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Izuku’s story matters. It is a story of pain. It is a story of loss. It is a story, and it matters. But, sometimes, there is doubt. Does it matter? Is there a climax? Does the end give the reader a sense of satisfaction? We do not know. But it is still a story, so it does matter, right? As long as the reader reads the story then it matters, if only for a moment. But doubt grows, for if the story is not a real story, with a moral or a climax, then was it ever a story in the first place? We do not know.
Izuku is tired. This in itself, is not unusual. In fact, it seemed that each day he was struggling to roll himself out of bed each day. He was tired, he was burnt out, he was, simply, exhausted. Every day repeated like a never-ending loop, go to school, get hurt, come home, get hurt. Don’t show you’re hurt. Don’t let them win. How do they win? Will they win when he loses? Can they all win?
Izuku is a curious boy. He asks many questions, but often found himself without answers.
Today was different. Not for any particular reason, it just was.
Izuku found himself watching. Watching everything. His bedroom door had chipped at the bottom, where his doorstopper kept the door open. His toothbrush had less bristles than his mother’s. His backpack was fading from the obnoxious yellow that he loved, to a pastel color.
He arrived at school, and he saw. He saw the faces of those that tormented him, twisted grins and hunting eyes. He saw those like him, the hunted. He saw their haunted eyes, looking to the floor. They looked tired. It made sense, after all, Izuku was just one of them. He saw the slight imperfections of the walls, where students had been slammed into one too many times. He saw the way the teachers looked away as his classmates tried to trip him.
Izuku felt oddly poetic. He felt like he was in an infinitely long line, leading onwards to who knows where. He looked around and saw. Saw those in front of him in the line, those behind, all grey souls, walking. Not walking. Marching. Marching to wherever they were being led. Izuku thought.
Why?
Why march in a line with no end? What is the end? Death? Or is it eternally long, was there an end? Izuku hoped to anything out there that he was near the end. Izuku thought.
There were no guards, nobody keeping all these people in this line, there was only the expectation to keep the line going. Why was he in the line? Could he judge all these people, marching to nothing, if he himself was one of them? Could he leave the line? What would happen? Death? Was that a bad thing?
Izuku was a curious boy. He asked many questions. He never needed the answers. So, he leaves the line.
Izuku was reported missing after two weeks. The case was never closed, as it was forgotten to the back of a police department’s files.
That brings us back to the question, does Izuku’s story matter? It matters because it is a story of a life, a life he lived and died in. But, does his story have an end? Does an end make a story matter? It does not matter. Because this is about Izuku’s story. Izuku’s story does not have an end, but Izuku’s story is finished. And so, he will never know if it mattered, because he is finished.