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Izuku never told anyone what happened that summer.
Not his mother, who noticed he stopped smiling at the dinner table.
Not his teachers, who wondered why he flinched at, even, the lightest touch.
And especially not his friends, who thought he had simply grown quiet.
But sometimes, late at night, he could still smell the smoke and sweat in the air, and his hands would shake just like they had that day.
He never let himself think past that.
The moment his mind strayed too far, his chest tightened, breath becoming shallow as he stared at the ceiling. Remembering was dangerous. Remembering meant reliving.
Izuku pressed his palms together until the shaking stopped. Since that summer, he had learned to stay quiet, to stay small - because secrets are safer when no one looked too closely. he wondered, sometimes if the others would still look at him the same way -
if they knew what he had done,
or what had been done to him.
The question never had an answer. Izuku didn't want one.
Morning would come soon, dragging him back into a world that expected him to be normal, to be fine, to be stable. He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, as if he could hold everything together. At school, he would still smile when expected; he would speak when spoken too. He would pretend the past stayed where it belonged.
It always worked -
during the day.
But at night, when the world went quiet and there was nothing left to distract him, the memories crept closer, pressing against the edges of his mind. And no matter how small he made himself, they always seemed to find him.
The alarm went off at six.
Izuku jolted upright before he was fully awake, heart racing as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was - only that his hands were clenched into fists, and his breath came too fast. Then the familiar shape of his room settled back into place, and he forced himself to breathe.
It was just morning.
Just another day.
He turned the alarm off quickly, as if the sound itself might draw attention. The house was quiet; his mother was still asleep down the hall. Izuku sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands until they stopped trembling, until they looked like they belonged to him again.
Nothing happened.
Not today - at least.
And yet, as he stood and reached for his uniform, the smell of smoke lingered in the back of his throat - imaginary, he told himself. It had to be.
Still, he didn’t open his window.
He dressed quickly, movements careful and quiet, as if loud sounds might carry through the walls. The uniform felt stiff against his skin, unfamiliar in a way it hadn’t before that summer. He tugged at the sleeves, ignoring the way his shoulders tensed at the fabric brushing his arms, his shoulders, his back; ignoring how the pants brushed against his hips, tights, ass; ignoring how the tightest parts of his uniform touched his body in the same places as they did.
Breakfast was simple. Too simple.
His mother smiled at him over her coffee, soft and tired, and Izuku smiled back because that was what he was supposed to do. He ate, nodded at the right moments, answered questions with short, practiced replies. She didn’t push. She never did anymore.
That hurt more than the questions ever had.
The walk to school was uneventful. Birds, traffic, and the low hum of the city waking up. Izuku focused on counting his steps, on the rhythm of his breathing, on anything that kept his mind anchored in the present. By the time he reached the gates, he almost believed today might pass like all the others.
Almost.
Someone bumped into him from behind—an accident, careless and brief.
“Sorry,” a voice said, already moving away.
Izuku froze.
The world tilted sharp and sudden. His breath caught, fingers curling reflexively as his body reacted faster than his thoughts. It took a second—too long—to remember where he was. School. Morning. Safe.
He nodded stiffly, even though the other student wasn’t looking anymore.
By the time he stepped inside, his hands were shaking again.
The hallway was already loud.
Lockers slammed, voices overlapped; laughter echoed too sharply off the walls. Izuku kept his head down, moving with the flow of students like a leaf caught in a current. If he didn’t stand out, if he didn’t slow down, no one would look too closely.
“Midoriya!”
He flinched before he could stop himself.
The sound of his name snapped him back just enough to respond, turning too quickly, heart pounding. “Y-Yeah?”
Nothing was wrong.
Nothing ever was.
But the way his pulse refused to settle told a different story.
“Hey, Midoriya.”
The voice was closer this time. Too close.
Izuku forced himself to turn fully, schooling his expression into something neutral - something acceptable. It was just a classmate. Someone he knew. Someone safe. He nodded, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.
“Good morning,” he said, the words automatic.
They chatted for a moment - about class schedules, about an upcoming exercise, about nothing at all. Izuku listened, responded when expected, and laughed quietly when the conversation called for it. He had learned the rhythm of normalcy well. Learned how to blend in.
Still, he stayed alert.
Every sudden movement, every raised voice in the hallway sent a ripple of tension through him. He kept his shoulders tight, his steps measured, his attention split between the present and the instinctive need to escape if something went wrong.
Nothing did.
Eventually, the bell rang, sharp and piercing, and the crowd began to thin. Izuku moved with it, slipping into his classroom and taking a seat near the window—close to an exit, just in case.
He rested his hands on the desk and waited for them to stop shaking.
They didn’t.
Izuku stared straight ahead as the teacher began to speak, repeating the same thought over and over in his head, like a promise he needed to believe.
Just get through the day.
Just like always.
Izuku kept his eyes on the board as the lesson began, chalk scratching softly against it. The sound should have been harmless—mundane, even—but it set his teeth on edge. He counted each breath, slow and careful, until the tightness in his chest dulled into something manageable.
“…Midoriya?”
He blinked. The room swam back into focus.
“Yes,” he said quickly, a beat too quick, but the teacher only nodded and moved on. A few students glanced at his way before losing interest. Izuku lowered his gaze, relief and embarrassment twisting together in his stomach.
Notes filled his page in neat, precise lines. Writing helped. It kept his hands busy, his thoughts anchored. As long as he followed the structure - listen, write, breathe - he could pretend everything was fine.
The bell rang again, marking the end of class. Chairs scraped, voices rose, and the room dissolved into motion. Izuku stood when everyone else did, slipping his notebook into his bag with practiced efficiency. He waited a moment longer than necessary before stepping into the hallway, letting the worst of the crowd pass.
Between classes, someone laughed too loudly. Further down the hall, a group shoved past each other, careless and fast. Izuku pressed himself closer to the lockers, heart thudding, until they were gone.
You’re okay, he told himself. You’re here. It’s over.
The words felt thin, but he repeated them anyway.
By the time lunch arrived, his head ached from holding everything in. He took his usual seat at the edge of the table, close enough to be included, far enough to breathe. Conversation washed over him -plans, complaints, small jokes. Izuku nodded along, contributing when prompted, disappearing when he could.
Someone reached across the table, bumping his arm by accident.
“I - sorry,” they said.
Izuku startled, then forced a smile. “It’s okay.”
And it was. He knew that. His body just hadn’t caught up yet.
He excused himself early, citing homework, and slipped outside into the quiet corridor beyond the cafeteria. The noise faded behind him, replaced by the hum of distant vents and the steady rhythm of his footsteps.
For a moment, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
He didn’t think about that summer. He never did.
He just stood there, breathing, until his hands stopped shaking—and when they didn’t, he waited anyway.
The bell signaling the end of lunch rang too loudly.
Izuku straightened immediately, shoulders locking into place as students began to move again. Chairs scraped back; bodies pressed too close in the narrow space between tables. The corridor he’d retreated into filled quickly, voices bleeding in through the open doors.
Too many people.
Too close.
His chest tightened without warning. The air felt thick, heavy in his lungs, and suddenly he was counting breaths again - one, two, three - but it wasn’t enough. A laugh sounded behind him, sharp and sudden, and his body reacted before his mind could stop it.
He stepped back. Then, another step.
His heel hit the wall.
For a split second, the world tilted sideways. The present blurred at the edges, replaced by the memory of being unable to move, of having nowhere to go. His muscles went rigid, every instinct screaming at him to disappear, to get smaller, to not be noticed.
Someone brushed past him in the hallway.
Izuku flinched hard, breath tearing out of him as his back pressed flat against the wall. His vision narrowed, sounding as if he were underwater. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, fast and frantic, drowning out everything else.
It’s not happening, he told himself. You’re here. You’re safe.
The words felt distant showed them.
A teacher’s voice cut through the noise. “Midoriya? Are you alright?”
The sound anchored him.
Izuku nodded too quickly, forcing his body to move again even though it felt wrong, heavy. “Y-Yes,” he said, voice steady only because he’d practiced making it so. “I’m fine.”
The teacher hesitated, searching his face, then nodded and moved on.
Only then did Izuku realize his hands were clenched so tightly his nails had bitten into his palms. He loosened them slowly, grounding himself in the sting, the pressure, the now.
By the time the hallway emptied, he was exhausted.
He stayed there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the floor, reminding himself of the simple facts: the year, the place, the sound of distant footsteps. Reality returned piece by piece, like something fragile being put back together.
When he finally moved again, he kept close to the walls.
He always did.
Izuku didn’t remember deciding to move.
One moment he was standing in the hallway, back to the wall, counting the cracks in the tile. The next, he was walking - slowly, deliberately - toward the stairwell at the far end of the corridor. It was quieter there. Fewer people. Fewer chances for someone to get too close without warning.
His hand hovered over the railing before he touched it.
Cold metal.
The sensation hit him wrong.
The hallway faded at the edges, the present thinning until it felt unreal. The smell of smoke crept back in, thick and cloying, mixing with the phantom heat crawling up his spine. His fingers curled reflexively, gripping tighter than he meant to.
Too tight.
His vision blurred; the stairwell dissolving into something darker, narrower.
A room with no windows.
The scrape of something metal against concrete.
Voices - muffled, distorted, too close to his ear.
Izuku’s breath hitched.
Don’t move.
The thought wasn’t his, not really. It was older. Worn thin from repetition.
His body remembered before his mind did - the way stillness had felt like survival, the way any movement had seemed dangerous. His shoulders drew inward, instinctive, protective, as if he could fold himself small enough to disappear.
“Hey.”
The voice was distant, warped, pulling him halfway back.
Izuku blinked hard. The stairwell snapped back into focus, harsh and fluorescent. His grip loosened from the railing, fingers numb, tingling as blood rushed back into them.
“I-” His voice caught. He swallowed and tried again. “Sorry.”
The word came out automatically.
It always did.
The student standing a few steps away looked confused but not upset. “Uh. You, okay?”
Izuku nodded, even though the question made his chest ache. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It was easier than the truth.
The student shrugged and continued past him, footsteps showing fading quickly. Izuku waited until they were gone before sinking down onto the step, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
Another memory flickered unbidden.
The weight of someone standing too close.
The sound of his own breathing, loud in his ears.
The certainty that if he made a sound, something worse would happen.
His hands started shaking again.
“No,” he whispered, barely audible. “Not now.”
He pressed his feet flat against the floor, grounding himself in the present. Concrete. Cool air. Distant voices. He named each thing silently, clinging to them like anchors until the memories loosened their grip.
Eventually, the bell rang.
Sharp. Final.
Izuku flinched - but this time, he didn’t freeze.
He pushed himself to his feet, legs unsteady but moving, and headed for class. The flashbacks retreated, not gone, but quieter. Waiting.
They always waited.
Izuku reached the classroom just before the bell finished ringing.
He slipped into his seat without looking at anyone, shoulders still tight, senses tuned too sharply to the room around him. The door closed. The sound echoed - too final - and his stomach twisted. He forced his hands flat against the desk, grounding himself on the cool, smooth surface.
The teacher began speaking. Words filled the room, steady and measured, but Izuku only caught fragments. His attention snagged on smaller things instead: the scrape of a chair leg behind him, the click of a pen, the way someone leaned too far back in their seat.
Too close.
His vision blurred again, just slightly, like the world was slipping out of focus.
A flash -
Not images, not really. Just sensations.
Heat pressing in from all sides.
A voice low and unreadable.
The feeling of being watched, measured, like an object instead of a person.
Izuku’s breath stuttered.
Here, he told himself. You’re here.
He dug his nails gently into the fabric of his pants, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind himself of now. Desk. Classroom. Sunlight through the window. The smell of chalk dust instead of smoke.
The memory resisted, clinging stubbornly.
Another fragment surfaced -
His own voice, smaller than it should have been.
The word stops, swallowed before it ever reached the air.
Izuku squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, then forced them to open again. The board was still there. The teacher was still talking. No one was looking at him.
Good.
A question was asked. Someone answered. Laughter followed, light and careless. The sound made his chest ache- not because it was loud, but because it was easy. Because it belonged to people who hadn’t learned to be afraid of their own bodies.
By the time the class ended, Izuku felt wrung out.
He waited until the room emptied before standing, moving slower now, deliberate. Rushing made things worse. Always had. He slung his bag over one shoulder and headed for the door, careful to keep space between himself and everyone else.
In the hallway, he paused by a window.
Outside, the sky was painfully blue. Normal.
Unchanged.
Izuku rested his forehead briefly against the cool glass, eyes closed.
It’s over, he reminded himself.
That summer is over.
The words didn’t quite stick—but he repeated them anyway, like a promise he hoped might someday come true.
When he finally pulled away and joined the flow of students again, his steps were steadier than before.
Not because the memories were gone.
But because, for now, he had learned how to carry them.
Izuku never told anyone what happened that summer. Healing came slowly, if it came at all, tracing its way through scars that memory refused to release.
Forgetting was never an option -
how could he?