Ivette Midoriya absolutely hated heroes. The whole concept baffled her; how could those who declare themselves to be symbols of justice be so corrupted? How could society judge people based on their quirks and appearances? Fuck that. Ivette swore to...
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"I'M WORRIED ABOUT IVETTE-SAN," said the child's school principal, her mellifluous voice ringing through the office. A wonderous library sat towards the back of the room, displaying books ranging from classical multi-national literature to medicinal sports, wherein volumes of volleyball books were centre-forth, cleared from any specks of dust by meticulous, analytical hands. They gleamed under the waves of the knowing, silent moon, untouched by the human eye.
A leather chair stood tall and proud, stationed behind a wooden desk that remained clear. Only a closed tablet and computer was present, a notepad handled carefully to the side with an inked pen resting above it.
On the corner, a golden frame laid.
Mizuki Sayeko. The school principal.
The lavender-haired adult sat with one leg crossed over the other, her hands folded in her lap. Lilac eyes stared ahead, looking over the coffee table. Inko Midoriya sat on a leather couch, made of the same material as Mizuki's chair. The principal currently resided in front of the nervous mother.
"Is there any problems occurring at home?" Mizuki asked. "It's noted in our system that her father is away, is that correct?"
"Yeah- Yes," Inko replied, frowning.
"Is that affecting her?"
"He's been gone for a while," Inko supplied, her fingertips tracing the skin on her palms. Fidgeting. Nervous. She exhaled deeply. "I'm worried, too. I've never seen her act like this."
"Have you spoken to her?"
"I've tried, but she always brushes me off." Inko's crestfallen shoulders slumped, her mood worsening. Under the watchful, observant eye of the seemingly younger woman, Inko felt as if her soul was stripped open for the principal to see.
It was painstakingly nerve-wracking, yet, somewhere amongst the divine aura, Inko felt a sense of security. That, the facade placed forward was an act to hide the vulnerability of Mizuki. It was dauntingly similar to her daughter's. "It's as if she's grown ten years older. I'm not sure what to do, and it hurts."
Mizuki hummed under her breath.
She could see Inko Midoriya's fear of being a bad mother. It was as clear as dusk, and as sacred as the sun rising for dawn.
"I don't know what to do."
Inko sounded like she was about to cry. Mizuki heard her take a sharp breath, and she noticed how murky green eyes welled with sublime, crystal-like tears.
"When it comes to situations such as these," Mizuki began, offering an understanding expression (but never a sympathetic one. She knew too well of the insecurities that propagate when on the receiving end), "we've learnt to keep a distance from the children. As they grow, they tend to feel overwhelmed with new realisations. If I may be forward?"
