papers and old cigarette butts that littered the surface. I didn't know how long I had been sitting there, waiting for him to return from his meeting with Aizawa, but the silence had become a familiar companion in this space.

I glanced at the small bag of food I'd left on the corner of the desk, untouched like it always was. A reminder of how much Izuku was neglecting himself, no matter how many times I tried to get through to him. It hurt, watching him like this—broken, jaded, and so far from the boy he once was. The boy I used to know.

I heard the creak of the door before I saw him, his familiar figure slipping into the room with the same heavy steps. His shoulders sagged under the weight of whatever file Aizawa had just handed him, his jacket soaked from the rain, and a tired expression etched deep into his face. The smell of cigarettes followed him, mingling with the rain-soaked air as he tossed the file onto the desk with a soft thud.

He didn't say anything at first, just stood there, his gaze lingering on the papers before flicking up to meet mine. And for a moment, I saw it—the exhaustion in his eyes, the weariness that clung to him like a second skin. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced under the dim light of the office.

"Hey," I said softly, my voice barely cutting through the silence. I stood up from his chair, stepping toward him, my eyes scanning his face, taking in the stubble that had grown along his jawline, the way his hair was pulled back in that messy bun of his. He looked older. Too old for his age.

"Hey," he replied, his voice rough, tired. He glanced at the file on the desk, then back at me. "I got a new case."

I didn't let him continue. Instead, I took a step closer, my hand reaching out before I could stop myself. My fingers brushed against his cheek, the roughness of his stubble under my touch. His skin was cold from the rain, but the warmth of his presence still lingered. I traced the line of his jaw gently, my thumb brushing against his cheekbone as I looked into his tired eyes, searching for the boy I used to know—the boy who had once been so full of life and hope.

"Izuku," I whispered, my concern clear in my voice. I could feel him tense under my touch, his eyes flicking away from mine, as if he couldn't stand to be seen like this. "You're pushing yourself too hard."

For a moment, he didn't say anything. He just stood there, letting me touch him, letting me care. It was rare for him to allow these moments anymore, but I held on to it, knowing that this was all I could give him—this brief moment of softness before he built his walls back up again.

His eyes finally met mine, and I could see it—the struggle, the pain he refused to let show, the weight he carried alone. I wanted to pull him closer, to tell him that he didn't have to do this by himself, that I was here, that we all were. But before I could say anything else, he gently pulled away from my touch, stepping back, the moment already slipping away.

"I'm fine, Toru," he said, his voice low, as he turned toward the desk, picking up the file again. His walls were back up, just like that. He flipped through the pages without really looking at them, his fingers tracing the edges of the paper. "Aizawa gave me a lead on Gentle."

I stood there for a moment, watching him, the warmth of his skin still lingering on my fingertips. I knew better than to push him, knew better than to try and pull him back into that softness. He wouldn't let me. Not now, not yet.

I let out a quiet sigh and nodded, stepping back toward the desk, though my eyes never left him. "Gentle, huh?" I said, trying to keep my tone light, though the weight of my concern still hung in the air. "That's a name I haven't heard in a while."

Izuku grunted in response, flipping through the file. "Yeah. Funny how the past has a way of coming back to haunt us." He glanced up at me, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips before it faded just as quickly. "Aizawa thinks there's something more to it, though. He wouldn't give me the case if he didn't."

I could see the gears turning in his head, the familiar way he threw himself into the work, into solving whatever puzzle was in front of him. It was his way of coping, of avoiding the things he didn't want to face. And I understood that. I really did. But it didn't make it any easier to watch him slip further away.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the edge of the desk as I watched him. "Do you think it's a trap?"

He shrugged, his eyes scanning the pages in front of him. "Maybe. Doesn't matter. I'll handle it."

There it was again—the weight of the world, pressing down on his shoulders. The burden he always insisted on carrying alone. I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to do this, that we could face whatever was coming together, but I knew he wouldn't listen. Not yet.

"Izuku…" I started, my voice soft. But he cut me off before I could finish.

"I'm fine, Toru," he repeated, this time more firmly. He didn't look at me, his focus entirely on the case in front of him. "I've got this under control."

I sighed, letting the silence fall between us again, knowing that he wasn't going to let me in any further tonight. Not after what had just passed between us. I could still feel the warmth of his skin on my fingers, the brief connection we had shared, but it was already fading, replaced by the cold distance he kept so carefully.

"Alright," I said quietly, pushing off the desk. "Just… don't forget to take care of yourself, okay?"

He didn't respond. Not with words, at least. But the way his eyes flicked up to meet mine for just a second, the way his hand paused on the pages for a heartbeat—that was enough.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Izuku's Perspective

I figured Momo would call someone after that run-in. It was in her nature. Maybe Ochaco, maybe even Bakugo. After all, I had changed so much since those days at U.A., and not in the ways they would've expected. They probably looked at me now and wondered what happened to the bright-eyed, hopeful kid who thought he could save everyone.

But maybe I was never really that boy. Maybe that was just who they needed me to be back then.

I glanced over at Toru, who had retreated back to the couch, her concern for me still hanging in the air. She'd been the only constant in this mess, the only one who hadn't let me disappear completely. Her quiet persistence, her warmth… it was like she refused to let go of whatever piece of me still remained.

Toru was my guiding light, and I knew that. She was the only thing tethering me to any sense of humanity. She was gentle, warm, and persistent, always showing up, always leaving food and blankets, even though she knew I wouldn't touch the food or ask for the comfort.

And she loved me.

I wasn't stupid. I could see it in the way she looked at me. The way her touch lingered a little too long, the way her voice softened when she said my name. It was in the way she always stayed, even when I pushed her away.

But I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve her.

I wasn't a hero anymore. I'd let that part of me die a long time ago. Probably the same day I callously fired those bullets into Shigaraki, watched him crumble under the weight of them. I told myself it was justified. He deserved it. He took everything from me—All Might, my mother, my chance at anything resembling peace. So I took everything from him in return.

But that wasn't what heroes did.

That was the moment I became something else. A villain. The kind of scum we used to fight against. And yet, they still called me a hero after that, still put me on a pedestal. But they didn't know the truth. The truth about what I'd done, about who I'd become.

I didn't deserve the praise. I didn't deserve their admiration.

And I sure as hell didn't deserve Toru's affection.

But every time I looked at her, I could feel it—her quiet, unwavering devotion. It was always there, in the way she smiled at me, the way she touched me, like I was still worth saving. Like there was still some part of me left that was worth loving.

I glanced at her again, and this time, my breath caught in my throat. She was visible now, wearing the bracelet I'd crafted for her. It cast a soft glow around her form, outlining every curve of her face and body. Her hair, an ethereal aqua, framed her face like something out of a dream, catching the dim light in the room. Her eyes—those gentle, caring eyes—looked at me with a warmth I didn't deserve, a softness that tugged at something deep inside me.

She was beautiful.

I'd never told her that, of course. I didn't know how to say it, and even if I did, it wouldn't change anything. But that didn't stop me from thinking it every time I saw her like this, glowing in the low light, her presence like a beacon in the dark.

She caught my gaze, her expression soft, her concern written all over her face. She never said it out loud, but I knew what she was thinking. She was worried. She always was.

I couldn't stand it.

"Toru," I muttered, breaking the silence. I ran a hand through my hair, tugging the tie loose as it fell messily over my face. "You don't have to stay, you know."

She didn't move from the couch, didn't even flinch. "I know."

I sighed, turning back to the file in front of me. My eyes scanned the words, but they barely registered. Gentle. A relic from the past, back to haunt me. Of course. Because that's how it always went. The past never stayed buried, no matter how hard I tried to leave it behind.

"I'll be fine," I added, though we both knew it was a lie.

Toru stood up, crossing the small distance between us before I could react. Her hand found its way to my shoulder, soft, grounding. I didn't pull away this time, though I could feel myself tense under her touch.

"Izuku," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don't have to do this alone."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to look at her. I couldn't. Not right now. If I did, I'd see it again—the worry, the concern, the love that I didn't deserve.

"I do," I muttered, my voice harsher than I intended. I shrugged her hand off my shoulder, turning away from her as I flipped through the pages of the case file. "I've always done it alone."

Toru didn't argue. She never did. Instead, she stayed where she was, quiet and patient, watching me with those soft, invisible eyes of hers. I could feel her gaze, even if I couldn't see it.

I wanted to tell her to leave, to let me drown in this mess alone. But I couldn't. Because a part of me—the small, fragile part that still clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, I could still be saved—wanted her to stay.

"This case," I said, changing the subject, trying to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable weight that hung between us. "It's about Gentle."

"I know," she replied, her voice soft but steady. She didn't ask any more questions. She didn't need to. She understood the gravity of it just by looking at me.

I glanced back at the file, my eyes scanning the words again, though the weight of her presence made it hard to focus.

The past has a way of coming back to haunt us. And this time, it was my past. The ghosts I thought I'd buried were resurfacing, and I wasn't sure I was ready to face them.

But I didn't have a choice.

Not anymore.

Toru lingered beside me for a moment longer, her hand brushing my shoulder again, just enough to remind me she was still here. Still waiting.

But I couldn't let her in. Not when I knew what I was. Not when I knew what I'd become.

I was broken. And broken things? They only hurt the people around them.

"Go home, Toru," I muttered, my voice low, almost pleading. "It's late."

She hesitated, her hand lingering just a moment longer, her eyes searching mine for something I couldn't give her.

"Okay," she whispered, stepping back, her form flickering briefly as the bracelet adjusted to the shift in light.

I didn't look up as she left. I couldn't. Because if I did, I might have asked her to stay. And that would've been a mistake.

I didn't deserve her.

And I never would.