Im Loving The Forehead Reveals

i’m loving the forehead reveals

⌕ boku no hero academia • todoroki shoto.

like or reblog if you save/use. 🤍

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★彡 EXPLOSIVE HEARTS 彡★

pairing: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader

sypnosis: upon losing feelings for your boyfriend monoma, you start developing a new attraction towards the football team's quarterback. the only problem is, you two have never met. but that's where your bestest friends come in.

eleven | series m.list | thirteen

TWELVE. i might like her

tag list: @chrofeisnightmaregf @spiderlily-w1tch-blog @iridescentrays @archer-fb @bakugouswh0r3 @singingcherri6 @parker-webs @polarbvnny @lupinandout @thebestrouge @blubearxy @itgetzweird08 @bakunianadecorazon @poemzcheng @nottherealslimshady @nnnniei3 @themultifandomgirl @123150448 @kara062284-blog @jazzypop-op @neoclb @hellokittyfeenie @iheartamora @morganadorodo @k1tk4tkatsuki @d34ly @heyits-zedo @iwa-chan-akaashi-san @first-time-fanfic-writer @corvid007 @spooky-cupid @enzstr @centerhabit @xdyledz @aliisinwonderland @saltypuffin1040 @lili-harg @xylo-rio @szired @k0z3me @alexithemiyatic @tojirin @yoonabeo @salemey @circuskatt @kunikame @iamyoursonly @armeenix @oneiratxxia10 @itsdragonius @vitanicheney666 @kovu-bunnbunn @bakutreats @perrywinklefairy @penesauce @sixxze @m-0ona

© ickyblickyy 2024 please do not steal, copy, or repost my work onto other platforms.

❝𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝❞

✧*̥˚ 𝐭𝐨𝐤𝐞 *̥˚✧ (she/her. 22. enfj.)

anime intrest: haikyuu, my hero acadamia, assassination classroom, kaznaiver, kuroko no basket, death note, another, death parade, psycho pass, ohshc, etc.

request: open | texts, headcanons, one shots, loose ideas are all welcome. only taking request for haikyuu and my hero acadamia. in regards to request, i write suggestive themes, but no nsfw.

haikyuu mlist | my hero mlist | tag directory | taglist

somewhere only we know...

define the relationship | bakugou, shinso, shoto x reader (texts)

fallen | bakugou x gn!reader (one shot)

flirt | kaminari x reader (texts)

under the influence | bakugou, izuku, shinso x reader (texts)

— 2024 © tokeposts. all rights reserved. do not repost, narrate, or translate my work. thank you!

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I have to go to work in like 30 mins. How do I just come back to normal life after reading this? I am BROKEN. This is a masterpiece. My GOD.

porcelain

pairing: todoroki shouto x f! reader contains: childhood friends to eventual lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst with an eventual happy ending, coming of age, pro!hero au, following tags are not romanticized, are described non-graphically to the best of my ability, and do not involve shouto in any way. mentions of: victim blaming, eating disorder, depression, sexual assault, domestic violence, arranged marriage, pregnancy + miscarriage/fetus death status: standalone, one-shot, completed wc: 25200

note: dancer! reader, predetermined family. this fic discusses a great many dark themes, and may be triggering. i don't think it's anything graphic, as a result of my writing style, but please be aware and consume at your own risk. though they do end up together in the end, it may very well be uncomfortable to read. i hope to have written the themes i wished to explore well, but as i have not experienced a great majority of them personally, i can only hope that i have done them relative justice. also cross posted to ao3

summary: you are nothing more than a broken doll of fine china, the shards of a porcelain vase. and yet time and time again, he tries to cup the whole of you in his hands, uncaring of how sharp they are, nor how cutting.

In the earliest of your memories⏤ the core ones, the ones that are said to follow a child for life⏤ your mother is almost always there, in some way, shape, or form.

It is only natural: for most children, most mothers are. And you are no different⏤ she bore you for the full of the nine months between your conception and your birth, and as you have been told, for the first of your many years, and then all the ones after that. She has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years⏤ the ones any actress worth her salt would never even think of giving. But she does, because she is your mother, and you are her firstborn; her most prized darling; the first of the children she will have with your father⏤ and also the only one, though you will not know why until later. 

You are five, and you know only that she is your mother; the only one that you will ever have in the world, and that is why you also believe her when she tells you a woman’s worth amounts to only three things. 

You don’t need to see it for yourself to believe it, though you do so, anyways. The world views women as flowers, she will tell you later; a tired rendition of the same words she has repeated to you, time and time again. They have no interest in the older ones; the ones that have already started to wilt. 

You will say that, to you, she will always be the most beautiful woman in the world⏤ and she always will be, even if her youth nowadays is only preserved through the power of your father’s money; the countless tucks and lifts and numerous other surgeries that pile up throughout the years. 

But you believe it when she tells you that the face is the first of the three things that make up a woman’s worth, and the slimness of her body the second. And honestly, why wouldn’t you? This is your mother, the one who has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed most of her youthful years; so much that after you are born, she never returns to her acting career again. This is your mother, who still undergoes a thousand and one different operations, different treatments, to ensure her body is as spotless as it once was and free of the remnants of childbirth; free of the remnants of you. 

This is your mother, who tells you that your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to.

( And you believe her, because why wouldn’t you? )

This is the first of your core memories, and it is one that you will carry for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first time you meet Todoroki Shouto is on a July afternoon, with your mother behind you, and his father behind him. 

You’re not really concerned by this⏤ it’s only the standard for a meeting between the children of families like yours, and you have already met enough of them that such a sight is familiar enough to you. 

What concerns you more is the heat of the sun scorching down upon your skin, through the shade of the parasol clutched in your hand, and through the abominable amounts of sunscreen your mother had made you lather onto your skin. The press of summer heat makes your clothes cling rather uncomfortably⏤ you’ve never been out when the sun shines so bright; your mother has never allowed it of you, so you’re rather unused to the feeling. 

That doesn’t mean you show any of it, though.

Your mother had stressed to you the importance of this meeting, though she didn’t really have to; she would not have brought you out like this if it were for anything less than imperative. And you are old enough to understand by now that marriage at the end of the line is not just a possibility, but a goal expected of you⏤ your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to⏤ and Todoroki Shouto, your father tells you, is the perfect candidate for this. 

Your mother does not say a word⏤ in your father’s presence, she rarely does. But she does not need to for you to know she agrees. 

You think this is why you study him a little closer than the rest, even though you already know him, or rather, know of him, from the profile that was given to you, that you have spent time reading. 

There’s less written about him than any of the other children⏤ he has had very little in the way of public appearances, unlike the rest of them; so little that the only useful information is what your father deigns to tell you over dinner. A Hero family quickly rising in the ranks, one I’d like you to make connections with, he says, and you hear: a hero family we are looking to marry you into. 

Your father does not deign to talk to you often, but you know what your answer is; what your answer should be. 

“Yes, father.” You say, and you don’t mind⏤ your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to, after all, and given your status, a family as renowned as the Todorokis is already more than you can ask for. 

It’s why you straighten a little, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear as you greet him with a smile. 

“Hi!” You greet softly, but no less warmly⏤ your mother’s smile shutters a little at the scar marring one side of his face, but truthfully, you think he looks pretty enough in spite of it. 

“Hi,” He returns, and it’s a little cold, but you’re undaunted. 

“If it’s alright with your dad, maybe we could go play something?” 

Your mother smiles down at you⏤ as she does every time you’re good and attempt to properly make your connections, but you still soak up her praise like a flower finally graced with the light of the sun. 

“Would that be alright with you, Todoroki-san?” 

The red-haired man is polite in his nod, though you suppose the look in his eyes is a little scary⏤ the whole of him is, you think, bigger than even your father; one of the most intimidating men in your world. “Shouto. Show her around the house.” 

You hear the similar command in his tone, but your eyes are focused on the way the red-and-white haired boy’s lips thin, displeased⏤ “Yes.” He says in the end, and you note the way he does not even bother to call him father. 

Your mother squeezes your shoulder. “Be good, alright?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

She laughs, the corners of her eyes crinkling. The older Todoroki-san does not, only gesturing her in welcome forward. 

You wait until they’re out of earshot to turn to the younger one and say: “You know, Todoroki-san⏤” 

But then you hesitate.

You’re not sure if you should say this, and you never have to anyone else⏤ you think your father would disapprove, and you know your mother would. You think of what your mother would say, the opportunities you would be giving up, but you’d seen the displeasure upon his face, noted how uncomfortable he seemed, and still seems, even now. 

And in the end, though your words are hushed, you still say them, anyway. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

He blinks at you. You wonder if you have said something wrong. 

“I don’t mind showing you around the house.” 

“Oh! I mean, that too, but…” 

You waver again, glancing around a little. He’s still watching you, confused, but your mother is nowhere in sight, so you continue. 

“I mean, marriage. Like, I’m only seven, and I’m sure you’re great, and I guess I don’t really mind if mother really wants it, but you seemed really uncomfortable, and I also don’t really want to get engaged to anyone yet, so…” 

You’re not sure what exactly you’re saying, and you falter. 

“Um. Sorry. Please don’t tell anyone else I said that.” 

You can already imagine the emotion that would cross your mother’s face, the same as what your father would call you. Disappointment. You swallow. 

You shouldn’t have said that.  

But his answer comes, soft and simple. “I won’t since you don’t want me to.” 

You gauge his expression, a little wary. His features are still emotionless, and though you don’t think he’s lying, you ask just for reassurance. “Really?” 

He nods. “And…” His expression shutters a little. “I don’t plan on marrying for anything other than love.” 

There goes your parents' plans, you think, and though you are a little bit down at the prospect of disappointing them, your chest feels somewhat lighter. 

You’re not entirely sure why. 

“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever heard saying that,” You muse. Your mother certainly never has, and you have never been delusional enough to think it of your father. 

You don’t mind it, though. You used to dream about love, in the way many little girls do, awestruck at the romances in the fairy-tales your nanny used to read to you before bed. You are about to say, I’m happy for you.

But then, you think of their expressions, the way they will look at you when you go back and tell them that he doesn’t want to marry you; he wishes only to marry for love. You know what your mother will say; how she will simply tell you to make him fall in love with you⏤ your worth as a woman lies in your face and your body, and how you should make good use of it, before you wither.

So you are just a little bit selfish when you say: “Let’s just be friends, then!” 

He blinks at you. “Friends?”

You flash him a grin, your heart rattling in your chest. You hope he says yes⏤ firstly, because you won’t be entirely a disappointment, and secondly, because that means he’s the only one you’ll be meeting for the purposes of anything other than developing your family’s connections. 

“Friends.” You confirm, before backpedaling at your forwardness “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s also okay⏤” 

You’re glancing up at him a little worriedly, trying to gauge his expression. 

“It’s not that.” He says. And then, after a beat of silence, even quieter. “It’s just that no one’s ever asked to be my friend before.”

You blink. Oh. And then, hope bubbles, like a warmth in your chest. 

“Well! That’s okay!” You think of all the other children your parents have had you make connections with. “No one’s ever asked to be mine, either.” 

He’s watching you a little strangely, you think. “Okay.” 

There’s a beat of silence. You’re not sure what he means⏤ okay? Okay to what? Okay that no one’s ever asked to be your friend before? You flush a little. You’re not sure what to say⏤ you’re not usually so bad at holding a conversation, but then again, you’ve never had one quite like this. 

Then, he asks, a little awkwardly. “What do friends… do?” 

You think your heart stops. You can’t believe your ears. You’re not sure what expression you have on your face, but you’re sure it’s something between disbelief and gaping.

You shut your mouth and still your features the way your mother has taught you to, but you can’t help the smile tugging sharply at your lips, wide and beaming. “Well, no clue! I’ve never had a friend before. We can figure it out!” 

“Okay.” He says, a touch serious. “Do you want me to show you the house?” 

You’re not sure that’s exactly what friends do⏤ you’ve read enough about them in your books, but you appreciate him all the more for trying. “Anything to get out of the sun.” You sigh a little. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sweating.” 

“I’m not.” He supplies, helpfully. “I can make some ice.” 

You’re a little surprised. “Oh, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to trouble you⏤” 

You know of his Quirk, of course, and how he’s Endeavour’s son, but you’ve also seen your brother struggling with his own, and you don’t want to burden him.

He only holds out his left hand in response, the top of it icing over.

You gasp a little at the ease with which he does. “You’re so cool!”

“Only my left side.” 

You’re a little confused, but then you remember. Ah. Half-cold half-hot. You nod, understandingly. “Does that mean you can use fire on your right side, then?” 

He stiffens at that, and your heart drops like a stone⏤ you’ve said something wrong, you don’t know exactly what, but it’s too late to take it back. 

“Yes,” He says, a touch colder. 

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you innately wary. Not of him, exactly, but the topic itself, and then you think of how you’re at his house, but his mother hasn’t come out to greet you; how his father, the older Todoroki-san, had offered no explanation.

Briefly, you wonder if his family is just like yours. 

But you don’t dwell on it long, catching yourself mid-thought. It’s not polite to gossip about others’ affairs, your mother tells you once. 

“Well, I think you’ll be a good Hero, if that’s what you want to be,” Your smile is an olive branch. 

“It is.” He blinks, slightly confused. “Thank you.” 

You only laugh a little. “My Quirk wasn’t strong enough, so that dream ended before it could even start. Not that my mother would let me, anyways, I guess. I get to dance now, though, and I think I like it better.” 

You can see that he’s unsure of how to respond to this, so you flash him another smile. 

“Your ice was really cool, but I’m still sweating so much that I’m scared I’ll melt.” 

“Humans can’t melt.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I don’t want to be the first!” 

This is your second core memory. It is the only one absent of your mother, and it is also one you will treasure for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your mother presses you for details on the car ride back, and you are feeling both proud and just a little guilty when you report to her that you and Shouto are now friends. 

She looks a little surprised when you tell her⏤ clearly, you hadn’t been the only one to notice his more reclusive tendencies⏤ but no less than pleased. 

Your guilt soars, and you confess right then and there that he’d told you he’d only ever marry for love.

Her brow rises a little at that, but all she says is: “Well, the two of you have many years for that, don’t you?”

The ease with which her reply comes makes you feel just a little uncomfortable. Of course you don’t mind marrying him⏤ he’s kind, he’s your first friend, and his arm is undoubtedly worth a lot, but you’re not sure that’s what love is.

But you say none of what you think, and none of what you feel. 

You only dip your head, murmuring a yes, mother, and listen to the pleased tone of her hum.

You don’t see him for a good month after that. Between your extracurriculars⏤ your advanced classes and your dance lessons, you don’t get much of a chance to even think of him, and when you do, you wish you hadn’t forgotten to exchange numbers. Even the other children⏤ the ones you connect with for your family⏤ text you every so often, but you’re not officially friends with them like you are the red-and-white haired Todoroki-san, and honestly, you think you like him just a bit more. 

But what if he forgets you? You worry when you find the time, you worry even when you don’t, you worry while you are being driven to his house for the second time and your mother asks you what’s wrong, and you say I’m fine because that’s what you’re supposed to and⏤ did you forget me? 

You freeze. You didn’t mean to ask that. 

But then, he’s blinking up at you, looking a little lost. “Was I supposed to?” His brow furrows a little. “I’m not sure it’s possible, but I can try if you’d like.” 

You don’t know what exactly you’re feeling, but you think it’s a little bit like how you felt when you managed to slide into the splits the first time, or when your sensei praises you for landing a particularly difficult spin in your routine.

You beam wide. “No, it’s okay! I was just worried!” 

“Why?” He’s assessing you, a little confused. “We’re friends. Aren’t we?”

You think this is the first time you’ve smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.  

“Yeah!” You bring your pinky up, a little more shy, as you recite a line you’d seen in one of your books. “Best friends forever?” 

He alternates his gaze between your face and the pinky you proffer, before eventually offering up his own, a question written into it. 

You only link yours together. “You pinky promised. That means forever. You can’t break it now, okay?” 

His glance is still a little questioning, but eventually, something settles upon his face. “Okay.” He says, simply. 

You think you do not care if you do not get married to him, like your parents want you to. You think it is okay if he never loves you like that, because this has already made you happier than you have ever been.

You think that being best friends with him is more than enough, as long as forever means the rest of your life. 

And it is.

For the rest of that summer, and for several years after that, you get to see him weekly. 

You call him Shouto-san now, after he’d allowed it of you the first time you’d met his siblings and instantly confused them all with the sheer number of Todoroki-sans you were saying, but he also gets to call you by your first name, so it’s something of an equivalent exchange. You’re always the one getting dropped off at his house, though your mother has offered for him to visit you several times⏤ Endeavour-san’s always the one to refuse, and after so much time spent at their house, you think you understand some of it. 

After all, sometimes, you think the way he tries to shape Shouto in his image is just a little bit like how your mother tries to shape you. 

You don’t say anything, of course. You have been taught to be quietly observant the whole of your life. 

But it’s why you notice certain things. 

You notice the way Endeavour looks at you, and how it feels a little bit like your father’s. You know what they see⏤ you have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all; child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter of a whore mother⏤ and you know right there and then, that even had you wanted to marry Shouto, you would not have been able to. His father would not have allowed it, though he will allow you as you are⏤ friends and no more, for the sake of the connections, the opportunities you allow him. 

You are fine with that, though. Shouto is going to marry for love, you hope he does, and you are already happy enough if you get to be best friends for the rest of your life. 

Your mother has taught you to be quietly observant the whole of your life, and it’s why you also notice the way he treats his son, though you don’t say anything; it’s not your place. But you note the way your friend tenses a little whenever his father walks around, his own footfalls quieter than they have ever been before, the muteness, and the anger-fuelled resentment, even if he does not yet know how to express it. You think the way his father tries to shape him in his image is a little bit like how your mother tries to shape you in hers, though it’s a little different⏤ she never bruises you, at the very least.

You don’t say anything; you have asked your mother, and she has told you that it’s not your place. 

But your heart hurts a little, so you still ask your driver to fetch you some soothing cream, and you leave it on his desk the next week. 

He doesn’t mention it, and yet the next time you arrive, he hands you a pile of CD’s, wordless.

It’s a mixture: some of your favorite opera songs, the ones you’d told him you dreamed of starring in one day, and the recordings of several ballet pieces interspersed between. 

You stare at the stack in your hands, entirely mute, so many emotions stuck in your throat that the words simply do not come out. Something in you aches. 

He’s watching you a little worriedly. “Do you… like them?”

“I do.” You croak.

He draws a little closer. “But you’re crying.” 

“Happy tears.” On impulse, you reach over to wrap your arms around him⏤ he freezes, the two of you have never been particular on touch, but his are coming around you in the next moment, somewhat awkward in placement, but you don’t even care. You only say, somewhat thickly into his chest. “I love it.”

You mean it. 

It’s not just about the expenses⏤ though looking the quality, of course they cost a hefty sum, you think a little despairingly, but of course it is, it’s Shouto. 

Shouto, who tries his best to text you back even when the both of you are tired from a long day at your respective training, who listens to you ramble about the things you found interesting with a small smile on his face, who claps for you when you show him your dances⏤ even in the beginning, when you weren’t nearly as good and stumbled a few times. 

Shouto, who notices all the little things, like when you’ve stopped taking as much food as you have before because your mother told you you should start eating less, and pushes a little bit more towards you, a questioning look on his face. Shouto, who makes a social media account for you only because you said you’d started one, who follows only you, likes only your posts, who remembers it all, your preferred genre, the songs you mention once upon a time. 

Shouto, who cups the whole of you in his hands now, hesitant, but no less careful, as if he were handling one of your mother’s porcelain dolls, as if you are something precious. 

“I’m glad,” He tells you. “I was worried you wouldn’t like them.” 

You think back to all the other gifts you have received in your life, piles upon piles of birthday presents, exquisitely jeweled, enough to buy a small fortune; enough to buy what is in your mind equivalent to that of a small kingdom. The pieces your mother buys you, a little more suited to your taste than the gaudy opulence of the others, and far more expensive than this, but⏤ you want to tell him that none of them can even compare. You want to tell him that this is the most thoughtful thing you have ever received in your life, the first thing that isn’t bought just because someone thought it might look pretty on you, so that you can wear it just once and then throw it away⏤ that you like it so much maybe just because it’s so thoughtful, and maybe just because it’s him. 

( But then, you think of the way his father looks at you, how it’s a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. 

You think of his hesitance the first day, the way his shoulders had relaxed, ever slightly, when you’d said it was okay because you didn’t really want to get engaged, either⏤ a lie, you’ve known it was only your duty the whole of your life, and you’d said it even though you knew it would have wholly disappointed your parents, because you’d seen his displeasure, how uncomfortable he was. 

You think of the absence of his mother, the one he tells you he has started visiting in the hospital, and how the day before, he is the most nervous you have ever seen him. )

And in the end, all you settle for is this. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever been given in my life.” 

He smiles, soft and beautiful. “I’m glad,” He tells you again. 

You think of the firmity in his tone when he tells you that he is going to marry only for love, and you think: you are fine with this. You are glad that Shouto is going to marry for love, and you hope that he does. 

After all, you think you are already happy enough being here with him, solidified in your position as his first real friend, his best friend, forever, for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s around age thirteen when the routine the two of you have fallen into begins to change. 

Shouto is the one to tell you first, and then Endeavour contacts your parents officially a week later. He needs to prepare in earnest for UA, he tells you, and won’t be able to see you as often. He is apologetic as he says it, but you understand⏤ you have understood that though he holds no small amount of resentment towards his father, heroism to him is no less than dance is towards you. Something natural, as easy as breathing, like you were simply made for it; a discipline that has already been carved into you, from the top of your head and down to the tips of your toes. 

You don’t mind, not entirely, because though you are similarly despondent at the prospect of not being able to see him nearly as often, you have only just begun to kickstart your own career in earnest. Your mother pulls you from your school, leaving only the most necessary of subjects for your tutors to cover⏤ your days start becoming measured in the hours you spend with your dance instructors and pop-quizzes you barely have the presence of mind to study for, between the constant mini-shoots your mother puts you through for your social media accounts, and the bone-weary training you endure before passing out upon your bed each night. 

You don’t mind it though, you think. You enjoy it, actually, the way dance seems to hem itself into your very soul, a silent song that lengthens your every step, the grace of your arms. 

You don’t mind the hunger that gnaws at you, sharp and cutting, nor do you protest when your mother tells you to eat a little less, despite the fact that you haven’t had anything for breakfast, nor really for lunch. Because she’s your mother, and you believe her, and she is right; you did look a little bloated in that picture the other day, and that’s why it didn’t get nearly as many likes as the previous. Your face is beautiful⏤ it is the face of your mother, and you are too young yet for the arm of a man to hang off of, so you measure your worth in the last: your body, and the width of your hips. 

The next time Shouto sees you, it’s on video call, and you don’t think you’re mistaking the way his face tightens a little. “Have you been eating?” He asks you, direct and straight to the point. 

You are not really lying when you tell him that yes, you have, and you are not really lying when you don’t tell him: not as much. You are not really lying as you don’t tell him that you threw up the other day, sick on the taste of one of the foods you used to love so much, because you’d eaten it, and then started thinking of how many calories it was, how bloated you would look for the next picture, how your likes would fall, how your followers might fluctuate. 

You only thank him for liking all of your posts, anyways, like he always does. Between the rest of your activities, you barely have any time at all to yourself, and when you do manage to scrape some together, you are texting him. You tell him about your dances, how you feel about them, the music, your upcoming performances, and he tells you about his days in return. 

You tell him about the company you’ve started dancing for, how you’re not one of their lead dancers yet, but that you’re really good, so you might very well be one day. You’re not sure though⏤ you know you’re an amazing dancer, it’s a discipline you have carved inside you, like an extension of your very soul, but there are also a thousand-and-one girls who have done the exact same, who wear themselves out in hopes of achieving the coveted title of prima ballerina. You’re not that worried, though, you know you’re good, and achieving it isn’t just a pipe dream; it’s a very real possibility that you will achieve with your own two hands in the future. 

Shouto nods, and says, very seriously, that he knows you will, too. 

You smile at him when he says this, and your chest is so light that you almost forget everything else⏤ the gnawing hunger in the pit of your stomach, the despair you’d felt after your last post didn’t gain so much traction, the fact that you hadn’t gotten the lead role this time, because there’s another girl who’s not-quite as good as you but that your company still wishes to see develop; see flourish. Shouto has always had this effect on you⏤ you don’t know if it’s because of the simple way he says it, or the genuine way he seems to believe in you, and in everything you do, but when you talk to him, your worries seem entirely insignificant, like nothing else even matters.

But your mother does not think the same.

She believes a woman’s worth is measured in three things, just as you do. The worth of the man’s arm you cling to, but you are still a little young for this, your body⏤ the width of your hips⏤ and your face, and by extension, your youth. The world views women as flowers, she has told you once. They have no interest in the older ones; the ones that have already started to wilt. 

She means it the first few times as a criticism of herself. But every time after that seems to sound more like a warning; a prodding to you⏤ you, freshly thirteen, and at the very start of your career, you who are undoubtedly talented at dancing, so much that becoming the most renowned prima ballerina in the world isn’t just a pipe dream, but very real possibility you will achieve, with your own two hands in the future. 

You don’t know if your mother thinks the same, but you do know that in the future is just not good enough for her.

After all, youth to her is like a broken fountain, a well with no water, a stream already run dry. Yours may be glorious and still-gushing, but the timer is ticking, and in the future is not good enough at all.

And when everything after happens, you will understand, innately, that this is the why. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The third of your core memories starts something like this. 

You are in a room with three people: you, your mother, and a man you do not know.

You do not remember the specifics of his face. You remember only that he was older, so much older that much of his hair had turned white, that he smelled sort of like your grandmother, in the way that all old people do, and that he was touching you.

Your mother was in the room with you. She was not watching, but she was aware⏤ you know she was, because you were looking at her, wondering if it was okay⏤ you did not think it was, but she didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything, and you thought that it was, that it had to be, that you were the strange one. ( This is your mother, the one that has held you, nursed you, sacrificed a great many of her youthful years for you. ) 

You remember only that he was touching you, and that you did not like it. 

It’s not sex. You’re thirteen, so you’ve learned enough about it in school to know what that is, but he’s touching you in places that no one ever has before, and you think that there is something wrong with the situation, but you’re not sure⏤ your mother does not say a thing, so you think that you’re the one in the wrong. This is normal, and it’s strange of you to feel so profoundly uncomfortable, to want to tell him to stop, but you don’t, because your mother doesn’t say anything, so it’s okay, so it has to be, right? 

You suppose it’s not something to care about that much, anyways. He doesn’t hurt you, you’re only uncomfortable, and his company is so renowned that when you land the lead ballerina role the next week, your social media account does numbers. 

It’s fine, you think. You were only uncomfortable, and when you ask your mother about it later, she says only this. Well, you didn’t say no, and then she gives you a look. You’re doing just fine, aren’t you? 

She’s right, you think. You had been uncomfortable, and you hadn’t wanted it, but you hadn’t said no, so really, it’s your own fault for not communicating properly. And you’re the strange one⏤ your mother had been in the same room, after all, and she hadn’t said a thing, so it must have been normal.

You do not tell anyone else about this. You are not sure if you should; you are ashamed, and you do not think you want to. There is no one else you can, anyways, outside of your mother, because the only one you are really close enough to talk to about non-surface level topics is Shouto, and you don’t want to bother him with your worries. He’s studying to enter UA, he has enough on his plate, and you were the strange one for overreacting like you did, how you are the strange one for being uncomfortable.

It is your fault in the first place, you think, because you did not say no.

You do not end up telling Shouto about it. 

This is the third and last of your childhood memories, and it is also one you will carry for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You flourish like your mother wants you to. 

Your social media account explodes, your follower count with it, so many that you are not just known as a dancer and occasional influencer in circles, but a celebrity, true and proper. You are recognized on the streets now, there are people that ask for your autograph, you are scrutinized everywhere you go; your outfits and your makeup are the talk of the town.

It is not so strange. You have always been the subject of scrutiny wherever you go⏤ when you were young, it was because you were your father’s youngest child, the one born from his whore-wife turned eventual actress, the subject of a thousand countless speculations; if they had gotten together only because of you, and if you were even his child at all. 

But even before that, it had been your mother always; watching you with an eagle eye, micromanaging your every move, every step, and after, you had started to do much of it yourself. You know what beauty requires of you⏤ hunger gaping like a chasm in your stomach, pain as they wax the hair from your arms, angles that make you look better than the others, though at the moment, you do not yet need procedures only money can buy. When you are not dancing, you are primping yourself, obsessing over the slightest of flaws⏤ your mother boasts that you don’t need drugs like all the others in the industry to survive, to keep yourself slim, and there is pride in her voice. 

Shouto still makes sure to text you every day, and you do the same to him. Sometimes it’s longer, the two of you managing to scrape enough time together to have a longer conversation, the ones where you always initiate a voice call, missing the sound of his voice. ( Eventually, he starts asking you if he can call you, and your heart beats beautifully light in your throat. ) But you don’t video call him, not like the first time⏤ where he’d asked you if you were eating, and you could only try your best not to lie. 

You do not see each other often. Sometimes you miss the early days, when you could go over to his house every week and spend hours simply sprawled in the sun, doing whatever you could, whatever you’d like. You miss your conversations about anything and everything and nothing at all; some manga you thought he’d enjoy, learning how to bake⏤ he’s horrible at cooking, and so are you, but you have fun while doing it, and that’s all that matters⏤ but more often, you simply miss him. 

But you get your chance to see him soon enough, two years since you last laid eyes upon each other, sometime during the school year. 

It’s been a long time since your mother withdrew you from your own school⏤ you still have your tutors, but they’re significantly lesser than before. Your career is already set in stone, after all, and you are neither a man nor your father’s heir, so anything you learn beyond the basics is mere formality. But your brother’s giving a presentation to the older business kids at UA, and he asks you if you’d like to tag along. 

You know your father would disapprove⏤ he doesn’t like it when you interact with his heir. But your brother has always been kind to you, even though you are a child from another mother, even if your mother is not so kind to him⏤ he is kind to you when he offers, and you think you have never been so grateful. 

UA is large in a way you have never known a school to be. Their campus sprawls before you, building after building, and it looks so cool. You are a little in awe, and just a little jealous of the people that get to go here⏤ not that you have any particular desire to learn, you were never very good at it, but more so because you’ve never really gotten the chance to experience what it’s like. And the interior is even better⏤ the halls almost exactly like the ones in the shoujo manga you enjoyed, once upon a time. You wonder how many of the people who attended here have gotten to live out those scenes in real life; the people that are loved enough to make protagonists out of, whose stories are enough to touch their audiences, to inspire them. 

You have seen many of these faces on social media, up-and-coming heroes that the Pros post, on occasion. You are a little surprised when some of them even recognize you⏤ not that much, because you’re something of a celebrity by now, but you did not think people as cool as these aspiring heroes would pay attention to something like you. You honestly thought your brother would be the popular one⏤ he’s your father’s heir, after all, and he’s already a rising star in the business industry, but it’s you they’re fawning over, you who’s being asked for your autograph, you who the girls approach with shy smiles on their faces, complimenting your outfit, your lip shade, calling you pretty. 

“I’ll go ahead and get set up. Text me when you’re ready to leave, alright?” Your brother smiles down at you, and you’re about to ask him why, but then you see a flash of red-and-white, out of the corner of your eye. 

Heart held like a butterfly in your throat, you turn. 

You’ve seen him on the television, of course⏤ you watch every moment of his from the Sports Festival, complimenting his cool moves, telling him to start posting actively onto his social media account⏤ you’d be famous! you tell him, but it’s only teasing; you know he has no interest. You’ve seen him fighting villains, follow all the fan accounts there are of him with your alt account⏤ he makes an account for you, and you decide it’s only fair if you make one for him⏤ but you haven’t seen him like this in person, in almost three whole years. He’s taller than you remember, of course he is⏤ he’s not thirteen anymore, and he’s significantly more well-muscled, and you understand why girls gush over him, even though he’s not officially a Hero; the real-life version of your fairytale Prince Charming. 

He’s panting a little as he walks towards you, the crowd parting before him⏤ you wonder if he’d run to see you, but then your arms are opening, and he’s holding you, cupping the whole of you in your hands like he did the first time⏤ hesitant and careful, as if you were one of your mother’s porcelain dolls, like something precious. You don’t want this moment to end, and from the way he’s holding you, if you were delusional enough, you might have thought him to think the same. You squeeze back a little⏤ it’s been years since you’ve seen him, and he doesn’t say anything at first, and you don’t need him to. Shouto has always spoken more with his actions than he ever has his words, as you have come to know⏤ you don’t need him to say anything to know that this is his way of saying I missed you. 

You don’t want this moment to end, but it’s broken, eventually, by a voice from the other side of the hall⏤ “She’s your girlfriend ?” A golden-haired boy gapes. “You’ve been holding out on us, man!” 

You’re the one to step away a little, flushing. “It’s not⏤” 

“Todoroki, you bastard,” Someone else moans. 

“It’s not like that,” You correct, a little more firmly. You don’t want them to get the wrong idea⏤ you don’t want to ruin anything he has. You are his best friend, you have decided a long time ago; you will not destroy what you have for something so uncertain, and that is why you inform them. “Shouto-san’s only going to marry for love.”

You realize right after the words leave your mouth that there are multiple interpretations to this. First, the way you meant them, that Shouto is only ever going to marry for love, and as an extension, that he is not in love with you. There’s a beat of silence⏤ they’re looking at you a little bit strangely, you think, and the thought has you clutching your box a little tighter to your chest.

But then, you remember. That’s right. Your box. You hold it up like an offering, a practiced smile spreading over your face⏤ “I brought macarons for you!” You say, bright. “I practiced a lot after the last time, so they’re a lot better than the last time we tried to make them, so I thought you could maybe share them with your class? Or your friends? The chefs helped me, so they should be okay to eat⏤” 

You’re rambling, you think, just a little, but you are relieved when he accepts the box as you thrust it towards him. 

He stares at it a little blankly. “Why?” 

You blink. “Why did I make them?” 

“Why do I have to share?” 

“Todoroki, you bastard.” Someone⏤ a different someone this time, groans again. 

“Think of it as me bribing your friends so they’re a little nicer to you.” You laugh a little at the small frown on his face. “Do you want to introduce me to them?” 

You see his mouth open, already forming a no. 

“The friends and classmates in question would love to introduce themselves to you.” A pink-haired, pink-skinned girl cuts in, grinning. 

You smile a little at this, but then Shouto cuts in, a little assertively. “Over lunch, then. I’ll buy it for you.” 

You are about to say, oh, there’s no need, or I’ve already eaten today, but he only glances at you, the purse of his mouth a little insistent. 

You think of the way he’d asked you the one and only time you facetimed him if you’d been eating well, to take care of yourself, and you see that same worry in his eyes now.

You nod, mentally counting up the calories, but you still say in the end, “Okay.” 

His expression softens, brightening a little, and though you don’t really think you should be eating, you don’t entirely mind. 

You think he is a bit different from the boy you once knew.

You remember how he was sullen and a little bit quietly churlish, though he was not actively trying to be⏤ closed off to the world, a pearl stuck in a clam shell. But you look at him now, and you think he is not at all the same. There are some parts of him left, of course, but he seems brighter, now, more open; comfortable and almost entirely at ease. And it’s no wonder⏤ you think his classmates are very lovely, and they are very kind. 

You find yourself enjoying their company⏤ you internalize their names, telling them that they can reach out to you if they’d like; you’re pretty alright at social media yourself, and are always happy to help them with anything, though you’ll only probably be of help in the public relations aspect, you note a touch apologetically. You offer to do some photoshoots with the girls Shouto’s closer with⏤ the brown-haired one looks a little starstruck, though the black-haired one looks less sure.

“I’d hate to trouble you,” She says, politely⏤ Yaoyorozu Momo, you remember, from a family less well-off, but still memorable enough to occasionally haunt the same circles.

“Shouto-san’s friends are my friends,” You sense him watching you, so obligingly, you take another bite of your food.

You’re not watching him, but you still get the general sense that he is pleased.

“Yaomomo, you did mention you like tea, right? Maybe we can all meet up sometime for a party!”

“Oh! Yes, I’d love that! My place is open, I’d love to host⏤” She glances at you. “Would that be… amenable to you?” 

You smile, and you feel a little warm. “I’d love to attend, if you’ll have me.”

She smiles back, delighted.

You only think, you are glad that Shouto has so many friends like this at his side; open and warm, accepting him for who he is, as comfortably as you have ever seen him.

You tell him exactly this as he walks you back to the front entrance.

“Your friends are really nice,” You say. “I’m glad I got to meet them. Tell me how they’re doing, every once in a while?”

He glances at you, a question in his eyes. “Why not ask them yourself?”

He must have seen the question in yours.

“They want to be your friend. Anyone would.”

He says it so simply, so naturally, that your heart is beating so fast you think it might escape from your chest.

“Thank you,” You say, because you don’t know what else to.

He nods. Your brother is there, you have arrived, the limo and your driver in the background, but his mouth opens, and you find yourself hesitating, wanting to hear what he has to say.

“When you said I was going to marry for love,” He says slowly, and you are hanging onto his every word. You get the sense that he is watching you very carefully. “You didn’t say anything about yourself. Does that mean you aren’t?”

And the first thought that rises to your head when he asks you this is: no. 

You dream of love once upon a time, of course, as many little girls do; immersing yourself in your fairy tales, the princesses stolen by dragons and then the ones who save them, their one and only Prince Charmings. You dream of it every time you read a romance novel, one of your shoujo manga, the plotline of one of the operas you dance for⏤ the ones you send him, discuss with him, the ones that he reads, even though it’s not necessarily the kind he likes.

You dream of it the first time you meet him, and every time thereafter, because how could you not?

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who texts you every day, even when you know he is tired from all the training he has to do, who listens to your long rambling over the phone, who doesn’t hang up on you so that you can fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. Shouto, who makes sure to send a small gift to your residence every year after you cry at the first one he gives you⏤ because it is the best present you have ever received in your life. Shouto, who notices all the little things, pushes the things he knows you like towards you, asks if you’re eating, who makes his one and only social media account for you to like your posts and solely to like your posts.

You don’t know how it happened, if it was slowly over the years, or all at once, but you know what you feel for him now, as you look at him. You look at him now, your heart tight, your chest light⏤ at the face of your best friend, and when you look at him, the thought comes to you, naturally, upon a breeze, as if it were as easy as breathing.

But you do not know if he feels the same; he tells you once upon a time that he is only going to marry for love, and you have long since decided that you are happy enough like this, with what you have, so long as you are able to stay his best friend for the rest of your life.

You smile, and when you say we’ll see what happens, it does not feel entirely like the truth, and yet it also does not feel entirely like a lie.

You turn away before he can see your expression shutter, and that also means you do not see his.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your father has always been an intimidating man.

It’s in his nature⏤ he’s a businessman, and a powerful one which means there’s always been a surety to his step, an inherent confidence that most people cannot even hope to emulate, nor to learn. He is a man born from old money and steeped fully in its traditions, something that has carried into the way he treats the things around him, along with the people.

You understand this quite well; after all, that is why he married your mother.

You learned the reason for this when you were younger. You had never questioned his treatment of you before⏤ after all, your father is a traditional man, and you are neither a man nor his heir, so it has never really bothered you that he treats you differently from your brother; addressing you only across the dinner table to inquire about the state of your connections, when he does deign to speak to you. And you don’t mind⏤ you’ve always thought of him a little cold, a little intimidating, and your mother is the parent you go to, anyways⏤ your mother who has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed a great many of her youthful years for you. 

But you are six when you first learn the meaning of bastard, and then all of a sudden, it all makes sense.

Your mother was a famous actress, this, you know. You also know of how she was made from nothing, how she never finished high school, how her first agency whisked her away before she even turned fully sixteen. How she, a girl born from nothing, who had nothing, managed to dig her roots deep, carving out her own place in the world, clawing her way to the top. A woman’s worth, she says to you once upon a time, is made of three things⏤ her face and her body, two things she has in abundance, and the arm of the man she clings to.

You are six when you understand; your father is a traditional man, and that is the only reason he marries your mother. 

Perhaps that is why when he gives you your ultimatum, you are already expecting it.

You have already known from early on that this is what your parents want from you. Your father is a businessman, his heart ruled in strict transaction, and your mother is not much better in her own views⏤ marriage to her is a way of elevating her social standing, of cementing her worth. 

And that is why when you stare at the file before you, the world around falling away, you are not surprised when she does not say a thing. 

He is a good enough match, you suppose; a rich man, one that’s greeted you after your performances enough time that you see his face, and you are able to recall his name. You could do worse⏤ he is handsome enough, and rising quickly through the ranks⏤ likely blood money, you think, but that is common enough in your circles that you do not bat an eye. You feel the satisfaction in your father’s gaze, and wonder how much he offered for you, if it was a fortune⏤ it had to be no small amount, you think, but you would not be surprised if it wasn’t. 

“Surely we can find a suitor closer to her age,” Your brother is the one to break the silence. You are a little surprised⏤ he doesn’t usually question your father’s decisions, after all, he is the golden child; the one that is favored most. “What about any of the children from the other families?” 

“None of them would’ve matched the offer,” Your father rumbles, and you hear what he doesn’t say. How none of them would be able to match the offer, to be willing to pay enough, because you are not worth that much, because all you are worth is your face, the width of your hips, and what you are; your father’s bastard daughter, the one conceived out of wedlock. 

He adds, as an afterthought. 

“Unless, of course, you manage to convince the Todoroki child, that friend of yours, to marry.” 

Your fork pauses midair, and you consider the possibility, for all of a moment. 

( You dream of love once upon a time, of course, as many little girls do; immersing yourself in your fairy tales, the princesses stolen by dragons and then the ones who save them, their one and only Prince Charmings. You dream of it every time you read a romance novel, one of your shoujo manga, the plotline of one of the operas you dance for⏤ the ones you send him, discuss with him, the ones that he reads, even though it’s not necessarily the kind he likes.

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who has been your best friend since you first met him at age seven, who has been the one unchanging constant in your life, your rock, who looks at the post where your mother called you bloated and tells you, in that simple way of his, that you look beautiful. Who looks up to you, an inquisitive look in his eyes whenever you call out to him, giving you the whole of his attention in a way no one else has ever done before, hanging on to your every word and listening, taking every one of your worries and thoughts into consideration, no matter how silly, nor how unwarranted. 

You don’t know how it happened, if it was slowly over the years, or all at once, but you know what you feel for him now. You think you always have, and it was simply so natural, how could you not? )

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who knows you just as well as you do him, and that is also why you know, if you asked him, he would undoubtedly say yes. 

And then, the guilt hits.

You think of the way his father used to look at you, the way it looked a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. You think of how Shouto tells you once upon a time that he will only marry for love, and though you are sure he cares for you, you do not know if he feels the same as you do. You have promised yourself once upon a time that you are already content enough, and happy enough, to be able to call him your best friend for the rest of your life. You think that, though you know he would agree to it in an instant, because you are the one to ask it of him⏤ your kind, thoughtful Shouto, who has always put your needs before his own, thought of you before anything else⏤ you are happy enough with what you have; you do not want to be the one to ruin it, to ruin him, and his choice. 

And that is also why you put your fork down, and say, quietly. 

“The man you’ve picked will do, father.” 

You think your brother’s eyes widen as he looks at you, the only member of your four-man table who looks even remotely upset at your answer. Your own face is blank, as it always is at these dinners, your mother sees no difference between the two of them; one man’s arm to her is worth just the same as another.

Your father is smiling, pleased. 

“Very well. We shall announce your engagement within the year.” 

Your mother smiles. “Is there something you’d like as a present, darling? Some new pointe shoes, maybe? You were always complaining about how yours don’t even last a full two weeks.”

“No need.” Your father places his fork down. “You’ll be stopping all your dance activities. It was one of the conditions of your marriage.” 

The food tastes like ash in your mouth. 

You think: you can handle being a wife. You were always prepared for the eventuality of it. But not dance⏤ a prima ballerina’s time in the spotlight, you have known, will always be limited, but you are not prepared for this. You are not ready for this part of you to be cut away just yet, like a surgical incision.

You swallow. “But father⏤” 

“A wife has no need for such trivialities as dance.” 

The words die down in your throat. 

Your mother is silent. Your brother tries, at least. “But surely some⏤” 

“That is final.”

You dip your head. Your voice is thick. You say only one thing.

“Yes, father.” 

You say only the mantra you have been repeating for the most of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first thing you say to your future husband is to ask if you may finish up the rest of your season’s performances. 

He allows it of you. Of course he does; he is drunk on his victories, pleased enough to offer you this small consolation. 

You dance the best you ever have. The tabloids applaud each of your performances as better than the last, the kinder papers worry about your health, you dance for you and yourself, the years you have put into it, the years you will lose; you dance like you will never get the chance to ever again.

You won’t; you know this, and that is why you dance until your body breaks, ignoring each and every last one of your friends’ concerned messages⏤ from both Shouto and his friends; the kind and lovely ones, that you used to see sometimes for tea. 

You dance until your body breaks, literally, on the last of your performances. 

Your fall from grace, the media calls it.

You do not care. You have given it all you have, and there will be no more dance after this, anyway. 

You ignore your friends’ concerned messages⏤ both from Shouto and his friends; the kind and lovely ones, that you used to see sometimes for tea. He calls you directly⏤ is everything alright, you hear him ask you, what’s wrong, what can I do for you, what happened? 

He must have seen the articles, then. You think it is the most panicked you have ever heard him. 

You tell him that you are fine, you just hurt your ankle a bit.

You don’t tell him that the doctors do not think you will be able to dance like you did ever again. 

He is silent for all of a moment, and then he asks you, simply. “Are you okay?” 

The sound of it, his simple concern, is enough to bring tears to your eyes, a lump to your throat. You don’t remember the last time anyone’s ever asked you that. 

You almost break, right then and there. You don’t want to marry this man you do not know, this man who reminds you of the other one, once upon a time, from your core memories, this man that you do not want. You know if you did, if you asked, he wouldn’t even hesitate to agree, because it’s you, only because it’s you, and you want to. You want to ask so badly that it aches.

( But then, you think of the way his father used to look at you, the way it looked a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. 

You think of how Shouto tells you once upon a time that he will only marry for love, and though you are sure he cares for you, you do not know if he feels the same as you do. You have promised yourself once upon a time that you are already content enough, and happy enough, to be able to call him your best friend for the rest of your life. 

You think that, though you know he would agree to it in an instant, because you are the one to ask it of him⏤ your kind, thoughtful Shouto, who has always put your needs before his own, thought of you before anything else⏤ you are happy enough with what you have; you do not want to be the one to ruin it, to ruin him, and his choice. )

You do not ask.

Instead, you tell him only the truth, soft and quiet. “I’m getting engaged, Shouto.” 

There is a beat of long silence. Only then do you realize the question he had asked⏤ are you okay, and realize what his mind is undoubtedly sifting through at the moment, that you are not okay because you are getting engaged.

You hasten to correct yourself. “I mean, I’m fine, that’s not why. It’s just…” 

You swallow. You don’t want to say this, but you know you should. You know what kind of person you are, you know that you will cave eventually, at some point down the line, because you love him so much that your heart hurts, and you do not think you can bear the burden of continuing like this any longer.

“I don’t think we should call like this any longer.” 

You want to take the words back as soon as you say them. Already, you are trying to memorize the way he shapes his words, the tone of his voice.

He is silent on the other end. Too silent, and for too long. And then, all he says is this, softer than you have ever heard. 

“Do you love him?” 

You think: no. Never.

You say: “Yes.” 

Another beat of silence. You listen to the sound of him breathing, thinking of all the other calls you have had, where he stays on the line just so you can fall asleep a little easier. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and furious.

“Okay.” You can almost see him hesitating, the tentative look on his face. “I’m always here for you, whenever you need it.”

“You’ll always be my best friend, Shouto. You know that?” 

“Forever,” He says, a tad serious now. “We pinky promised.” 

You laugh. You can’t help it, thickly through your tears. “I can’t believe you still remember.” 

“Of course.” He says, and all you can think is, of course he’d remember.

You think you love him so much that it hurts. 

Your mother walks in, a questioning look in her eye.

You don’t want to cut this last conversation of yours so short, but you say, anyways. “I have to go now, Shouto. It was really nice talking to you.” You mean it.

You hang up first.

“You shouldn’t be calling him anymore,” Your mother advises. “You’re to be married soon. Your husband won’t like it.” 

“I know,” You say. 

Your smile feels bitter.

“It won’t happen again.” 

Your mother looks at you, her lips pursed. “See that it doesn’t.” 

You wait until she leaves, the basket of fruit left behind her.

Then, and only then, do you turn your head into the pillow, and let the tears fall. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first time he sees you, he thinks you look a little like a porcelain doll. 

Your skin is just as smooth, your features just as exquisite, but he thinks it’s more of the frailty of your figure, and the delicate grip you have on your parasol. You are ephemeral in a way he has never seen before, but with the kind of beauty that he thinks he’d see in a book, or in one of his manga. 

And yet⏤ you are beautiful, yes, but he has no intention of marrying you⏤ not when he has seen what the lack of love can do to a household, to his mother and father, and to every other soul that lives still in it. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you⏤ and then you say, it’s okay if you don’t want to.

He blinks a little. No one has ever said that to him before. 

He is a little apologetic, when he tells you the truth: that he only ever plans on marrying for love, and he is relieved when you smile. 

You ask him if he’d like to be friends, but you also say that it’s okay if he doesn’t want to be⏤ but he does. He’s never had a friend before⏤ he has his tutors, his combat instructors, his siblings, but he hasn’t been allowed outside yet, so he hasn’t had the chance to, and you are kind, he thinks. The kindest person he has ever met, to be kind to him for no reason at all; you are not his sibling, not his anyone, and he thinks you are kinder to him than he deserves. He wants to be your friend, and that’s why he thinks to himself the whole of the month you are gone, thinking of how to get you to call him by his first name, like they do in the manga, in the stories.

You are a little surprised when he tells you that you can, and he adds the only reasoning he can think of⏤ it’d be confusing with so many Todorokis in the house.

You are smiling as you call him Shouto-san for the first time, and at that, he feels oddly pleased. 

It’s a little awkward at first⏤ he doesn’t know what to do, or what to say; he’s never had a friend before, and neither have you. But friendship with you is easier than anything he’s felt before, he finds, like something natural, something that comes to him like breathing. He does not know if he’s doing it right, only that you are pleased when he remembers something that you said the other day, something that you like. You weren’t interested in the manga he liked before, but you try them for him, and he finds he doesn’t mind your romance ones, not entirely⏤ he doesn’t mind reading them, listening to you ramble about anything and everything you found interesting. He only hopes you don’t mind that he doesn’t talk as much, but you don’t seem to⏤ you cover up all the awkward silences with a change in topic, even when he’s a little more curt than he means to be. 

Friendship with you is easier than anything he’s felt before. You don’t mind his awkward pauses, his sharper silences, the shortness of his words, and you are simply so easy to talk to. You are thoughtful and altruistic, pay close attention to every single one of his moods, and even though he knows there is more you don’t say⏤ he knows it’s you that leaves soothing cream on his desk, there’s no one else that would, and his heart clenches then, an ache, like something painful. You and your soft, considerate way of doing things, thinking it’s not your place but wanting to show your support for him anyways, doing it in a way that he might never see at all, without expecting even a thanks.

He tries really hard, combs every shop with Fuyumi he can think of, practically every one in the city.  

He stares at the pile of CD’s held in your hands, afraid of looking up, but when he does, you’re crying. 

I do like them, you tell him, but you’re crying.

You smile. “Happy tears.” And then you’re reaching for him, cradling him in your arms, and he’s freezing⏤ he doesn’t remember the last time he was held like this, that he was able to hold something like this. You fit perfectly into his arms, though he doesn’t know where exactly to put them, and he thinks he likes the way that you hold him, the way you smell, the way you bury your face in his chest. “I love it.” You croak, somewhat thickly. 

“I’m glad,” He tells you. “I was worried you wouldn’t like them.” 

And he doesn’t know how to say it, nor what exactly the feeling in his chest is, but he thinks: he doesn’t mind if he’s frozen in this moment a little longer, maybe even forever, just so long as he gets to hold you like this.

He does not know if this is what they call love, but he thinks it must be; the love that they show in your romance novels, your shoujo mangas, the ones he reads on occasion, because you ramble about them to him. Nothing else can explain it⏤ not the way his steps seem to lighten whenever he sees you, the way he checks his phone more often than ever, just in case you’ve left him another message, so much that his father starts threatening to take it away for the whole of the week. It must be⏤ it’s more than caring on just a fundamental level, it’s feeling delighted when he wakes up on his birthday because he knows there will be a present from you sitting there, reading a passage and hearing your voice in his head, thinking of how you’d react. It’s asking you to show him all your dances, and thinking you are an art form; the way you look, the way you move, and thinking you look beautiful even when you stumble; in spite of it. 

It’s running across the school when he hears that you are here. 

He is panting a little, but his steps are light, and he doesn’t mind, not when he hasn’t seen you in two years, and then there you are. 

You look just like you do in the photos, he thinks. Taller, more grown, but still so beautiful that as always, it takes his breath away. He’s always thought you are; like a porcelain doll the first time, like the heroines in some of the shoujo manga he reads or the princess of your romance novels. You are smiling at him, a vision in the sunlight, and he simply steps towards you. 

It’s a thousand little things. It’s the way you fit in his arms like you are made for them, and then he notices how thin you have become, your muscles lean, but your wrists like bone, and all he can think of is: you need to eat. It’s the way he doesn’t want to share the macarons you make him, because you spent time on them, you made them for him, not his friends that you do not even know. It’s the way you make everyone around you feel instantly at ease, smiling at Yaoyorozu as you tell her: Shouto’s friends are my friends, in the way you are simply thoughtful and considerate, in everything that you do.

“When you said I was going to marry only for love,” He says, and it’s a careful question. “You didn’t say anything about yourself. Does that mean you aren’t?” 

You hesitate, and he’s hanging on to your every word, your every breath. 

It’s a thousand little things. It’s the way his heart shutters when you smile, and when you say: “We’ll see what happens,” and his feelings do not change towards you, not even when you make it clear that you don’t feel the same. It’s the way he tamps down upon them, careful not to let them seep into his messages, into your conversations, because he thinks the only alternative worse than a world where you don’t love him is a world where he can’t talk to you at all. He can be your best friend, he’s willing to be, as long as you’re happy, as long as you let him stay in your life and by your side; he’ll take anything that you want to give him, even if it’s never more than just this.

And then you tell him that you’re getting engaged. It’s out of nowhere, you’ve never even mentioned such a thing to him, and he’s still worrying about whether or not you’re okay, what this means for you, because dance is your everything, it’s a discipline hewn into you like heroism is to him, you haven’t even told him about a man? And then you tell him⏤ I don’t think we should call like this anymore, that he finally realizes the enormity of what you’d just said.

Some part of him had always thought it would happen one day, he thinks. He just had not expected it to happen so soon. And he is fine with it, he tells himself⏤ you only said no more calls, that doesn’t mean you don’t want to talk to him, you’re still allowing him to stay in your life, and he will, even if his heart is breaking, even if it hurts.

He only asks you: “Do you love him?” 

He knows you just like how you know him. And that is why, when you say yes, he knows you mean no. 

He almost offers to marry you, right then and there. He wishes he would, he wishes he could. He wants to. But then he thinks of the way you have steeled yourself when you lie to him, the conviction in your voice.

And in the end, all he settles upon is: “Okay.” 

Your wedding is a small affair, closed off to only the closest of friends and family. He hears it is at your bequest. 

You do not invite him, and he is almost glad for it⏤ he knows he is your closest friend even without the invite. But what he wonders is if you didn’t invite him because you knew all along; the love he holds for you, and decided to spare him this pain.

You have always been so thoughtful, so considerate of him, after all, and when he thinks about it like that, his heart hurts a little. 

It’s okay, he thinks. He can be your best friend, he’s willing to be, as long as you’re happy, he’ll take anything that you want to give him, even if it’s never more than just this.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. 

He is better in some ways than your father. 

He allows you to speak to him, though you must be respectful when you do so⏤ you do not mind, of course, you have lived that way much of your life. He does not make you cook, nor clean, nor anything that a typical housewife should; understanding of your upbringing and your dancer background. You have all the food in the world, a roof above your head, a mattress beneath you, all the jewels a woman could possibly want, a mountain of wealth before her. 

You only have to smile when he comes home, kiss him upon the cheek, drape yourself around him, and allow him to use you as he wishes. 

Your mother has told you in advance about some of it, what you should expect, and how you should let him take what he wants from you, keep quiet. What if he hurts me? You find the courage to ask, because though your father hasn’t, you think it is a very real possibility, and she only looks at you, pursing her lips. 

“Keep quiet, of course. Anything else would be shameful.” 

You had meant during sex, but you internalized her words, the judgment on her face, much as you had the first time, all those years ago, in that little office with you, your mother, and the man whose face you don’t remember. After all, this was your mother, the one who has always known best; the one who has always meant to give you her best, this mother that has held you, nurtured you, sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years for you. 

You think of her very often, and more specifically, her words, because you don’t think you can bring yourself to think of much else, not when their wounds are still fresh, still gaping. You think back to that time when you were thirteen, in that little office with you, your mother, and the man whose face you don’t remember, how it felt the same, how you are still as uncomfortable then as you are now. You don’t like him, you don’t want him to touch you, even on the days he is gentler, even though he is your husband⏤ you think a part of you never will. Your mother is not there this time, so you cannot look to her for advice, and you already know what she will say the same things that you think. After all, this is your husband, the one you are supposed to stay with for life, and it’s like the first time, where you did not want it, but you’re not sure if you can say no, or even how to. 

He’s not a bad husband. He showers you in gifts. His arm is worth a lot, you know very well⏤ you have seen the jealous stares in your usual social circles, while he only grins, arrogantly all the while. But you don’t trust it, not entirely⏤ your mother had warned you about the honeymoon era, and she does so again on your next outing, when you tell her that he is treating you well. 

“All men are like that,” She tells you. “They treat women like flowers. Something to admire, something to pluck when you are fresh and fully in bloom. Just wait until you wither.” She scoffs. “Your father was exactly the same.” 

You think here, instinctively, protectively. Shouto wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t. 

The thought brings a wave of fresh agony to your throat, but you only dip your head a little forward and nod. “Yes, mother.” 

You don’t text him as often now. You don’t have that much to tell him, and honestly, you don’t really know what to say, in fear that you might break or cross the line in a way that you shouldn’t. He’s the one that texts you, asking you how your day went, sending pictures of cats he found on the road, things he thought were cute, things he thought you might like. You text him back when he does⏤ you want to talk to him, after all, even when you think that you shouldn’t, and it feels a little bit like the old days, back when you were young and had all the time in the world, to do whatever you wanted, whatever you’d like. 

You don’t text him as often now, but you are glad when he does you. 

You think that, in the early days, he was the only thing holding you together; the only thing that kept you from falling apart. 

It takes a while for your husband to lay a hand on you, but when he does, you are not entirely surprised. 

Your mother had prepared you for this, after all, showed you what was expected of you, even if she had not explicitly said it herself. And he is terribly apologetic of it after⏤ he’d just been really stressed at work, he’d said, but this was something you had already known, from his rougher treatments of you the nights previous. It’s because you’re texting that friend of yours so often, he says, and he’s really sorry, it won’t happen again, but it might help if you text him a little less.

You hesitate. You don’t want to text Shouto less, you already are, you’re texting him less than you ever have before, but you agree. He’s your husband, after all, and that means his comforts should take priority over yours, right?

Yes, you hear your mother in your mind, agreeing.

You nod. You can text him a little less. 

He is tender with you that night, apologetic and loving.

You weep to yourself after he falls asleep. Quietly, because he does not like it when you do.

It takes him one month until the next. He tells you the same thing, once again⏤ work is stressing him out, he’s really sorry, it won’t happen again, but you are still texting that friend of yours so often.

You have heard this tirade before. You do not know why you hope it to be different the second time.

Still, you nod. You do not know what else you can do.

It happens five times, and on the fifth, he shatters your phone. 

You stare at its remnants, trying your hardest not to cry. 

“Please don’t cry,” He murmurs. “You know I don’t like it when you do. I promise this won’t happen again, okay?”

You want to tell him that he is a liar. You want to tell him that you don’t like it when he holds you, when he touches you. You want to say: you said this the last time, and every time after that. When will it stop? When will it end? 

( Your mother tells you your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. )

You are out in public, and you splashed a little bit of water on yourself by accident⏤ you’re not eating that much, less than you ever have before, and your wrists trembled just a little. You cover the wet spot on your skin immediately, the greenish-blue prints, but too slow⏤ you see the way her eyes flicker over you, assessingly, taking in the places you have covered painstakingly with makeup, layered in thick, expensive concealer, places where your skin dips a little hollow, the bags under your eyes, the dryness of your lips.

“You could do worse,” She simply tells you again. “He’s handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, doesn’t he?” 

She is supportive in the way that she says it, in the way she always is. 

You dip your head forth and say, quietly. “Yes, mother.” 

You suppose that she is right. It could be worse. Because while he hits you, he makes sure not to break you, in places that are easier to conceal, places that heal easier, and never on your face.

You are making your way back to the limo when you see Yaoyorozu Momo, or rather, she sees you.

You hear the gasp first, and then she’s before you, as present and beautiful as if your first meeting was just yesterday. Instinctively, you hide your wrist⏤ the exposed bruise, the one where your makeup had been accidentally washed and wiped away⏤ but she only blinks at you. “Hi! It’s been so long! How are you?” 

It strikes a chord within, and your smile stretches onto your face, bright and unfeeling. “Just fine. And you?” 

“I’m doing good, thank you for asking.” She smiles warmly. “It’s so good to see you. I never got to properly thank you for that shoot you helped me with.”

You remember this. It had been one that had helped her significantly in kick-starting her Hero career, after all. “Oh, it was no trouble. I’m happy to help. Shouto’s friends are my friends.” 

Even after all this time, the words still come naturally to you, and you don’t realize you have said them until you do. 

Your heart shutters, but your face does not. 

Your mother has trained you well. 

“Speaking of Shouto… he tells me he’s worried about you,” She says, haltingly. “We all are. He tells me you haven’t texted him back in a while.” 

“Oh,” Your excuse slips smoothly. “Tell him there’s no need to be. I just broke my phone, that's all, and lost the numbers upon it.” 

She is looking at you a little strangely here, you think, though she tries to keep her eyes trained upon yours, you see the way they flicker, taking in the places you have covered painstakingly with makeup, layered in thick, expensive concealer, places where your skin dips a little hollow, the bags under your eyes, the dryness of your lips. 

You watch her take out her notepad, write a series of numbers upon it. You think of what your husband would say if he knew you were talking to him again, what he would do.

“I don’t⏤” You begin. You feel only your shame. 

But this friend of yours has always been smart. Perhaps smarter than anyone has ever given her credit for. After all, she grew up in a world quite similar to yours⏤ not quite the same, but similar enough, was told of the stories, haunted the same circles, was made aware of what might happen, and what could. 

“It’s not Shouto’s,” She asserts, cutting you off. “It’s mine. Call me if you need anything, alright? I’m a Pro. I’m here for you.” 

It has been so long since anyone has told you that.

Your eyes burn. Your chest feels a little tight.

She presses the paper to your hand insistently, and smiles when you finally curl your fingers around it. 

“Thank you,” You say.

It feels empty. You don’t think you will use it, but you think it should be fine; after all, it’s only a number, you’re not texting anyone, and the person on the other end is a girl.

You are wrong. 

It is not, and you have barely managed to place it upon your dresser when your husband comes in.

He’s early today. You have not yet had the time to change from your outdoor clothes, to prepare yourself mentally to greet him, and you are only half-risen from your seat when he crosses the room. 

He doesn’t head for you like he usually would, and when you look back upon this moment in hindsight, his target is clear. 

“Wait⏤”

You don’t even manage to get the whole of your words out before he rips your lifeline to pieces. 

You stare at them as they fall from his hands, and you don’t know how exactly you manage to find your voice⏤ you never have before this, but you do. “That was a woman’s number, one of my friends, it wasn’t⏤” You don’t know what you’re saying. You just don’t know why he’s doing this, he shouldn’t be jealous like this, you haven’t texted him in months, haven’t reached out to contact him since. You don’t understand. Why isn’t this okay? 

“But she’s one of his friends, isn’t she?” 

You don’t even know how he knows about it, who you’d met. The driver, you think, but he’s only continuing, more frenzied than you have ever seen him before. 

“Your Shouto. The one you didn’t want to stop texting, the one you’ve known since you were five. Yeah, your mother told me all about him.” You don’t know what expression you have on your face. “Your Shouto, the one you made an account for, to like all his fan’s posts?” 

You haven’t gone on that account in years⏤ it’s too painful to see him as he was, as he is. The protest rises to your throat. “I don’t⏤” 

“I give you everything a woman could ever want, anything you could ever ask for. I attended all of your recitals, brought you flowers after every single one, drape you in any gem you could ever think of, I give you the world.”  

Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. Your mother tells you that he is handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, and he is; he allows you to dance out the rest of your ballerina days, even after it’s already stated in your marriage clause, after your father forbids you from it. You could do much worse, your mother says, and you truly could⏤ he pays your father a pretty fortune, bedazzles you in diamonds, more than you have ever seen, more than you are worth⏤ ( you, your father’s almost-bastard child, the daughter born to your whore of a mother, conceived out of wedlock )⏤ and while he hits you, you know from your mother’s look that she thinks it is normal. You are lucky, even, that he hits you only in places that are easy to cover, so that the world may not know of your shame, your failings.

You could do worse. You could have a husband that flies into rages whenever he likes, that drinks himself into a stupor and then takes his anger upon you however he likes; one that does not bother to apologize after he hits you. You could do worse, because at least he does not break you. 

His voice is strained when he asks you. “What does he have that I don’t?”

Even after all these years, your answer comes to you easily, naturally, as if you were only taking another breath.

His heart. His gentle hand. His thoughtfulness, his willingness to listen, his ability to remember the little things. The way he holds you. How heroism is carved into him so naturally, as if he were born for it, like dance was for you. How you can talk to him about anything, everything, all your fears and your insecurities and your smallest of worries, and he will only nod understandingly, a comfort to you, even if he does not entirely understand. How you knew, then and now, that if you were to only ask, he would marry you in an instant, even though he’d said he’d only ever marry for love, because it’s you. How you know that even now, though it’s been years since the last time you’d talked to him, if you decided to reach out, to call for him, he would be here for you. 

You think that in another world, one where you didn’t love Shouto as you did, as you do, you might have been able to learn to love your husband, to accept his temperament and his feelings. 

And you do not say a thing. 

Your answer is written all over your face. 

For the first time in all the years you have known him, he strikes you right then and there, as if it will do anything to erase the expression he has already seen upon it. ( Your mother tells you once upon a time that your worth as a woman lies in your body, in your face, and he knows this, so that is why he is careful when he hits you. ) He is not this time, you are thrown, sprawling across your shared bed, and then he strikes the wall above you⏤ you feel the force in your body, the thunderous anger behind it. Beneath his fist, it crumbles, and you do not move.

You lie there. He does not apologize, and yet you feel no fear. 

You might have, once upon a time. Might have burst into tears. But your eyes are dry, there is nothing left in you, you have been laid bare; scoured of even your last trace of hope. 

“FUCK!” He roars, and he punches the wall again. His fist is bleeding, you register, like something distant, as the crumble splatters against your skin, bouncing off like gravel. 

Your mother tells you that you could do worse, and you believe her. He is handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, but beyond that, he is large enough, strong enough, that he has always been able to beat you to a pulp if you so wished. You could do worse, because you could have a husband that flies into rages whenever he likes, that drinks himself into a stupor and then takes his anger upon you however he likes; one that does not bother to curb his hits into something softer, something lesser, so it does not break you. 

You close your eyes. You might have cried, once, felt the hot sting of tears behind your eyes. 

But you have been wept dry. There is nothing left in you, you have been laid bare; no fight in you, no hope. You’re not sure when it happened, how it happened, only that it has not been there for some time. 

“Fuck,” He says quieter, something quieter, almost like defeat. 

You lay there, the shell of a woman, scattered into a thousand shards, rubble on your face, and crumbled around you. 

He sweeps from the room. 

At some point, the maids come in to clean you up. 

You lay there and let them.

He does not come back for a week, and in his absence, you throw up for the first time in several years. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s not the first time you’ve thrown up in your life, of course. You’ve thrown up because of sickness, though that’s rare⏤ your mother coddles you too much, and you have access to too many doctors, to ever be sick with something remotely serious. And when you were older, into your teens, sometimes it was because the hunger ached so much that you couldn’t help but gorge yourself, and then you felt so full, so sick, that you had vomited into the nearest toilet you could right after. 

But you have not done that in years, so when you vomit, you think only that you are sick.

You are fine the rest of the day, and you wonder if it was just a fluke.

But the next day, you throw up again. 

It’s not. You look at the two lines on the test the maid handed you.

“Congratulations!” She tells you. 

Your head is empty. There are no thoughts in it.

You think only that this must be a joke. 

But it isn’t. You take more tests, one after another, as many brands as you can get your hands on, as many as you can find. 

The trash can overflows. You stare at them, each of them double-lined, mute, a silent scream building up in your throat. 

The door slams open. You flinch a little at the sound, what it means, and you are right: your husband stands there, his shoulders heaving, hair in disarray. There is blood on him, you note idly, though he himself is unharmed⏤ it does not surprise you. You have always known to some degree that his hands are unclean. 

You watch him, resignation in your chest.

Your pregnancy tests are still strewn all around you, and there is no point in hiding. He had not allowed you to take contraceptives, and you know he will not allow you to even think of abortion. 

He looks up at you, and you think he is more delighted than you have ever seen him; the smile on his face so bright that you almost see him for what your mother says he is: handsome, charismatic, caring. He touches your stomach, and you do not move to stop him⏤ you never have, even when you didn’t want to, and you don’t care enough anymore, anyways. 

“We’re having a baby?” He breathes, reverent.

You echo the words in your mind.

We’re having a baby. 

You only think, somehow, that your tone does not sound anything at all the same. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Despite yourself, you decide, about a month in, that you will love this baby, and that if you don’t, you will learn to. 

You do not think it’s possible not to, anyways. It hits you one day, as you’re holding your hand over the flat of your stomach, and then you understand how your mother felt, why she’d held you, nurtured you, sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years, and put all she had into raising you after. 

You do not love your husband. This much has been made clear to you, even though he is kinder now to you than he has ever been before, from even before you married him, before the early days, when he allowed you to dance in the spotlight for the very last time. 

You will not ever grow to love him. This much has also been made clear to you. He has done too much, you have seen too much, to ever trust him in the ways that matter, even if he remains kind to you for the rest of your life⏤ the memories will linger forever, even if the bruises do not. 

But, you think, you understand how your mother felt. 

You understand why she sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years for you, bore you for the full of the nine months, even when she did not love your father beyond the worth of his arm, why she did not mind the wreckage it made of her body, the scars that linger even after the thousand and one different operations and treatments to clear her from the remnants of childbirth, free of the remnants of you. 

You think, that even if you do not love his father, even if you never will, that you can love this child, that you will. You are sure of it, and even if you can’t, you hope that this child will be able to live out the rest of their days, sure and happy in themselves, never wanting for anything, that they will turn out better than you. 

And when you think of this, you straighten.

You don’t know what exactly prompts you to. A sense of motherhood, perhaps, which is almost laughable, because while you had always known that it was a very real possibility for your future, it had not seemed real to you. You had never considered that you would ever be a mother; you did not think you would be a good one. 

But, that doesn’t mean you don’t try.

You eat more than you have in years. Your body gobbles it up, famished after so long, a little bit at a time, and you’re slow, but you try to eat as much as you can, as many types as you can. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror⏤ you are scared of what you will see, you don’t want to think yourself bloated and lose the fat of your hips again. You accept the things the baby’s father lavishes upon you, allow him to look upon you in reverence, to touch your stomach. He does not apologize for what he has done, though the wall seals up, and you do not ask him to. 

You think only that for the sake of this baby, you are willing to try. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You are three months along when it happens, and your husband is beside you when it does. 

There is no warning, other than a loud knock at your door, and the way you see your husband’s shoulders tense, sense him still. 

He shoves you towards your shared bedroom, harsher than he ever has these past few months. “Hide”, he hisses at you first, and then: “Call for help.” 

You sense, rather than hear the doors close shut between you, lock behind you, separating the two of you. 

You think you have always had an inkling that this would happen, one day. Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered, but only because he could be worse⏤ he is not that good of a man. You have also known this. 

But even then, even after all he has done, you do not think he deserves to die. 

That is the only thing that has you moving towards the phone. 

Your hands move on instinct. You do not have his number saved anymore, you do not know if he has changed it, and no one has offered it to you, but there is a part of you that has always remembered, part of you that hopes he hasn’t had the heart to change it.

The first thing you say directly to Todoroki Shouto in several years, after you tell him not to call you again, and after your phone is broken and the two of you stop texting⏤ is the whole of one word.

Help. 

It’s been so long that you don’t know if he recognizes your voice. You don’t know where he is, if he knows where you are, so you say, your heart racing a thousand miles a minute. “The penthouse,” You rasp, and you hope he knows what you’re saying. You still trust implicitly, somehow, that he does. 

And then you hang up. 

You call the police department next. You know it’s stupid, the order in which you did things, but you were so panicked in the moment, you could not separate one thought from the next. The operator manages to calm you down enough that you say this time, more coherently, more clearly than you have in years. “There are men in the house. I don’t know who they are. My husband is dealing with them right now. Please send help as soon as possible.” And then you remember, they don’t know where you are. “The penthouse,” You say, automatically, because you don’t quite remember the address. 

You have never had a need to remember it, after all. There is a driver to take you to and from the place, and you have never quite thought of it as anything important; it is not your home. 

Panic freezes in your chest. Of all the things to be unable to remember, at a time like this⏤ you tell the operator your husband’s name, and when the moment of silence stretches just a beat too long, then you tell him yours. 

That seems to work. 

He tells you that they will be there as soon as possible. 

But then, the locked door bursts open. 

An unfamiliar man smiles at you. “There you are, darling.” 

You’re frozen, like a deer in headlights, the phone still clutched in your hands, the operator still on the line. 

“DON’T TOUCH HER.” You think it is your husband that is roaring. 

The man ignores him. 

He steps forth, and instinctively, you take a step backwards. Out of the room, and onto the balcony. 

Your heartbeat is roaring in your ears. You are terrified. It’s like something out of a movie, you think, something that you had never even considered happening to you.

Distantly, you register the gun held in his hands. 

He takes another step forth. 

You stumble.

Your back hits the glass of the rail. 

“She has nothing to do with this,” You think you hear your husband saying. 

The man laughs. 

“She’s pregnant,” There is a note of desperation in his voice. 

The man laughs. “So was my sister, you piece of fucking shit.” 

He raises the gun, levels it at your head. 

Please, your husband says in the background. 

( You have always known your husband is not that bad of a man, though he is not that good, either, because he could be worse. )

You think there is desperation in his face, and there is only resignation in yours. 

He is not looking into the eyes of your would-be killer, after all. Does not see the set of his face, the determination, the anger and the hurt and the loss. 

And honestly, you are not really thinking. You do not know why you say it, why you tell him you are sorry.

You think, there is some part of you that is. You do not care about yourself⏤ you have been wept dry, there is nothing left in you, you are bare of anything and everything; no fight in you, no hope. You’re not sure when it happened, how it happened, only that it has not been there for some time. 

You do not know why⏤ it’s not you who had done it, you did not know it even happened; it’s not your fault and it never has been. You are not responsible for the actions of your husband, you never have been. There is no reason for you to apologize, save for the faults others have placed unreasonably upon you.

But you are sorry, you think, for your unborn child, the one who will not ever get to know life, to treasure the small things in it, to hold the joyful ones close to their chest, even amidst the tides of their sorrow. And you are, you think, for this man’s unknown sister, because even though you do not know her, you imagine that in her final moments, she feels a little bit like you. 

You do not know why you say it, but you do, anyway. 

His face tightens. You do not know what he sees on your face, but you imagine it is the picture of resignation. His finger tenses on the trigger.

You only stare back at him. 

You have been wept dry, you are empty, and you do not even bother to plead.

Please, you think your husband whispers.

The gun moves. You don’t feel the shot. 

You are nothing more than the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards.

He hits what he aims for; your womb. 

The glass shatters, and with it, so do you.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wake in an unfamiliar room. 

The walls are white, and there is a machine at your side, beeping. A hospital, you recognize, somewhat distantly. 

Your mother is at your side, your brother, too. Perhaps they notice your particularly sharp intake of breath, the tremble of your fingers. 

“You’re awake,” Your mother says, before her face crumples⏤ in a way she never would have allowed of herself before, for fear that it might give her wrinkles. “Oh, my baby.”

She presses her face to the back of your hand, and you feel the tears that stain it.

You only turn your head to your brother. “The baby?” 

He is silent, but you see his face, the way it tightens.

He does not need to respond. You feel the pain in your own body very well, you remember exactly what happened; you already know the answer. 

You close your eyes. You feel the loss acutely, and yet they do not sting, do not prick, and are not hot. 

You have been wept dry, after all. There is nothing left.

Then, you sense, rather than hear, your father walk into the room. 

“They’ve caught the culprits,” He announces. “The Heroes are dealing with the lot of them now.” 

You think of the way the man’s finger had tensed on the trigger. How he had moved his gun away from your head. Does that make him a better man than your husband? But, you suppose, that’s an irrelevant question⏤ you don’t know what to feel, and in this moment, you don’t really care. 

Your father continues, into the silence. “I’ve found you another suitor, one who’s still willing to take you⏤” 

You suppose you are not really surprised; after all, that is all you have ever been to him, a bastard-child, daughter of a whore mother, child conceived out of wedlock; your worth only so much as the fame you can bring in, the connections you can make. 

You just did not expect this level of callousness, so unashamed of his words that you almost find it funny. 

“Surely there’s a better time⏤” Your mother begins.

Your brother jumps to his feet. “She has just lost her child,” He hisses, and he sounds angrier than you have ever heard him be in your life. “I asked you not to let her marry him. I told you he wasn’t the good sort, that he was dabbling in the black market⏤” 

“That is enough,” Your father snarls. “I will not tolerate this disrespect from you.”

“His corpse hasn’t even cooled,” Your brother hisses right back. 

You have never seen him speak up to your father like this before. 

Your father sets his shoulders, and then he turns straight to you. “There is a suitor willing to take you. He’s offered more than enough, given your condition.” He glances, you think somewhat distastefully, in the direction of your womb. “I plan to accept the offer. You will likely never get one so high again.” 

Your brother’s seething is so loud, despite its silence. Your mother seems similarly disapproving, but she has never spoken up once, and you do not think she will, now.

You can only think: once, you might have tried.

( Your father is a businessman to his core. It’s in his nature⏤ he’s a powerful one, which means there’s always been a surety to his step, an inherent confidence that most people cannot even hope to emulate, nor to learn. He is a man born from old money and steeped fully in its traditions, something that has carried into the way he treats the things around him, along with the people. You have known him long enough to know that his heart speaks only in transactions, as does his mind, calculating the worth of the things and the people around him, how much he stands to gain from them, squeezing them dry for every last drop. You know your worth in his eyes: bastard-child, daughter of a whore mother, child conceived out of wedlock; worth only so much as the fame you can bring him, the connections you can make. )

But you did not, then, back before you were wrung dry, before there was nothing left in you, when there was still some semblance of hope, some semblance of fight.

There are no tears in your eyes, only the final sort of resignation. You are empty. You feel nothing.

You slide your ring from your finger, and you say, “Yes, father.”

Your brother’s face tightens so terribly you think he might yell at you. 

Your father nods, pleased. “Very well.” 

Your mother is silent. She presses your hand to her cheek.

You close your eyes. They do not sting, prick, or feel hot, not even the slightest.

You have long since been wept dry. You are hollow, there is no fight left in you; no hope. You are hollow, the shell of a woman, still living, still breathing, alive only in the ways that don’t matter. 

You are a wraith. You are a ghost. You are sold off to your next husband like a brood-mare before the corpse of your previous has even cooled. 

But there is not enough left in you; you are the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards. 

And you cannot bring yourself to care. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He gets the call, and he does not recognize the number, but he still answers it, anyway.  

It’s like instinct, like clockwork, in the way that he does. He thinks he’ll never stop, though it’s been years since you’ve last called, since your last text. He thinks at first that something’s happened, but you’re seen in public again the next day, but you seem fine, so maybe it’s just something with your phone, or that you don’t want to talk to him. That’s okay, he can give you your space, but days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, and the text messages between you two turn one-sided, into a record of only his own. But he starts to answer every call, just in case it’s you on the other side, no matter how many of them are spam or entirely unrelated, because even though he’s not even sure you remember his number, there will always be some part of him that hopes you do. 

So he gets the call, and he still answers it, anyway. Another spam caller, likely. He doesn’t recognize the number. 

Help, you say, the first words you have said to him in years, and you sound different, but he would know your voice anywhere, blind and in the dark. 

He’s frozen. His heart is hammering a thousand miles in his chest. Where are you? He wants to voice⏤ are you at your penthouse, the one you share with your husband, or at your childhood home? Are you outside, and if so, where? He doesn’t mind combing the city for you⏤ he will if that’s what it takes to find you, to keep you safe and unharmed, but somehow, even after all these years, you manage to know what he’s thinking. The penthouse, you hiss, and then you hang up.

But that doesn’t matter, because that is all you have ever needed to say.

His mind shoots into overdrive. Your location is already being sent to his class group chat by the time he makes it to his car⏤ he’s halfway across the city. What if he’s late? It’s just your location, nothing more, but he knows that it’s enough⏤ Midoriya likely remembers that entire incident with the Hero Killer, after all, and his classmates should know that such a thing is urgent. 

The streets are packed. He leaves his car in the middle of it to start running.

His phone buzzes. He nearly runs headfirst into a pole while checking. It’s the location of a hospital⏤ Midoriya’s next text is frazzled. She’s fine, injured, but the doctors say she’ll live⏤ and his first thought is a bone-crushing relief. You’re alive. 

His next one is, you’re injured.

He breaks into another run. 

The hospital is closer than your penthouse, at least. He barely feels the burn of his muscles, though he’s sprinting faster than he ever has before, faster than he should⏤ the doors slide open before him, and he’s walking into the attention of a thousand gaping individuals.

He walks straight up to one of them, the man at the counter, and says, as calmly as he can. “Where is she.”

“U-um.” The man stutters. There is only one she they can be talking about⏤ the world has always known of your friendship, has speculated about it, along with the falling-out in the aftermath. “They’re limiting visitors to family only.”

Todoroki Shouto is not a violent man. It is not in his nature; he has seen enough of it in his father to know that even if he was, he would spend the rest of his life carving that part of it from him, until he wasn’t. But in this moment⏤ with fury gripping every aspect of his being, this man telling him that visitors are limited to family only, telling him that he can’t make sure you’re fine, you’re okay⏤ he seriously considers it. 

A hand clamps down upon his shoulder. 

He turns to look into the face of your brother. 

Your brother’s expression is blank.

“How is she?” He asks, the anger gone, desperation taking its place. 

Your brother’s lips tighten. “Come with me.” 

Shouto thinks of a thousand scenarios here. Ones in which you’re bleeding out on a hospital bed, and all the money in the world; the doctors, cannot hope to save you. But then he thinks of the way Midoriya had texted: she’s fine, injured, the doctors say she’ll live, and what he finally understands the words to mean is: I’ll tell you, just not here.

He listens, heart held in his throat. 

“She’s just lost her baby, along with her husband. The villain shot her through the stomach. But she’s stabilized, she’ll live.” Your brother lists the facts coldly, clinically. “My father has already sold her off to the next highest bidder.” 

The world seems to freeze.

He remembers your last call, how he asks you if you love him, and the way that when you say yes, he knows it is a lie. But he did not do anything, did not say anything, because he’d heard the conviction in your voice, the way you’d forced yourself to say it, and thought it wasn’t his place.

Your brother is watching him, and his voice is soft. “The final choice was him or you. But⏤” A pause. There is understanding there, lit up like a dawn. “She didn’t even ask you, did she?”  

No. You didn’t. And he wonders why, for all of a moment⏤ had you found the idea of marriage to him so horrible that you’d risk a man twice your age, a man you barely even knew? But you’re not like that, he thinks, and you know him just as well as he does you, which is why you’d also know that even if he didn’t love you, he would’ve married you in an instant, just because you were the one to ask.

Understanding dawns. His breath is like a gasp, something choked, like a sob.

You didn’t ask, because you did not want him to marry for anything other than love. 

He turns, hope held like a candle in his chest. “Is that choice still open.” 

Your brother blinks. “What?” 

“Where is your father?” 

A room number is given to him, and he’s running again. He still has a chance to save you, he thinks, and it’s okay if you don’t want to marry him, if you don’t love him, as long as you’re safe, alright, and happy. He would’ve married you if only you’d asked, even if you would never love him in the way that he wanted for the rest of his life⏤ but he doesn’t even need to worry that you don’t, he thinks.

After all, it’s so obvious that you do. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wake in an unfamiliar room. 

You are no longer in the hospital. Your body does not ache any more than it did before, there is no pain between your legs, and yet you still wonder, very briefly, if your father has already married you off.

You would not put it past him. 

But then Shouto walks into the room. 

You stare at him, lost for words, entirely mute. His eyes widen. “You’re awake,” He says, putting the plate of fruit he bears off to the side. He steps towards you, reaching for your forehead, but then he hesitates. “I’d like to take your temperature,” He says softly. “Is that… okay?” 

Your throat tightens. Even after all these years, he is still the same; gentle and thoughtful and considerate in a way you have never known anyone else to be. 

“You came,” You say. It’s all you can muster.

“Of course. You called.” 

You close your eyes. 

His touch is feather light.

Your eyes sting, here and in this moment. 

“You don’t have a fever, I think. Are you feeling any pain?” 

“No more than before.” 

“That’s good to hear,” He says, just as soft.

You close your eyes. Inevitability dawns upon you. “What of my husband?” 

A pause. Then, “He’s dead.” 

“No. The one I’m marrying.” 

“You won’t be.” 

You are a little surprised by the conviction in his voice. 

He only continues. “Neither he nor your father will bother you again.” 

You had not known you could still feel relief. 

You are wordless. You only reach for his hand. 

You squeeze it, and you hope he knows what you are trying to say. 

And when he squeezes yours back, you know that he does. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You learn that the Pro Hero Deku was the one to save you that night.

You remember him from before, you think; green curls, a freckled face, back from the UA days, along with his name. You remember that he was one of Shouto’s closest friends, and that he was very kind.

You do not think you have it in yourself to meet him, to greet him properly. But you are your mother’s child, and your manners have been carved into you like a second nature. So you ask Shouto to pass on your gratitude, to let him know that you are thankful.

You suppose that, even if you are empty, even if you have been wept dry, that you are. 

You don’t do much the first few months. You do not even have the strength to try. Shouto brings you food in your bed, watches you eat, spoonful by spoonful. It’s not much⏤ you no longer have another life within you to feed, after all, and your appetite has never been particularly large. Sometimes, you think he swallows his words, tamps down upon the urge to ask you to eat more⏤ but you do not think you can handle another bite, and he does not push. 

He only accepts the plate you set down, your half-eaten meal, and comes back with another glass of water. 

You ask him, at some point, if this is okay. He’s a Pro-Hero, after all, and duty must be calling, but he only shrugs. 

“I have more than enough vacation days stacked up,” He informs you.

“I’ll be just fine alone,” You say. You don’t want him to waste them on you. 

“I won’t.” He says, immediately. 

You blink up at him. You’re not sure if you’re imagining the way he flushes, just a little. 

“Let me take care of you,” He says, a touch softer. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“But I want to.”

There is a firmity in his voice, and you are reminded of the conviction he’d had, all those years ago, when he’d told you he was only ever going to marry for love. 

You sigh. He’s as stubborn as you remember, and yet you think, somewhat ruefully, that you’re glad he hasn’t changed in the slightest.

“Do what you’d like.” You say. 

He smiles, and just like every time before it, you think it is the most breathtaking thing you have seen in your life. 

You attend your husband’s funeral. It’s the first time you’ve been seen in public since the incident, and Shouto is by your side. You’re dressed in mourning black.

You watch as they lower his coffin.

You have long since been wept dry, and for him, you do not shed a single tear. 

Your brother drops some of your belongings off at Shouto’s house. Your clothes, mostly, some pieces of jewelry you’re partial to, but the bulk of it is your recordings, the CD’s you’d saved. 

Shouto pauses over one. “I did not know you’d kept them.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. You do not answer.

You only think, of course I would. 

You listen to the songs sometimes, watch the recordings of your dances. You haven’t in a long time⏤ when you still danced, you did only to examine every flaw of your body and note your falters with a critical eye. Later, you could not bring yourself to, not when it was only the reminiscence of everything you had lost; your ankle that still ached in the dead of the night, a phantom pain that served only as a reminder: you would never be able to dance again, even if you could. 

Even now, you do not listen to or watch them very often.

You allow Shouto to tug you outdoors, sometimes, for a walk, to stretch your legs, but mostly because he smiles when you allow him to. It’s always in the grounds of his estate, and never another soul in sight, for which you are more grateful than you think he will ever know. Sometimes his mother joins you on the walks, and you don’t mind⏤ she is lovely, she seems to like you, and she is very kind. 

You are the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards, but though you are only alive in all the ways that don’t matter, you are still alive and breathing. So you sit up for food, you get to your feet to use the washroom, you stand when Shouto takes you out for a walk. 

Mostly, you lie in your bed.

People send you flowers, gifts of condolence⏤ mostly people you had known for the sake of your father’s money, your family’s connections⏤ but also from others, ones you have held closer to your heart. Shouto’s friends are my friends, you remember yourself saying, and you had meant it.

They seem to think the same. 

You look at the flowers they send you, the heart in their penned letters, so different from the short and clinical notes you have been surrounded with the whole of your life. 

You ask Shouto to thank them for you. You are more grateful than they will ever know, but you do not think you can muster the strength to meet them. 

He does not push you, nor does he ask. 

Mostly, you lie in your bed. Your father told you that the villain who’d done this to you had been caught, imprisoned, and you only remember the look on the man’s face. The anger and the hurt and the loss. The way his fingers had tightened upon the trigger, how he had moved the gun, from your head to your stomach. 

You do not know why he’d decided to spare you in those final moments, why he had chosen to aim at your womb instead. You think back to the moment you’d first vomited, the sheer horror with which you’d asked the maid to go to the store and buy you every single pregnancy test she could get her hands on, every brand, again and again, the lines littering the floor of that penthouse as the truth stared down before you and how your first thought was: he would never let me get an abortion. You wonder if the villain, this man who’d chosen to spare you, was only trying to wipe the last traces of your husband from the world, if he’d spared you because he thought you were a little like his sister. 

( You wonder if that makes him a better man than your deceased husband. )

Often, you think of your baby. How that, though you are grateful that you are free from the last remnants of your husband⏤ the guilt hits you as soon as you think it⏤ you think a part of you will always mourn your unborn child, how they will never know what it means to draw breath, the little things in life, the thousand and one little joys that will help tide them through their sorrows. You think of how, though you knew you would never learn to love their father, you had been determined to love them anyway, through thick and thin. You think of how you had felt, how you had finally understood why your mother had held you, nurtured you, and sacrificed the most of her youthful years for you, how for them, you were willing to do anything and everything, how you were willing to try.

And in the wake of it, you make your decision. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You lay eyes upon your mother for the first time in months. 

You are sitting in a coffee shop. It’s quaint, homely. It’s the first time you’ve been out in public since your husband’s funeral, and you haven’t talked to her since that day at the hospital⏤ she had tried to talk to you at the funeral itself, and many times since then, but you have always asked Shouto to turn her away.

You did not tell him why, then, because you did not quite know yourself.

But, you think, now, you do.

There are three drinks on the table in front of you. Shouto had ordered them⏤ coffee for your mother, for himself, and another for you, just exactly the way you always have, the way you’ve always liked. 

Your mother cups hers somewhat nervously.

You do not reach for yours.

“I’m glad to see you doing better,” She starts. “Shouto told me you weren’t seeing any visitors.” 

You are silent.

“I was so worried. You didn’t call. You could have left me a text!” She frowns. “Not a thought spared for your poor mother, but you look well, at least.” 

Beside you, Shouto is tense. You reach for his hand.

He squeezes it.

It warms your throat. You set your shoulders, you lift your chin, and you find your voice. “I am well. Thank you for the concern. But that is not why I am here.” 

You pause to organize your thoughts. 

“I called you here to let you know that I am cutting ties. So is my brother. Father will know sometime within the week.” 

The store is oddly quiet. Beside you, you do not know if Shouto is breathing. 

You say, more clearly than you have in years. “This will be our last meeting. Please do not contact me again in the future. I do not wish to talk to you, nor do I wish to see you, and if I do, then I will be the one to reach out.” 

Your mother stares at you, silent. You do not think there’s anyone in the store who’s breathing. And then⏤ 

“I am your mother. What’s wrong? Is he making you do this? Is he holding anything against you? Talk to me, darling.”

You breathe in.

“He has nothing to do with it. This choice is entirely my own.”

You are expecting some of what she says next.

“I am your mother. How could you do this to me? I held you, nurtured you, fed you from my breast. I gave up my body for you, the whole of those nine months. I gave up my most youthful years for you. I could have lived out my career as an actress. I have loved you since the moments before you were born, before you breathed. I have attended every single one of your recitals, spent every single waking minute thinking of how to better you, how to advance your career. I was the one who pushed to let you continue dance, who won you your husband, I married your father for you. I was always there for you. How could you even say this to me?” 

It’s all true, you think. Every last bit of it. 

She has always been there. She has held you, nurtured you, sacrificed the most of her youthful years, sacrificed her body, so much that the remnants of childbirth still linger, even after the thousand and one surgeries. She has pushed you towards dance, allowed you to flourish, spent hours obsessing over every one of your flaws until you were perfect under the lens, because she had worried, had known, that the world would have made a mockery of you if you were anything but. 

But.

“As a daughter, I have forgiven you a thousand times over.” You tell her, quiet. 

You think of the way you had not wanted to get married, not the first time nor the second, and how she had been silent, how it was your brother who spoke up. It’s not her fault, you know, she truly thinks you could do worse⏤ she truly believes that a woman’s worth lies wholly in her face and her body and the arm of the man she clings to, and that once the flower has withered, all that is left is the man. She is trying in her own way, she loves you wholly and in the only way she knows how. 

And you have. As a daughter, you have forgiven her a thousand times over.

But then you also think of how you felt. When she had been telling you about how best to prepare yourself, and you had asked her: what if he hurts me? You had been talking about the sex, if he was rough, but she had taken it to mean: what if he hits me, and she had only told you to keep quiet, because to her, letting anyone else know about your personal business would be nothing short of shameful. You think of how you had felt when your father had pushed for your marriages, how you had not wanted to, but forced yourself to say yes. You think of how she had seen what your husband had done to you, what she had said, that you could do worse, of the difference between the way she reacted and how Yaoyorozu had. 

You think of that one time when you were younger, when your career had just started, flourishing too slow, not fast enough⏤ when she had stood in that office with you and that man you do not remember. You think of how you had not wanted it, how you had been uncomfortable, how you had looked to your mother, and she had not said a word. How you had asked her about it, told her of how you felt, a little ashamed, and she had only looked at you with a crease in her brows. But you did not say no, she had said, and you remember feeling guilty about it then and in all the years after. 

You think of your child. How that though you had not given birth to them, though you knew you would never learn to love their father, you had been determined to love them anyway, through thick and thin. You think of how you had finally understood why your mother had held you, nurtured you, and sacrificed the most of her youthful years for you, how for them, you were willing to do anything and everything, how you were willing to try.

You say, soft. “But as a mother, I cannot.” 

You say it because when you thought of your child, now and all the times before, the thing you thought of most was: you did not want them to have to feel like you. Not ever. Not the way your mother had made you feel, that time when she told you you could do worse, that letting the world know of your hurts would be the most shameful thing in the world. Not the way she made you feel when she told you that you did not say no, when the answer was so simple.

You think, then, of the way Shouto treats you. How he has never touched you first without asking you if it was okay, if you had wanted it, until he had heard your consent. 

( You had not said no. And you had felt so much guilt over it after, over how uncomfortable you had felt, but the answer to this was so simple.

You had not said no, but you had also not said yes. ) 

You stand. You think there is heartbreak on her face, and you also think that though you do not wish to speak to her again, you think that there will always be some part of you that always loves her, even if the rest of you does not wish to. 

But this is a decision you have thought of a thousand times, have mulled over for a while. You’ve thought of it so much, how she will react, how you should, if you will regret it.

You turn. There is a steel to your shoulders, a firmity, your posture set. 

“If you walk away now, don’t you even think about coming back.”

It all comes down to threats, in the end.

Shouto squeezes your hand. 

You say softly, but no less clear. “Goodbye, mother.” 

You walk away, and you do not look back. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You do not speak the whole of the car ride back, and neither does Shouto, though your hand is still held in his own, and you sense that he is watching you carefully. 

You wonder if he expects you to burst into tears. It would not be strange of you, of the girl he had known; the one who had listened to everything her mother had to say, who took every single one of her words to heart. But it has been a while since you have been that girl, you are older, now, no longer vibrant and beautiful under the spotlight. You have seen yourself in the mirror, noticed your gauntness, the hollowness of your cheeks, the shadows in the eyes. You are the shell of a woman you once were, a thousand shards already wept dry and empty.

And yet. You pause by the doorway. Shouto’s still holding it open for you, an inquisitive look in his face, watching you questioningly, carefully. 

You say, “That was… oddly freeing.” 

A beat of silence.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Was this how you felt when you yelled at Endeavour all those times?” 

He laughs, the sound of it warm. “Just about.” 

You still feel empty. You’re not sure if it’ll ever stop. But what you do know that is in this moment, there is a lightness to your chest that has not been there for years. A sense of freedom, perhaps.

“Is there anything you’d like specifically for dinner?” 

You hesitate. 

You are empty, but you are also light, and you are free; you are empty, but you don’t think you have to be.

It’s time, you think. 

And that is why you say: “Actually… would you like to cook together?”

He freezes. He looks at you, his eyes blown wide. You don’t think he’s breathing. 

You hasten. “Though it’s been a while, so I’m not sure if I’m still okay in the kitchen⏤” 

“I’d love to. You can make a mess of the kitchen all you’d like.” 

You smile a little. You don’t remember the last time you have, but you say: “Just like old times, huh?” 

There might just be tears in his eyes, and he asks if it’s alright to hug you. 

You let him, of course. It’s Shouto.

He holds you like he did the first time, hesitant and careful, like you are a porcelain doll, like something precious. 

You lean your head on his shoulder, your own throat something thick. 

You still feel empty when you wake up in the mornings, when you look at yourself in the mirror. You are not as gaunt as you were, as hollow⏤ you see your cheeks fill up slowly, feel the flesh of your bones, the width of your hips. You get an urge to eat less, sometimes⏤ it’s hard to unlearn the habits you have lived in most of your life, but Shouto is always there, reinforcing, slowly and gently. You need to eat. You have always been beautiful, and still are, but first, you need to be healthy. 

Obligingly, you eat another spoonful, and this time, when you push the plate back towards him, he does not protest. 

He pulls you out to walk with him more often. It’s still always on the grounds of his estate, away from prying eyes, and when his mother joins you on occasion, you find it in yourself to talk to her. You don’t walk by yourself very often, but sometimes, you do⏤ just because it’s nice to feel the sun on your face, to see the flowers, and you don’t want to bother Shouto when he’s busy poring over his documents. 

He still sets a chair apart for you in his office, though, and he tells you you’re welcome to come in anytime. You do on occasion⏤ he has an extensive manga collection, ones from when he was younger, and some still that are new; ones that you’ve told him about and ones that he thinks you might like. You spend most of your time there poring over them, though eventually, you do wander over to him, asking if you can look at his paperwork, because though it’s been years since you’ve attended school, you weren’t bad in your tutor’s lessons, so maybe you could be of help? 

He says you don’t have to, but he lets you look, anyways, and when you say you want to, he lets you take what you’d like. 

You still feel empty when you wake up in the mornings, but it’s not like you have nothing to do. You busy yourself in the kitchen sometimes, searching up old recipes and trying new things. You’ve always enjoyed it, you think, to some degree⏤ even back when you were absolutely terrible at it, because it was fun to be so horrendous at something, and have to work towards improving yourself. Sometimes Shouto joins you, and sometimes he doesn’t, but he compliments every dish you make, even if you personally think you’d added a little bit too much salt or burned it just a little. 

You are a year into this routine when the realization finally hits you, and you find the courage to ask. 

It’s evening. You are sprawled out upon the couch, your novel spread before you, an old classical piece playing softly in the background. It’s undignified⏤ Shouto himself is seated normally upon a chair, a manga volume held normally in his. But it’s the comfortable sort of silence, the two of you have never needed to put on particular airs; the sort of companionship where you’re settled just by knowing the other is there, by feeling their presence.

You think it has always been this way. You think of the care in the way he treats you, in how he touches you, and back in the early days, when he’d asked you about every little thing, if it was okay to touch you, skin upon skin. 

He’s focused on his volume, but you’re watching him.

You think of the way he tells you not to worry about his vacation days, that he has enough of them, you think of the way he’d told you your father and the man who was meant to be your husband would never bother you again, the certainty in his voice. You think of the way your brother had fetched all of your clothes, all of your belongings, the jewels that you’d liked, your recordings, and left them to him. 

Something clicks. And then, you say, as you push yourself up into a sitting position.

“You told my father you’d marry me, didn’t you?” 

You see the way he freezes. The way his hands tighten on his volumes. 

You already expect the answer when he says, softly. “Yes.” 

The breath you loose feels shaky as it leaves your chest.

He is kneeling before you in an instant, reaching for your hands. “I did it because I wanted to,” He starts, and you think there is a touch of desperation in it. “But you don’t have to feel pressured into anything. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, not now, and not ever. We can stay just like this. Whatever you want. Anything you want.” 

Your heart clenches. You reach up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. Your Shouto, you think, a little despairingly. Always so hesitant, so thoughtful, so considerate. You only ask him, a little quietly. “Was it for love?” 

Does he love you? 

He does not hesitate when he says, “Yes.” 

A pause. Your exhale sounds loud in the silence.

The words come out in a torrent. 

“I’m not sure if I’ll ever be the same again. I’m not sure if I can bear another child. I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if⏤”

You don’t know if you can bear another man touching you in the same way, even though this is Shouto. You might, maybe, further down the line, only because it is him, but you do not know if you will. You do not know a lot of things. You do not know if you’ll ever stop feeling so empty, if you’ll ever be anything like the girl he once knew, the girl he loved and loves.

He puts his hand on your cheek, and his thumb brushes across it, feather-light, gentle, and heartbreakingly tender.

He repeats, a touch softer, a touch firmer. “Whatever you want.” 

You look at him. 

Your Shouto, who has been your best friend since you first met him at age seven, who has been the one unchanging constant in your life, your rock, who looks at the post where your mother called you bloated and tells you, in that simple way of his, that you look beautiful. Who looks up to you, an inquisitive look in his eyes whenever you call out to him, giving you the whole of his attention in a way no one else has ever done before, hanging on to your every word and listening, taking every one of your worries and thoughts into consideration, no matter how silly, nor how unwarranted. 

Your Shouto, who knows your voice even with the years between you, who cannot make it in time for you, but ensures that his friends are there to rescue you anyways, who ensures that you are, first and foremost, safe. Shouto, who takes a whole year off for you, who asks you if it’s okay before he touches you, because he’s afraid that you don’t want him to, who is thoughtful and considerate of you, in a thousand different ways. 

Your throat feels tight, and in the wake of it, you make your decision. 

You say, “I’d like to marry you, if you’ll have me.” 

It’s not much of a proposal at all, but you still see him smile, like the widest thing you’ve ever seen. 

You think his eyes look something silvery, like something bright. 

He only tugs you up, and though you don’t know what he’s angling for, you follow, obligingly, as you always have. You always will, you think; after all, you trust this man, your Shouto, you always have, with the whole of your pieced-together heart. 

You watch a little confusedly, as he rewinds the music. It’s a familiar piece, not one you’ve danced to before, though you remember telling him you’d have liked to, once upon a time. 

He turns to you, and says, a little breathlessly. “Dance with me.” 

You splutter. You haven’t danced in years, you don’t know if you’re still any good, and though you know he doesn’t mean ballet and on pointe, you’ve never danced like this before. “I’ve never done ballroom.” 

“Neither have I.” He tells you honestly. “I’ll bet my entire fortune that you’ll still dance better than me.” 

It’s such a ridiculous statement that you laugh. 

But you allow him to pull you close, to twirl you. You haven’t danced in years, and you’ve never learned ballroom, but you’re not that bad at it, you think. You’ll never dance professionally again, but dance is a discipline that has been carved into you, part of your soul. You allow him to pull you close, to twirl you, because you see the I love you he does not say, not yet, but is so evident in every one of his actions, in his thousand-and-one little considerations. And you know he sees it in you, too, because he knows you like you do him; knows that you love him, that always have, how you always will, with the whole of your pieced-together heart. 

( For the first time in years, you dance. )

There will be time for that yet. A thousand and one mornings where you wake up to the sun, your chest light and warm, no longer empty, where you wake up held in his embrace, like you are a porcelain doll, like you are something precious.

But for now, you allow him to pull you close, to twirl you. 

( For the first time in years, you dance, and you do not do it in front of an audience. )

You smile up at him, your heart light as a feather, as he holds the whole of you, your heart and your porcelain, like you are a fine-china doll, like something precious. 

He does not say anything, and neither do you; you do not need to. 

After all, there will be time for that yet. 

( For the first time in years, you dance, and you do not do it in front of an audience. 

You allow him to pull you close, to twirl you.

And this time, when you dance, you dance solely for you. )

afterword

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