The hallway after practice makes a strange noise, our footsteps pass through the walls, the low chatter echoes up to the roof. I turn and look outside: the sky is cloudy and it's snowing right now. Someone says "canteen?", someone laughs softly. I stare at the floor a moment too long: the worn yellow line, a piece of black chewing gum, a scratch that follows my step.
"Junko, are you coming?" Uraraka asks me. Behind her, Kaminari is already in conversation mode, Sero is shrugging, Kirishima is with that smile that makes your day. Midoriya gives me a kind, non-invasive look.
"I'll be there later," I say. "I have a few things to take care of." It's not really a lie. I see it more as an emergency exit.
(Don't say anything. Walk with me and stay close to me, please.)
I climb the stairs, turn around for a moment, and sure enough, I realize I'm the only one who has turned the corner. The neon light hums and flickers once along the stairwell, blinking like a tired eye. The dorm smells of lemon detergent, forgotten coffee, and that faint trace of bleach drifting from the bathrooms. It's a wonderful smell; I absolutely love it.
My door clicks, and I walk in with my back turned, kicking off my shoes with a bang that sends them flying onto the carpet. I drape my jacket over the chair which, crooked as it is, feels like another silent body.
The bed is a white expanse that asks no questions: a fresh sheet, springs that seem to greet me kindly. I sit on it. Then I let myself fall backward, my arms outstretched, legs spread, my back sinking completely into the mattress.
The ceiling has a small crack; dust gets in there...maybe even a few spiders.
I'm tired. Not muscle-tired, not physically: brain-tired, mentally, because I had to maintain an upright posture all day. And the worst thing is faking it, trust me.
Today the numbers did their job, I know. "Instant synchronization," "zero penalties." Everything perfect. And yet...and yet that sentence, the one I'd tucked away in the back box, weighs like cold lead today.
"It was just a quickie."
Written like this, without inflection, without wavering for even a moment. Spoken with the same intensity as a bad-news medical report. A few days ago, I looked at this sentence from afar, the way you look at a street sign every day: I took note and continued straight ahead, confident. Not now. Now I trip over it and it bruises my shin with pride.
And the memory of the cave comes back to me. Not the details, those are pointless.The damp smell of the stone returns, its warmth… the good kind, the kind that takes your trembling away. I remember the way our breaths fell into sync without making a sound, his on my neck, mine on his mouth. I remember the feeling of saying "I'm here" without using my voice, my forehead resting against him, my fingers steady where they needed to be.
My nose stings. A tear escapes. Then another, like when a dam doesn't collapse: it gives a little and that's enough. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, a technical gesture, but the streak remains. One slips onto the pillow: a line of water that makes no sound but leaves a cold feeling in my heart.
The phone vibrates on the nightstand. [Uraraka]: Are you there? Then [Kirishima]: Table by the windows. Seat saved. I look at the messages, I don't answer. (I know they're waiting for me. And I know I could get up and go. But not today. Today I'm leaving room for myself.)
"Only a quickie."
The problem is the word "only." Remove it, and you're left with something I could have handled. But "only" erases, reduces, paints everything gray. And I wasn't gray in that cave. Neither of us were.
And yes, today I saw him protect Uraraka with a rough care. I saw him look at me like a strangled storm: hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff, eyes unsure where to rest. Tsk tsk tsk. All that jealousy that doesn't want its name. So why put "only" there? Why throw sand on a fire that's still in your eyes? It seems like he hates me... I don't understand why.
(I get it, you want me to sit up straight. I'll try.)
I sit up, back against the cold wall. I inhale two. Exhale six. I repeat. I open the "procedure" folder, reread the facts: 7:42, zero penalties, excellent cooperation. I close it again. Next to me is another, more crumpled one. On it is written "enemy base inspection." I place a finger. I don't open it all the way: I just lift the corner. It's enough to remind me that I wasn't dreaming. I close it again slowly, as if it might wake up.
Another tear, then that's it. (I'll allow myself that. Thirty seconds. Then I'll drink water and try to stop, I promise.)
I go to the sink and take three slow sips. The water tastes like a pipe, but it doesn't matter; it puts me back together. The mirror shows me puffy eyes and tired eyebrows. I return to bed. I pull the blanket up to my chin; the fabric barely scratches. The pillow retains the heat, no questions asked.
Outside, someone runs down the hallway, laughing. The communal refrigerator vibrates somewhere, like a basso continuo. Something slowly settles inside my chest, and I calm down.
"It wasn't just a quickie..." I whisper to myself. "And if it is for him..." I shrug. "Then today it hurts, it will hurt. Tomorrow I won't think about it anymore. It will pass."
You're still here, right? Keep count for me one last time. Inhale four. Exhale four.
I turn on the small lamp and turn off the large one: half dark, half peaceful. The cone of light makes the dust in the air sparkle, small, unhurried planets. The phone vibrates again. I turn it face down and let the silence do its work. A dry tear on my cheek, a clear decision on the bedside table. Tonight, today, it can sit here with me. I won't chase it away. If it wants to stay with me, I'll make room for it. Then we'll see tomorrow.
***
Sunday, 7:00 a.m.
I'm in the cafeteria, and it looks like a dimmed aquarium: cold white lights, empty tables, cutlery lying in rows like dead fish. The coffee machine has its own breathing, a short cough before finally releasing the flow. I fill my cup, bitter all the way to the brim. I stand by the window: outside, the sky is a gray that hasn't yet decided whether it's going to rain or not.
(Let's talk, you and I. Quick. Do you think I should vent to Uraraka? Tell her that my head is spinning, that the day before yesterday I held my posture but today I can't? She listens well, always. But is it right to support me? Or do you think it becomes a burden that falls on her like a poorly fitted helmet? "Talk about it," you'd say. "Don't be a dam." I know. But sometimes dams are useful just to get through the evening.)
I take a sip. I wrap my hands around the cup, my fingers in the warmth: I imagine it's a hug.
Suddenly the doors slide open with a "shhh." I turn slightly to see who it is. Bakugo comes down. Heavy step, shoulders up, jaw doing its job. He sees me, pretends not to. I return my gaze to the window, rest my forehead on the cold glass, and sigh, closing my eyes. "But why does this always happen to me?" I think, and keep it to myself.
He pours the coffee without sugar, without looking at the measuring cup, without anything. The cup makes a sharp clatter on the counter, as if he's half-slammed it.
He sits behind me. Right behind. Not opposite: behind. Close enough for the chair to communicate with the floor. Long seconds pass like taut wires. No one says anything. I feel his spoon brush the ceramic: tick, tick, a nervous patience. I don't turn around, I don't speak to him.
Then, he breaks the tension. Of course.
"What the fuck is this?" He hangs up. "The silent show?"
"I'm drinking coffee." I reply coldly.
"Tch. What are you, a statue? Are you waiting for me to ask how you are?" He laughs without laughing, a little sniffle. "Are you dreaming badly?"
I stand still, shoulders still. "I don't want anything."
Bam. His fist slams on the table behind me. His cup vibrates.
"Stop walking around with that funeral face!" He growls. "You're pissing me off."
"That's the look I have today."
"Don't play the victim, damn it!" The word pops like an explosion. He leans in. I feel him on me. "I can't stand that face! You've had it for days, damn it!"
"The day before yesterday you said 'just a quickie.'" I look at the glass, not at him. "I'll remember that."
tick. tick. tick. The spoon hits. "Because it was!" He snaps. "Period! Stick it in your head!"
"I already have that memorized."
"Tch...stop looking at me, damn it!"
"I'm not looking at you." (Lie: He hands the glass back to me. Jaw clenched, shoulders hard, thumb gripping the cup as if it were a detonator.)
Then he blurts out: "Uraraka. Don't go whining to her. Don't even try!"
"I didn't."
"Better. Don't mess up the team. Don't you dare."
There's more behind the words. I feel it: concern disguised as barbed wire. But he'll never say it.
"I'm not messing up anything..." I reply softly. "I'm just breathing."
"Breathe elsewhere!" He comes closer to me, the heat on his face. "And lift your chin when you walk, you look like a fucking loser!"
I half-smile. "Okay, boss."
"DON'T call me that!" The chair scrapes the floor, bumping into mine. For a moment, my elbow almost knocks his cup out of my hand: his hand pushes it away, then he pulls back as if my arm is burning. "Be careful, idiot!"
"I'm staying still."
Silence. Heavy breathing. Tick, tick. Then, lower, meaner: "Don't make that scene about shedding tears, it bores me." He pushes a napkin toward me, without looking.
"I'm not crying." (Almost.)
"Good. And you don't have to."
I turn around a millimeter, barely a profile. "The day before yesterday you said 'just a quickie.' Today I'm paying for it, not you." (Part.2)
"Tch...don't be an accountant with feelings!" He snaps. "There's nothing to save! It just happened!"
"The problem is that 'just happened!'"
He stiffens. His fingers tremble on the handle of the cup. "You don't understand shit."
"Explain it to me."
He laughs briefly, nervously. "I don't have to explain shit to you!"
And he won't. He can't. The words stick in his throat like pinless grenades. He says "just a quickie" but stays here, burning with rage. If it were "just that," he would have already left.
I turn around. I adjust my chair, leaving the half-full cup on the counter.
"Where the fuck are you going?!"
"Not to argue with you." Hands in my pockets. "And to stop being sad somewhere else."
I step forward. He jerks forward, half a gesture as if to stop me. He doesn't. White knuckles, jaw cracking. He stays there.
"Put your sweatshirt on, idiot!" He suddenly shouts, without looking at me. "It's windy outside!" then immediately: "Tch...fuck it, do whatever you want."
I walk. Inhale four times. Exhale four times. I think of Uraraka. Maybe yes, maybe no. Not now.
In the glass door I see a reflection: he straightens my chair, aligns the cup, picks up the napkin he pushed next to me. He looks at the spot where I was standing. Then he breaks his gaze, like you break a match to avoid lighting it.
I'm in front. He's behind, sitting with anger boiling over him, that unspoken thing stuck in his throat, heavy as a screw left inside. And I know: it wasn't just that. But he'll be the one not to tell me. That's okay. Today it hurts, but tomorrow I won't think about it anymore.
One week later...
The steaming cup of tea sits in front of me. I warm my fingers with the steam and pretend the heat is reaching even deeper into me. Okay, sit here, on the edge of the bed: today we're taking stock. A whole week, compressed into one gulp.
So. Group training.
That's where I really see him, Bakugo. There's no way to avoid it, the shifts always put us in the same space: mat, sweat, practice shots. The strange thing? He avoids me verbally, doesn't say anything to me that isn't essential. No orders, no insults. Technical silence. And yet... his gaze never fades.
Every time we step onto the field, I feel those crimson eyes on me. Not direct, not dramatic, almost stolen. As if he's decided to speak only like that, during the seconds he thinks I'm not looking. And me? I always notice it. Because it's impossible not to notice.
Let me give you an example: a couple of days ago, hand-to-hand training. I'm training with Sero, Midoriya is following Kaminari. And Bakugo? Officially, he's "reviewing strategies" with Kirishima. Unofficially, every time Sero grabs me too hard or I stumble, Bakugo's eyes cut across the space between us. He doesn't say anything, but you could bet: every muscle is ready to fire. Yet he doesn't. He just stands there, jaw tense, as if it's the only way he knows to "hold back."
Monday, however, was a mixed-team simulation. Uraraka called a move, and I moved to deflect a simulated projectile. Good. Except the blow was stronger than expected, and I lost my balance. I barely missed a fall. Amidst the general din, I hear nothing... except his sharp "tsk," which hits me squarely in the back. He didn't need to say anything else: it was anger, yes, but overlaid with an undercurrent I don't know what to call. (Call it jealousy? Concern? You decide. I don't have the courage to say it.)
In those moments, I pretend nothing's happening. I keep my gaze elsewhere, breathing rapidly, as if it were just concentration. But inside, I admit, I feel it. It burns and comforts me at the same time. Because if it were truly true that "it was just a quickie," he wouldn't get his hands dirty looking at me so much.
And I know you're thinking: Junko, you're getting hung up on stares. Yes. I am. Because that's all he'll give me. No words, no gestures, just these brief flames that escape his eyes when he thinks they're out. And I... I can't pretend they don't exist.
The week is long, true. Seven days that seem like nothing in words, but when experienced, they become layered, full of angles you can't ignore. And in training, Bakugo is always there: not as a teammate, but as a specter of attention.
Tuesday. Obstacle course, time trial, and simulated evacuation under pressure. I run with Midoriya, Iida, and Kaminari. He runs with Uraraka, Kirishima, and Sero. We're on two parallel courses, without direct contact. And yet... it's there, I feel it.
Every time I duck behind a barrier and raise my arm to deflect the simulated bullets, I notice his eyes snapping to the other side. As if he were measuring my time as well as his own. And you can't tell me I'm making this up: you don't look left in the middle of a timed race if you don't care. In the end, they win by a second. Aizawa takes note. And him? He doesn't smile, he doesn't celebrate. He gives me a look as if to say: it wasn't enough. Not for them, for you.
Wednesday. Sparring session. Two on two. Uraraka and I against Kirishima and Bakugo.
Okay, I'll draw you a picture: he attacks as always, direct and ferocious. I respond, precise deflections, Uraraka eases off. For a few minutes it's pure practice. Then it happens...it always happens. I slide forward, unbalanced by a blow. He could have closed the point. Instead, he slows down. He looks at me. Do you see it? The microsecond in which he decides not to strike.
"Tsk," he blurts out, as if it were my fault. "Careful, idiot."
I raise my chin, as if he hadn't touched me. But deep down, I know it was him who slowed down, not me who held on. And that weighs on me and makes me angry at the same time.
Thursday. Urban training. Rotating teams must protect a "VIP" as they pass through the area. I'm in support with Midoriya. This time, he's on the opposing team. He attacks us like a storm. But, and you have to trust me here, his attacks aren't his worst. He doesn't push himself to the max. I know this because I've seen him before. It's as if, without saying it, he's calibrating his strength on me. As if the target were the exercise, not me.
Finally, Aizawa records: "Simulation completed, but there's room for improvement in contrast." Room. Yeah.
I go back to the starting point and feel it again: his eyes lingering on me for a second longer, even when the simulation is over.
Friday. Free session. "Switch partners," says Aizawa. And the inevitable happens: it's me against Bakugo, one-on-one. Think of it as a duel of pure endurance: me deflecting, him advancing. Fire against breath. Neither gives in. Until he unleashes a more powerful blow, I lose my balance and fall to the ground.
He should turn around, walk away, mark the spot. Instead, he stays there. He stares at me. Crimson eyes that take no prisoners. Then he says, softly, almost voicelessly:
"If you're holding up better with Deku, it means you haven't tried hard enough here with me." He doesn't shout. He whispers it. And that, believe me, hurts much more. I get up without answering. But my heart is still pounding in that spot.
There, you see? A whole week of training where he never really speaks to me, but he never stops looking at me. What do you say, my trusted friend? Do I call it silence or jealousy? I can't decide.