Chapter Text
There was a time when I dreamed of becoming a hero.
Not just any hero, of course.
Not some empty name or fleeting symbol, but a real one—
the kind that makes a difference,
who shows up when everything seems lost
and manages to save others just by being there.
I thought that if I wished hard enough, it would be enough.
That if I jumped high, if I smiled no matter what,
if I held on with my heart pounding at its limit…
I’d make it.
That not giving up would be enough.
But over time, I learned a harsher truth:
no matter how much you want it,
no one comes to save you just because you need them to.
No one lifts you up just because you want to fly.
Being a hero isn't a dream—it's a burden.
And wishing has never been enough.
My name is Izuku Midoriya, and tonight...
this is the last night I will spend in this world.
It may sound dramatic, even absurd
to someone who hasn’t lived inside my skin,
but to me, it’s no exaggeration.
It’s not a whim.
It’s a truth that’s been growing inside me for years,
like a shadow stretching longer with every sunset.
Many say it all began when I fell.
That fall was the beginning of the end.
But that’s not true.
The fall was just the consequence.
What triggered it happened much earlier.
It was that moment, standing at the edge of the rooftop,
when I felt the world push me without mercy,
as if saying there was no place for me up there.
That my story didn’t deserve to go on.
That was when it truly began.
Not with a scream. Not with a blow.
It began with silence.
That day, everything really shattered.
Not because someone pushed me,
not because I screamed too late.
No.
It was the exact moment everyone chose to look away
as I broke quietly inside.
That’s when I realized:
you’re not always left to fall out of cruelty.
Sometimes…
you just don’t matter enough.
Saving me was never an option.
To them, I was never truly in danger.
No one believed that a silence like mine
could kill so slowly.
Being a hero stopped being that bright dream I chased so desperately.
I became a symbol to some, a monster to others,
and to those who came later—
a myth told on the edge of fear or hope.
But before all of that,
I was just a child.
A child who didn’t want to save the world.
He just wanted someone to truly look at him,
to say his existence wasn’t a mistake,
that his voice wasn’t too soft to be heard.
Before I became anything else…
I just wanted to be seen.
And I wasn’t.
That changed everything.
And now, as I watch the city shrink beneath my feet…
I understand.
At last, I understand the cruel irony of it all.
I didn’t jump to die.
It wasn’t surrender.
It wasn’t a cry for help.
Not even a farewell.
This time, it wasn’t an attempt.
It wasn’t a mistake.
This time, it was simply the end.
And as I close my eyes for the last time, I realize:
That child was never saved.
No one reached out to him,
so he made a dramatic choice—
if the world wouldn’t save him,
he’d save it in his own way,
even if that meant burning it down
and setting fire to every lie dressed as hope.
Because to rebuild something...
you have to watch it burn first.
And if there was no place for me in the sky,
then I would carve one from the ruins.