The days blur after the doctor's visit, each one a repeat of the last, but the sting of quirkless never dulls. I'm still four, still small, my red sneakers dragging as I walk to preschool, my new notebook tucked tight under my arm. It's not the same as the one Kacchan burned—nothing will ever be—but I spent all night copying what I could remember, sketching All Might's grin with a shaky hand. It's all I have left of the dream, a fragile thread I cling to even as the world tries to snap it. The morning air is crisp, the city waking up around me, but I feel like I'm sleepwalking through someone else's life.
Mom didn't say a word when I left the apartment. She was at the kitchen table, staring at her coffee, her eyes red-rimmed. She hasn't hit me since that day in the doctor's office, but her silence is worse. It's like I'm a ghost, invisible unless I mess up. Last night, I dropped a glass while reaching for water, and the shatter brought her storming in. "Can't you do anything right, Izuku?" she'd screamed, her voice sharp enough to cut. She didn't hit me, but her glare did, pinning me to the floor as I swept up the shards, my hands trembling. I didn't cry. I'm learning not to.
The preschool gate looms ahead, kids already swarming the playground, their laughter a wall I can't climb. I slip through, head down, hoping to make it to the classroom unnoticed. No such luck. A group of girls spots me, the same ones who whispered yesterday, their voices carrying over the shouts and squeals. "There's the quirkless kid," one says, her pigtails bouncing as she points. "Doesn't he know he's useless?" They giggle, and I hunch my shoulders, gripping my notebook tighter. I want to disappear, to shrink until I'm nothing, but I'm already nothing, aren't I?
Inside, the classroom is chaos, kids showing off their quirks before the teacher arrives. A boy with a bubble quirk blows shimmering orbs that pop in the air, earning cheers. A girl with cat ears flicks her tail, purring as others pet her. I slide into my seat at the back, trying to be invisible, but the whispers follow. "He doesn't have a quirk," someone says, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "My dad says quirkless people are just burdens." The room erupts in snickers, and I sink lower, my face burning. I open my notebook, pretending to draw, but my pencil won't move. The teacher walks in, clapping her hands, and the noise dies down, but the weight on my chest doesn't lift.
Class drags on, a haze of letters and numbers I can't focus on. My mind's on All Might, on the grainy footage I watched last night on our old TV. He'd saved a whole bus of people, lifting it like it weighed nothing, his smile brighter than the sun. "I am here!" he'd shouted, and I'd mouthed the words along with him, my heart pounding. I want to be that. I want to save people, to make them feel safe. But the teacher's voice cuts through my daydream, calling on me to answer a question. I stammer, my voice barely a whisper, and the class laughs again. "Speak up, Midoriya," she snaps, her tone sharp. I try, but the words stick, and she moves on, her sigh louder than my answer.
Recess is worse. I head to the far corner of the playground, where a rusted slide sits, its shadow the only safe place I know. I sit on the ground, notebook open, sketching All Might's cape, the way it flares when he leaps. It's not good, my lines wobbly, but it's mine, and for a moment, I can pretend I'm not here. Then I hear the crackle of explosions, and my stomach drops.
"Deku!" Kacchan's voice is a blade, slicing through the air. I look up, and he's there, stomping toward me, his hands sparking, his friends trailing behind like vultures. He's got that look again, the one that says I'm about to hurt, and there's nothing I can do about it. "Still playing hero, huh?" he sneers, snatching my notebook before I can close it. He flips through the pages, his grin twisting. "This is garbage. You're garbage."
"Give it back, Kacchan," I mumble, my voice shaking. I stand, reaching for it, but he holds it higher, out of my reach, and blasts a small explosion, the heat singeing the cover. I gasp, lunging, but one of his friends shoves me down, my knees hitting the dirt. The other kids gather, a circle forming, their chants a cruel rhythm: "Quirkless! Quirkless! Quirkless!"
"You think you can be a hero?" Kacchan laughs, tossing the notebook to the ground. He stomps on it, grinding his heel into the pages, and I hear the paper tear. My chest tightens, a sob catching in my throat. "You're just a quirkless nobody, Deku. You'll never be anything." He kicks the notebook toward me, the pages crumpled, and I scramble to pick it up, hugging it close. My eyes burn, but I don't let the tears fall. Not in front of him.
"Stop wasting space," he says, turning away, his friends following. But one of them—a boy with wings—spits on my notebook as he passes, the wet splatter mixing with the dirt. The crowd disperses, their laughter echoing, and I'm left alone, trembling, the slide's shadow cold around me. I wipe the spit off with my sleeve, but the pages are ruined, All Might's sketch smudged beyond saving. I bite my lip, the taste of blood grounding me, and tuck the notebook into my bag. I won't let them see me cry.
The rest of the day is a fog. I sit through lessons, my cheek pressed against the desk, the teacher's voice a distant hum. I don't raise my hand, don't speak, don't look at anyone. The whispers don't stop, though. They're a constant drone, a reminder of what I am—or what I'm not. When the final bell rings, I wait until the classroom empties before I leave, my bag heavy on my shoulder. The playground's quiet now, the other kids gone, but the memory of their chants lingers, a bruise I can't see.
I take the long way home, avoiding the main streets, my head down. The city's alive around me—heroes patrolling, civilians bustling—but I feel like I'm outside it all, a shadow no one notices. I pass a TV store, the screens playing a news report. All Might's on, his fist raised, a villain defeated at his feet. The crowd cheers, their voices tinny through the speakers, and I stop, staring. He's everything I want to be—strong, brave, a beacon of hope. I touch the glass, my reflection small and pale, and whisper, "I'll be like you. I will."
But the words feel hollow, drowned out by Kacchan's sneer, the kids' chants, Mom's screams. I pull my hand back, my reflection blurring as tears well up. I blink them away, turning down an alley, the shortcut to our apartment. The walls are graffitied, the air damp, and I hear footsteps behind me. I tense, glancing back, but it's just a stray cat, its eyes glinting in the dim light. I let out a shaky breath, my heart still racing.
When I get home, Mom's in the living room, the TV on but muted, her gaze distant. I try to slip past, but her voice stops me. "Izuku." It's low, cold, and I freeze, my hand on the doorknob to my room. "Did you do anything useful today, or are you still wasting my time?" I don't answer, my throat tight, and she sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. "Go to your room. I don't want to look at you."
I nod, slipping inside, and close the door softly. My room's small, the walls covered in All Might posters, the bed unmade. I drop my bag, pulling out the ruined notebook, and sit on the floor, my back against the bed. I try to fix the pages, smoothing them out, but the tears are too deep, the smudges too dark. I hug the notebook to my chest, my breath hitching, and finally let the tears fall. They're silent, hot, soaking into my shirt, but they don't make me feel better. They never do.
I look at the All Might poster above my bed, his smile a promise I can't reach. I want to believe I can be a hero, that I can be more than quirkless, more than useless. But today, like every day, the world tells me I'm wrong. I curl up on the floor, the notebook still in my arms, and close my eyes, wishing for a dream where I'm not me. Where I'm someone who matters.
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