"Hey, Takeyama," the black-haired one said as she led the group closer, her steps measured, her tone calm but firm in a way that didn't invite hesitation.
"U-um, hi? Um—" Shinji blurted, his words tumbling out awkwardly. His throat felt tight, his mouth too dry. He was trying desperately to sound normal, to keep his voice from breaking, to seem like he belonged here. But at the same time, he was memorizing every detail—the curve of her expression, the color of her eyes, the way she stood in front of the others. His chest ached with the effort, because to him it felt like if he forgot, if he slipped even for a moment, it would cost him everything. The pounding in his chest was unbearable—like he was back on the edge of battle, waiting for something massive and terrible to breach the horizon.
"Momo, Momo yaoyorozu, " the black-haired girl said after a beat, as if sensing his struggle. She supplied the name herself, steady and composed. "One of the nurses already told us about your amnesia. There's no need to be worried. We understand—it's a decently common side effect."
Her tone was meant to reassure, but it landed differently on Shinji. Instead of relief, he felt a strange, crushing pressure. A reminder that they already knew, that they were already giving him space, that they were already being patient. That meant the burden was his—not to mess this up, not to push too hard, not to give them any reason to doubt him. The others behind her stood quietly, not crowding, not interrupting, letting Momo take the lead. Yet their silence felt heavier than any words.
Every second that passed stretched taut, his mind screaming at him to say something, anything, before that silence became unbearable.
"A-And the others? Their names, I mean," Shinji asked, his words stumbling out faster than he meant them to. His palms felt clammy, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides as though his body was begging him to move, to escape the suffocating tension pressing down on him. His eyes darted past Momo to the faces standing behind her—faces that looked at him with curiosity, with quiet patience, with something he couldn't read.
The silence after his question stretched for a heartbeat too long. He hated how much that pause made his stomach knot, like he had just asked something foolish, something that revealed too much of the cracks running through him. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and he kept his gaze fixed forward, because if he looked away now—if he flinched—then it would only confirm the weakness clawing at his edges.
Momo's expression softened slightly, her lips parting as she turned her head toward the group behind her, almost as if inviting them to step forward themselves. The faintest ripple of warmth passed through her otherwise composed demeanor, but her voice remained steady when she finally spoke again, bridging that unbearable pause.
"They'll tell you," she said simply, almost as though she was giving them permission, and in that moment Shinji realized the weight of his question wasn't small at all—it was the most human thing he'd managed to say since they arrived.
Kirishima was the first to step forward, all sharp teeth and easy confidence, like he'd been waiting for the chance. "Eijirou Kirishima," he said, his grin wide enough to be disarming. "You can just call me Kirishima, though—everyone does. I'm the hardening guy." He tapped a fist against his chest like it was the simplest thing in the world, like strength was something he carried without question.
Shinji nodded stiffly, trying to lock the name into place, whispering it under his breath without realizing. Kirishima. Eijirou. Hardening. His stomach twisted, but he forced the words into his memory, clinging to them as if they were lifelines.
Next was a round-faced girl with short brown hair and an energy that felt almost too bright for the heavy air lingering around Shinji. She lifted a hand in a small wave. "Ochako Uraraka," she said, her voice warm and unguarded. "Nice to meet you—again, I guess." There was no hesitation in her smile, though her eyes flickered with a softness, a kind of caution, as though she understood more than she let on.
Shinji's throat tightened. Ochako. Uraraka. Smile. He repeated it like a mantra, like he could brand it into his mind before it slipped through the cracks.
Beside her, the smaller, green-haired girl with the wide, unreadable eyes spoke up, her tone even and unbothered. "Tsuyu Asui. You can call me Tsu. Most people do." She blinked slowly at him, her gaze steady but not harsh. It was the kind of look that made Shinji feel both seen and weighed, like she could tell he was about to break apart but wasn't going to call it out.
His tongue was dry as he forced the name to settle. Tsuyu. Asui. Tsu.
The last girl bounced forward with enough energy for all of them, her pink hair a mess of curls, her skin faintly glimmering under the lights. "Mina Ashido! Don't worry, I'm not as scary as I look!" she said with a grin so playful it felt almost reckless, like she was daring him to laugh along with her. Her voice cut through the heaviness like a blade, almost too much, but not unwelcome.
Shinji's lips parted, air catching in his throat. Mina. Ashido. Pink. He swallowed hard, his chest tight.
Each name sat in him like a weight—fragile, heavy, and terrifying all at once. He wanted to repeat them again, wanted to make sure they stayed, but his voice caught in his throat, and all he could do was nod, again and again, as if that could hold everything together.
Shinji's words stumbled out of him like broken glass, sharp and awkward. His hands twitched at his sides, curling and uncurling as if they couldn't find anywhere safe to be.
"I—I-I'm sorry, but uh," he stammered, glancing from one face to the next, his throat closing tighter the longer their eyes stayed on him. "Uh, like Yaoyorozu said, I can't remember you guys right now, uhm—sorry if that offends you?"
The silence that followed made his chest ache. His pulse hammered against his ears, and he braced himself for the recoil—for annoyance, for mockery, for the kind of dismissal that always came when he said the wrong thing.
But none of it came.
Kirishima only shook his head, grin softening into something more steady. "Nah, man, no offense taken. You don't gotta apologize for that." His tone was firm, like he meant every word.
Ochako offered a small, reassuring smile, leaning forward slightly. "Yeah! It's not your fault, right? We'll just… keep reminding you until it sticks. That's all."
And Mina just laughed, a bright little snort. "Offend us? Pfft, please. It's just more excuses for us to reintroduce ourselves in cooler ways."
The knot in Shinji's chest didn't disappear, but the crushing weight eased just enough for him to breathe again. He swallowed, the words he wanted to say dissolving before they reached his tongue, leaving only a nod—shaky, uneven, but real.
Shinji was aware of his grip on Yu's hand tightening—tight enough that it must have been painful, but she didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't even look down. Her fingers remained there, locked with his, steady and unyielding, her silence almost louder than the conversation unfolding around him. She just watched, her eyes unreadable, taking in every word and every tremor in his voice.
Finally, his throat loosened enough to let sound scrape out. "I… I guess if you guys are here, that means no one else got hurt? By whatever did this to me, I mean?" His voice cracked halfway through, a brittle thing, but he forced it out anyway.
Ochako's smile dipped softer, almost fragile. "Yeah… just you. You were the only one who… well, you know."
Mina leaned forward, her usual spark still there but muted, her hands pressing together. "So don't start thinking it's on you, okay? We're still here, all of us, because of you."
Shinji's throat closed again at that. The pressure in his chest mounted, a dull ache thudding behind his ribs, but Yu's hand stayed in his, grounding him, keeping him from drifting too far into the spiral. He didn't know if it was true—if it was really because of him, or just luck—but he couldn't find the strength to argue. Not now.
But even as his body sagged, refusing to push back, his mind clawed and tore at itself, a frantic cyclone that wouldn't let him breathe. They had to be lying. Why else would they sound so careful, so measured? Why else would they look at him like that, like glass they didn't want to shatter? Why would Momo's tone be so soft, or Mina's so forced? Someone must have gotten hurt. They just didn't want to tell him. They were hiding it—hiding it because they thought he couldn't handle it.
Because he failed.
He always failed. When he failed, he got hurt. Bad. Always bad. Like now—he'd woken up in a bed, bandages, nurses hovering. Just like before. Just like then. His hands trembled at the memory, phantom pains digging under his skin like barbed wire. His body healed, didn't it? The wounds were gone, sealed faster than they should have been. Too fast. Wrong. Unnatural. Why? Why him? Why was he like this?
The questions splintered into more questions, fracturing until the noise drowned out the present. Why was his chest so tight? Why was the pounding in his skull so loud? Why couldn't he focus on their faces—just colors and shapes, slipping away the harder he tried to grab them? Why couldn't he remember? Why couldn't he trust? Why did it all feel staged, rehearsed, like words being fed to him from somewhere else?
His head wouldn't stop throbbing. Each beat of his pulse slammed like a hammer, knocking him further from control. He felt like his thoughts were racing ahead of him, a runaway train on tracks he couldn't see, carrying him toward something he didn't want to know. He couldn't catch them, couldn't slow them down. Every thought clawed over the next, louder, sharper, faster, until his own breathing sounded like a stranger's.
The ground tilted. Or maybe it was his vision tilting. He couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't stop. Couldn't think of anything but the hundred different voices inside his skull screaming the same thing in different words—failure, weakness, mistake, liar, traitor.
And Yu's hand—still there, firm, unyielding—was the only thing tethering him from vanishing completely.
Then it vanished.
The world hiccupped, skipped like a broken reel. His skin prickled, cold sweat crawling down his spine. Where her hand should have been, where that steady grip had been grounding him—something else. Warm. Too warm. The wrong kind of warm.
His stomach dropped. He didn't want to look, but he couldn't not. His gaze dragged down, every second stretching into eternity, until he saw it. His hand. Only it wasn't his hand.
Longer. Twisted. The fingers ending not in nails but in claws, curved and sharp enough to cut without trying. Flesh pulled too tight, veins crawling up the arm in a way he swore hadn't been there before.
Shinji's breath hitched, then snapped into ragged gulps. His chest heaved like it couldn't pull in enough air no matter how hard he tried. Why? Why did he have claws? Why? His mind screamed it on repeat, the question fracturing into dozens of jagged edges that tore through his thoughts.
The room was spinning. No—it wasn't spinning, it was closing in, walls bending inward, pressing against him, crushing him. His heart thundered so loud it drowned out voices—were there voices? Were they shouting his name? He couldn't tell. All he could hear was the hammering, the blood rushing in his ears, the ragged gasps of someone—himself?—who sounded like they were drowning.
His claws flexed involuntarily, scraping against the floor with a shrill sound that tore through his skull. His breath choked into a sob he barely recognized as his own. This wasn't him. It wasn't his body. It couldn't be.
Panic bloomed into terror, white-hot and blinding, until every nerve screamed the same thing—wrong wrong wrong wrong.
wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
Then, it stopped,
Like a cord snapping inside him, the flood of terror cut off, leaving only the ringing silence of an aftermath. Shinji's chest still convulsed with the need to breathe, but the fire was gone, replaced by a hollowness that clawed at his insides. Sweat clung cold to his temples, his palms, the back of his neck. The pressure that had crushed him—wrong wrong wrong wrong—had evaporated, leaving the world almost too still, too quiet, as if even sound itself was afraid to return.
His ears buzzed faintly, and for a disorienting moment, he thought he was deaf. But no—he could hear his own ragged breaths, the faint shuffle of cloth, the hum of fluorescent lights. And then he saw them.
Six pairs of eyes locked onto him. Watching. Worry etched deep, their silence somehow louder than any words could have been. Not pity, not judgment—just an unspoken weight that pressed against his ribs harder than the panic ever had.
Shinji didn't move. Couldn't. His hands trembled openly in his lap, his gaze darting between their faces as if searching for an anchor, something to drag him back into place. But the stillness held. The room didn't change. The eyes didn't waver.
And that was almost worse than the panic itself.
"Shinji," Yu's voice came, soft but steady, breaking the silence like glass. Despite the gentleness, the sound jolted him, his shoulders snapping tight as if bracing for impact. Slowly, his eyes drifted—not to her face, but down, to where her hand was still in his. Real. Solid. Warm. He stared at it like it was the only thing tethering him to the room, his gaze trembling against the sight.
"You're okay," Yu continued, tone threaded with a calm she forced into every syllable. "You're not… wherever you just were. It wasn't real. Just listen to me. My voice. My hand. That's all that matters right now."
Her grip never wavered, grounding him against the phantom claws and wrongness that still echoed through his nerves. Every word she spoke pressed back against the silence, against the memory that had nearly drowned him. And for the first time since the panic began, Shinji felt something like gravity pulling him back into himself.
"Can you speak, Shinji?" Yu asked after a long, tense silence. His breathing had finally steadied—still heavy, still uneven at the edges, but no longer the desperate gasps that had threatened to tear his chest apart. He wanted to answer her. Gods, he wanted to. His lips parted, jaw working as though the words were lodged somewhere just out of reach. He pushed against the weight in his throat, willed something, anything, to come out.
Nothing.
Only the rasp of breath, dry and broken, filled the air between them. Frustration burned behind his eyes as he forced the attempt again, his chest rising, throat tightening—still nothing. A hollow sound, choked and empty, was all he managed before his shoulders slumped forward under the failure. Slowly, defeated, Shinji gave the smallest shake of his head.
Yu's response was immediate and gentle. Her hand tightened around his, just enough to remind him it was still there, still her, still real. A silent reassurance pulsed between their palms, stronger than any words she could've offered. "That's alright," she murmured, more to him than anyone else. "You don't have to push yourself. Not right now."
Her gaze flicked toward the group of five who lingered just a few feet away—Momo, Kirishima, Ochako, Tsuyu, Mina—all wearing the same expression, a mirror of worry etched differently across their features. They had been frozen in place since the panic broke, like statues afraid to move, afraid to make things worse. Yu drew in a slow breath, her voice soft but deliberate as she addressed them.
"I'm sorry," she began, dipping her head slightly, her tone carrying both apology and quiet firmness. "But would you mind… coming back later? Please."
The girls exchanged uneasy glances, hesitant to leave, but Yu pressed on. She shifted slightly closer to Shinji, still keeping her hand in his, as though showing them with her body language exactly why she was asking. "With this bout of amnesia, the last thing he clearly remembers is…" she paused, carefully choosing the words, her voice lowering almost to a whisper, "…coming back. Just that. And right now, asking him to hold anything more than that, when he's already fighting through this—it isn't fair to him."
Her thumb brushed lightly over the back of Shinji's hand, subtle but intentional, grounding him while she spoke. "I don't want to make this worse on him. He needs to feel safe, needs to know he isn't trapped somewhere he can't fight his way out of. And right now, too much too fast—it risks shattering what little stability he has."
The silence stretched heavy in the room. Momo's lips pressed into a thin line, her composure barely holding. Ochako's hands fidgeted at her sides, as though itching to reach out but not daring to intrude. Mina's usual brightness had dimmed, her eyes wide with concern. Tsuyu's mouth opened like she might speak, then closed again, choosing silence instead. Kirishima's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping, frustration evident in his posture—not at Yu, but at his own helplessness.
Finally, Momo nodded, slow and deliberate. "We understand," she said softly. Her tone lacked its usual confidence, but carried sincerity. One by one, the others followed, each giving small nods or murmurs of reluctant agreement.
Yu exhaled, a quiet breath of relief, and inclined her head gratefully. "Thank you. Truly."
The group lingered only a moment longer, exchanging one last glance at Shinji—still silent, still pale, still gripping Yu's hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world—before filing out of the room. The door closed behind them with a muted click, leaving the hospital room in fragile stillness.
Only then did Yu lean closer, her voice returning to that softer register meant only for him. "It's alright now. Just us. You don't have to say anything."
Her hand never let go.
For a long moment, the quiet pressed down like another weight on Shinji's chest. He stared at the floor, at the way his bare feet shifted against the sterile linoleum, at the way his knuckles had gone pale from how tightly he clung to Yu's hand. His lips parted, closed, opened again. Every attempt to speak was like trying to force words through a throat full of barbed wire—painful, impossible.
But the silence was worse.
His jaw clenched, and he dragged in a sharp breath through his nose, forcing his body to obey, to remember what it meant to form sound. The first attempt came out as little more than a rasp, broken and hollow. "S…" His throat burned, his voice too raw. He swallowed, tried again, his head tilting slightly toward Yu, as though anchoring himself on the fact she hadn't pulled away.
"S-sorry…"
The word cracked apart, trembling in the air. His chest tightened, shame pressing down harder than the weight of his own exhaustion. He tried again, breath hitching, and managed to force it out clearer, though fragile, like it could shatter if he pushed any harder. "I'm… sorry."
Yu's brows pinched, her expression softening in a way that only made his stomach knot further. She shook her head immediately, her voice steady and calm even as she leaned in closer, eyes never leaving his. "No. Don't apologize, Shinji. Not for this. Not for anything right now."
But the guilt clung to him, thick and suffocating. His free hand twitched uselessly against the bedsheet, restless, like he wanted to bury himself in it, hide from the weight of her steady gaze. "I… I scared them…" he forced out, voice low, rough around the edges. "…scared you."
Yu's grip tightened ever so slightly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in a slow, deliberate motion. "Maybe. For a moment," she admitted, honesty lacing her tone, "but only because we care. Not because of you. Not because you've done anything wrong."
Shinji's throat constricted at that, a choked sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a sob. His eyes squeezed shut, and he bent his head forward, shoulders hunching as if he could fold himself small enough to disappear. "…I didn't mean to," he whispered, voice breaking on the edges.
"You don't have to mean to," Yu said softly, leaning close enough that her words were for him alone. "You don't have to explain. You're here with me. That's enough."
Her hand never left his, never loosened, as though silently promising she'd hold on for him as long as it took.
His next words hovered at the back of his throat for what felt like forever, circling, scratching, demanding to be spoken. He hated them—hated that he even had to think them—but they pressed until his chest ached with the weight of holding them in.
Finally, barely audible, they slipped out. "…Am I broken?"
Yu froze. Just for a breath, just long enough for Shinji to notice the way her eyes widened before her features softened again. Her thumb stilled its rhythm over his knuckles, then resumed—slow, deliberate, grounding.
He couldn't look at her. His gaze fixed on the floor, on the thin line where shadow met light, as if the answer might be written there. His shoulders shook once, his voice rough, halting. "I feel like it. Like I'm… pieces. Like everyone sees it and just—pretends they don't." He swallowed hard, forcing down the thickness in his throat. "…Like I'll never be what I'm supposed to be again."
Yu leaned in closer, not letting go of his hand, not even letting it shift an inch. "Shinji." His name came soft but steady, each syllable deliberate, pulling his focus back whether he wanted it or not. "You're not broken."
He shook his head sharply, a bitter sound escaping him. "Then what am I? Because all I can think about is—" His breath stuttered, chest rising and falling too fast again. "—is how much I've lost, how much I can't do anymore. Like I'm dragging everyone down." His free hand curled against the sheets, nails digging into the fabric. "…Maybe it would've been easier if I hadn't come back at all."
Yu's grip on his hand tightened—firm, unyielding, a sudden jolt of warmth against the cold spiraling through him. "Don't," she said, her voice low but carrying an edge he hadn't heard before. "Don't say that. Not ever. You came back, Shinji. That means something. That means everything."
His breath hitched, a small sound slipping out that was closer to a sob than anything else. For the first time since the spiral began, his eyes flicked up toward her, searching her face for something—anything—that might make the words less hollow.
"You're not broken," Yu repeated, softer now, steady as a stone despite the storm behind her eyes. "You're hurt. You've been through more than anyone should. But broken? No. Not you."
The words hung heavy between them, pressing into him harder than his own doubt. His throat worked, but no answer came—not yet. Instead, he clung tighter to her hand, like it was the only thing left holding him together.
Yu's lips pressed into a thin line, the humorless kind, and her thumb brushed absently over his knuckles as if the gesture alone could smooth the jagged edges of his words. She didn't speak right away, not because she didn't have an answer, but because she seemed to be weighing each one with care. Her silence wasn't the same suffocating void that had followed his panic—it was deliberate, grounding, like she was making sure her next words wouldn't shatter him further.
Finally, she leaned back just enough so he had to meet her eyes. "Shinji," she said softly, but with that strange firmness she carried, the kind that left no room for him to argue. "You're not broken. Do you hear me? You're hurt, yes. You've been hurt for a long time. But broken? No."
Her other hand came up, brushing some stray hair out of his face, and lingered against his cheek. "Even before your memories came back, you fought. You adapted. You survived. That's not what someone broken does. That's what someone stronger than they even realize does."
Shinji's jaw tightened, teeth catching, the bitterness still burning in his throat. "You don't know that. Maybe this time it sticks. Maybe I stay like this. A mess. Maybe that's the real me."
Yu's hand didn't waver; her eyes didn't flinch. "Then I'll stay with that version of you too. Every fractured, cracked, unlucky piece of you. Because even then, Shinji—you'll still be you. And you'll still be here. And that's enough."
The words hit harder than he wanted them to, dragging something sharp and stinging up behind his eyes. He squeezed her hand tighter, swallowing against the lump in his throat, his attempt at another bitter joke dying before it could form.
Yu didn't press him further. Instead, she leaned in again, her forehead resting gently against his, her voice so low it barely reached him. "You've carried enough. Let someone else hold the weight for once."
That last sentence pulled Shinji up short—not because of the comfort in her tone, but because of the irony buried inside it. His lips twitched, almost against his will. "Hey… do you remember what I wanted my hero name to be? Back then—before everything happened."
Yu blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden turn. She tilted her head slightly, searching her memory. "It was Atlas, wasn't it? Why do you—" Her voice cut off as the meaning sank in, and she stared at him, half incredulous. "Really?" she asked, torn between laughter and disbelief. "I tell you to let someone else carry the weight, and you bring up Atlas—the god who literally carries the sky?"
"Titan," Shinji corrected softly, though there was no bite to it. For the first time since waking, something genuine tugged at his expression—a smile, small and cracked, but real.
Yu blinked again, her own lips parting as if she couldn't quite decide whether to laugh or sigh. "…I'm surprised you remember that," she admitted, her voice gentler now.
"Yeah. Me too," Shinji said, the smile lingering as his gaze drifted toward the ceiling. "I don't know why. It just… clicked when you said that." His voice trailed, but there was a subtle steadiness in it now, like he was holding onto the thread of memory with everything he had.
Yu let out a quiet breath she hadn't realized she was holding and brushed her thumb across his hand again, this time in something like relief. "Then maybe not everything's lost like you think. Maybe some things in you can't be erased—no matter what happens."
The silence stretched between them, long enough that Shinji could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest. Yu's eyes lingered on him, not searching exactly, but turning something over, as though she were fighting herself before letting the words out. Finally, with a hesitation that almost made her voice tremble, she asked:
"Do you still want to be a hero… even after everything that happened?"
Shinji's breath caught. The question burrowed into him deeper than he wanted to admit, dragging with it flashes of broken memories, pain that hadn't healed, and faces—familiar, yet painfully distant. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure if the truth that wanted to claw its way out would sound pathetic, or worse, hollow.
His throat worked once, twice, before he managed to whisper, "I don't know." The words cracked, fragile, like glass under strain. "I did… I really did. It was all I wanted. But now… now I don't even know if I'm still me enough to be one."
Yu's hand tightened around his, quiet but firm, as if she refused to let that doubt carry him away. Her eyes softened, but she didn't rush to fill the silence this time. She just let him sit with it, let the admission hang between them like something sacred, something that didn't need to be answered all at once.
And in that stillness, Shinji realized she wasn't asking because she doubted him. She was asking because she needed to know if he still believed in the dream that had once defined him.
"I want to be, but I don't want to either—does that make sense?" Shinji gave a half laugh, brittle and uneven, the kind of sound that was closer to breaking than amusement. His shoulders rose and fell with it, but his eyes didn't match the sound, shadowed and uncertain.
Yu tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady, unwavering. "Yeah," she said softly after a moment, voice carrying none of the judgment he expected. "It does. More than you think."
Shinji blinked at her, caught off guard, as if he'd been bracing for the usual—someone telling him to push through, to be strong, to chase the path no matter what. Instead, Yu just stayed there with him, not trying to drag him forward or force him back, just standing in the middle of the storm with him.
He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking down to where their hands were still clasped. His grip loosened slightly, though he didn't let go. "It feels like… if I say I want it, then I'll just fail again. And if I say I don't, then…" He trailed off, throat closing before he could finish.
"Then you'll lose something that mattered to you," Yu finished quietly, not as a guess, but as if she already knew the truth of it.
Shinji's laugh this time was even smaller, barely a breath. "You always know how to make things harder, you know that?"
Her lips curved in the faintest of smiles, but her eyes never lost their softness. "Or maybe I just don't let you run from the things that matter."
With a sudden burst of boldness, Shinji turned and hugged Yu—or rather, something closer to a lopsided, desperate half-hug. His right arm still hung stubborn and useless at his side, but his left curled around her like he was trying to anchor himself to her presence. The sudden movement nearly toppled him off the bed, his weight pitching forward, but Yu caught him before gravity could do the rest.
She let out a startled laugh, the sound warm and unguarded, her arms bracing him against her. "Careful, idiot," she whispered, though her voice carried more fondness than reprimand.
Shinji's cheek pressed against her shoulder, the faintest tremor still running through his body. He hadn't even thought before moving—it was instinct, raw and unfiltered, born from something deeper than words. The closeness made his chest feel tight, his throat thick, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to let go.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice cracked and uneven. "I know this can't be easy… dealing with me. And I know I may not always say it, but… thank you. And I love you, sis."
The silence that followed stretched, fragile as glass. Yu's breath caught—just barely, but enough that he felt it, the rise and fall of her chest hitching against his. For a moment, she didn't speak. Her fingers lingered on his back, pressing in as though grounding herself as much as she was grounding him.
When she did answer, her voice was thick, careful in its steadiness, but brimming with warmth that words alone couldn't carry. "You don't have to thank me, Shinji. Never. You're my little brother—whether you remember everything or not, whether you think you're broken or not, that doesn't change. And…" her hand lifted, brushing the back of his head gently, like she was afraid to let go, "…I love you too. Always."
Shinji's eyes closed, and the darkness that usually clawed at him when he drifted off was… quiet. For once—however long "once" even meant to him anymore—he felt something close to peace. His breathing evened out, his body softening against Yu's shoulder, the faint tension that always seemed to coil through him finally loosening.
The sterile smell of the hospital, the muted hum of machines, the weight of his half-healed body—none of it mattered. Keeping his eyes open had always felt like a battle, like he had to be ready, had to stay on guard, had to expect something to go wrong at any moment. But now? Now it felt like a battle he didn't care to win. Not when he had this—warmth, closeness, the quiet strength of Yu's arms around him.
For the first time, sleep didn't feel like surrender. It felt like safety. And with the faintest sigh, he let himself sink into it, into her presence, into the fragile sense that maybe—just maybe—he wasn't as alone as his thoughts kept telling him.