Izuku sat on the ground, his body limp and drained. His chest still ached from crying, and his eyes stung. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, feeling the rough skin and dried tears. The dull throb in his head reminded him of everything that had happened, and how lost he felt.

He wanted to stand, to move, but his limbs felt heavy. *Why bother?* The thought gnawed at him, settling deeper with each passing second. The weight of it was suffocating, like he couldn't shake it off no matter how hard he tried.

He gripped the grass beneath him, trying to ground himself. It was futile. The world around him felt distant, like he was trapped in a fog he couldn't escape. And the more he tried to push through, the more lost he became.

You're alone. You'll always be alone.*

That old, familiar voice crept in, one that had haunted him for years. Quirkless, weak—he'd been told all his life he wasn't enough. He thought he'd outrun it, but here, in this world where he was dead, that same fear circled back, stronger than ever.

Why can't you be the hero this time?* The question hit hard. He had saved people, time and time again, but now… now he couldn't even save himself.

"I'm not enough," he muttered, his voice cracking. The words felt true. They hurt, but they were real.

He pulled his knees to his chest, curling in on himself, trying to block out the thoughts. But they wouldn't stop. They never stopped.

Maybe I'm better off gone, too.*

The idea was there, lingering. He didn't have the energy to fight it off anymore.

--

Footsteps broke the silence, soft at first, then louder. Izuku froze. He hadn't expected anyone to find him like this.

"Izuku."

The voice was familiar, steady. Shinso.

Izuku glanced up, seeing him standing a few feet away. Shinso's expression was calm, but there was something serious in his gaze. No pity, though. Thank god. Izuku didn't think he could handle pity right now.

Shinso didn't ask any questions. Instead, he walked over and sat down next to Izuku, legs bent, elbows resting on his knees.

"You look like hell," Shinso said bluntly.

Izuku let out a short, humorless laugh. "Feels like it."

They sat in silence, not an uncomfortable one. Shinso didn't push, didn't try to fix anything. He just… sat.

Minutes passed, or maybe longer. Izuku couldn't tell. He was too tired to keep track of time. Finally, Shinso spoke, his voice quiet. "You don't have to talk, but if you want to, I'll listen."

Izuku stared down at the ground. He didn't know what to say. He felt empty, like he'd already said everything there was to say to the wind.

"I just… don't know what to do anymore," he admitted, barely above a whisper.

Shinso was quiet for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he replied, "Yeah. I get that."

The quiet between Izuku and Shinso lingered, but it wasn't suffocating anymore. It was like the weight had lifted just enough to let Izuku breathe. He stared at the ground, feeling the cold seeping into him but not minding it. For once, the silence didn't push him deeper into his own thoughts.

Shinso sat beside him, unmoving, but present. His presence was grounding in a way Izuku hadn't expected.

"I can't stay here," Izuku finally said, voice rough, but steadier. "I mean… I don't know how much longer I can keep going like this."

Shinso didn't respond right away. When he spoke, it wasn't a lecture, just a calm observation. "No one's expecting you to have it all figured out."

Izuku swallowed, his throat tight. "It feels like I'm supposed to. Like I'm supposed to be strong, and know what to do. But I don't."

"You're not alone in that," Shinso muttered. "Everyone's dealing with their own mess. Some just hide it better than others."

Izuku felt a faint sense of relief. It wasn't a solution, but it was something.

They sat there, the wind brushing past them, carrying with it the scent of distant rain. Izuku's thoughts drifted, but for the first time, they weren't spiraling. He wasn't fixed, wasn't okay, but maybe… maybe he didn't have to be. At least not right now.

--

Back at UA, the dorms were quiet when they returned. Most of the students were either training or in class, and the stillness felt heavy. Izuku trailed behind Shinso as they walked down the hall, unsure of what to say.

When they reached Izuku's door, Shinso paused, glancing back at him. "You should rest."

Izuku nodded, though sleep felt like the furthest thing from his mind. "Thanks," he mumbled, fumbling for his keys.

Shinso nodded once before heading to his own dorm without another word. Izuku watched him go, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and exhaustion. He opened the door to his room and stepped inside.

The room felt colder than usual, the bed untouched since he'd left it earlier that morning. He sank onto the mattress, his body aching from the weight of everything.

Lying back, he stared up at the ceiling, his mind drifting again, but not as sharply as before. The edge was still there, but it didn't cut as deep.

He closed his eyes, feeling the pull of sleep, but his mind refused to shut off completely. Memories of the world where he was dead flooded back, haunting him. The faces of his friends, their grief, the memorial with his name carved into it.

What if I never get back?*

The thought hit hard, cold and sharp. He had no idea how to return to his own world, or if it was even possible. And even if he did… what would he go back to? A world where people depended on him, where he had to carry the weight of being the symbol of hope?

You're not enough* that voice whispered again, creeping into his thoughts. He clenched his fists, trying to push it away, but it clung to him like a shadow.

Suddenly, there was a knock at his door.

"Izuku?" It was Uraraka's voice. She sounded hesitant, like she didn't want to intrude but couldn't stay away either.

Izuku didn't move. He didn't want to see anyone right now. Didn't want to face her concern or questions.

But the knock came again, softer this time. "Hey… I just wanted to check on you."

Izuku sighed, sitting up. He knew she wouldn't leave until he responded.

"Come in," he said, his voice flat.

The door creaked open, and Uraraka stepped inside, her usual brightness dimmed by worry. She lingered near the door, unsure if she should come closer.

"I—" she started, then stopped, biting her lip. "I just… you've seemed off lately. And I wanted to make sure you're okay."

Izuku managed a weak smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine. Just… tired."

Uraraka's brow furrowed. "You're not fine. We're worried about you, Izuku."

He couldn't meet her gaze. "I don't want you guys to worry about me. You have enough on your plate."

"That's not how it works," she said softly. "We're your friends. We're supposed to worry."

Izuku swallowed hard, his throat tightening again. He didn't want to burden them. He didn't want them to see how much he was struggling. But hiding it wasn't helping either.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice barely audible.

Uraraka stepped forward, sitting down beside him on the bed. "You don't have to figure it out alone. That's what we're here for."

Her words were kind, but they didn't erase the weight on his shoulders. Still, for a brief moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't completely alone in this.

--

As the night stretched on, Izuku lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His mind raced, the weight of everything pressing down on him again. He had no answers, no clear path forward.

But for now, in the quiet of the dorm, with the faint sounds of his classmates moving around in the halls, he let himself breathe.

One day at a time. That's all he could do.

For now, it had to be enough.