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The break room was dim and quiet — the kind of silence that only existed late at night when the halls of U.A. had long since emptied. The hum of the vending machine was the only sound.
Aizawa almost walked past. He’d been making rounds after a long patrol, intending to grab a coffee and go over the evening reports. But then he heard it — a soft, broken sound coming from inside.
He paused at the doorway, gaze narrowing slightly. It wasn’t unusual for students to get emotional after difficult training days, but this sound… this was painful.
He stepped closer, the faint shuffle of his capture scarf barely audible. And there, huddled at the small table near the corner, was Midoriya.
His hands were pressed to his face, shoulders shaking. There were crumpled papers beside him — notes, maybe, or failed drafts of something. His notebook lay open, pages blotched with tears.
Aizawa didn’t say anything at first. He just stood in the doorway, watching quietly, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he sighed softly and stepped inside.
The sound of his footsteps made Izuku stiffen immediately. He wiped at his eyes quickly, trying to sit up straighter.
“S-sensei—! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Aizawa raised a hand, stopping him before the apology could spiral. “You’re not in trouble, problem child.” His voice was quiet — steady, almost calm, but not cold. “Breathe.”
Izuku tried, though his chest still hitched. “I just— I didn’t—” He pressed his sleeve to his eyes again, voice cracking. “I can’t get anything right. No matter how hard I try, I keep falling behind— everyone’s improving, everyone’s getting stronger, and I just— I can’t keep up anymore!”
His words tumbled out all at once, desperate and heavy. “Every time I think I’m close, I mess something up. I hurt myself. I ruin the plan. I make you worry— I make All Might worry— and— and—”
His voice broke completely, and he covered his face again.
Aizawa watched him quietly, hands in his pockets. For a long moment, he didn’t move — and then he walked over to the table, sitting across from him. The scrape of the chair was the only sound.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said simply.
Izuku blinked up through red-rimmed eyes, startled. “I— but—”
Aizawa leaned back slightly, his gaze steady but soft. “You push yourself harder than anyone else in this school. You train until you can’t move, study until you pass out at your desk, and still find time to overthink every decision you’ve made since you woke up.”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That kind of pressure doesn’t make you stronger, Midoriya. It breaks you.”
Izuku’s shoulders trembled, his breath shaky. “I just want to be— someone worthy of what I was given. Someone who doesn’t disappoint—”
“You think you’re disappointing us?” Aizawa interrupted, his tone calm but firm.
Izuku hesitated. “I— I don’t know. I just— it feels like I’m always failing—”
“Midoriya.” That one word — low, even, but commanding — stopped him in his tracks.
Aizawa’s eyes softened. “You are not a failure. You are learning. And learning isn’t clean. It’s not easy. It’s messy, painful, and half the time, it feels like you’re standing still.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But every time you get back up — that’s progress. Even if you can’t see it.”
Izuku’s throat tightened again, tears threatening to spill. “But— what if it’s not enough?”
“Then you keep going,” Aizawa said simply. “Because that’s what you do.”
The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Izuku stared at the table, his fingers trembling slightly.
Then, quietly, Aizawa spoke again. “You’ve come a long way, problem child. Don’t lose sight of that because of a few bad days.”
There was a warmth in his tone — subtle, almost hidden, but there.
Izuku nodded weakly, his voice a whisper. “I just… don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m not enough.”
Aizawa’s expression softened further. “Then let us remind you.”
Izuku blinked, startled.
“Your classmates. All Might. Me,” Aizawa said. “We see you trying. We see you improving. You don’t need to prove yourself over and over again.” He paused, glancing at the discarded notes on the table. “You just need to believe it.”
For a moment, the only sound was Izuku’s shaky breathing. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“…Thank you, sensei.”
Aizawa stood, pushing the chair back quietly. “Get some rest. You’ll think clearer in the morning.”
As he started toward the door, Izuku’s voice broke the silence. “Sensei?”
Aizawa glanced back.
Izuku wiped his eyes again, smiling faintly through the tears. “Thank you for finding me.”
Aizawa gave a small, tired smile — barely there, but genuine. “It’s my job to keep an eye on my problem children,” he said.
And as he left, Izuku sat there in the dim break room, the quiet no longer so suffocating — his heart still heavy, but just a little bit lighter.