Cross the Divide

Between Shadows & Light

Midoriya lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was too quiet, too still, as if the air itself was waiting for something to break. His mind refused to settle, each thought spiraling into a new layer of confusion and doubt.

He had spent most of his life trying to become a hero—to save people, to protect them—but in this world, he hadn't been the one to finish the fight. It was a different version of him. One who had died for it. The Midoriya from this world was a martyr, a symbol of hope and sacrifice.

But what did that make him?

The door creaked open softly, and Midoriya sat up, his heart skipping a beat. He expected Todoroki or Uraraka-or even Bakugou to be standing there, checking in on him. But instead, it was Shinso, his purple hair casting soft shadows in the dim light of the hallway.

"Can't sleep?" Shinso asked quietly, stepping into the room without waiting for an answer.

Midoriya shook his head. "Too much on my mind."

Shinso leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "Yeah, I figured. It's hard enough being the new guy in this class without all... this," he gestured vaguely around the room.

There was a silence between them, heavy and awkward. Midoriya wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't really known Shinso back in his world, and now this Shinso had replaced Aoyama—a boy who had betrayed them in both worlds.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Shinso said, his voice steady but not unkind. "But I thought I'd offer. It's not like anyone here really knows what you're going through."

Midoriya let out a humorless laugh. "I don't even know what I'm going through."

Shinso pushed off the wall, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. "You're not him, you know."

Midoriya blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"The Midoriya from this world," Shinso clarified. "The one who died. You're not him, and no one expects you to be. But I get the feeling you're putting all that weight on yourself, aren't you?"

Midoriya's chest tightened. Was it that obvious?

"I just... I don't know what I'm supposed to do here," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone looks at me like I'm a reminder of what they lost, and I don't know if I can live up to... him."

Shinso studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes piercing through the dark. "No one's asking you to live up to anything. They're just trying to figure out how to cope with seeing someone they care about come back from the dead."

Midoriya frowned. "But it's not me. It's..."

Shinso shrugged. "Doesn't matter. To them, you're still Midoriya. And maybe you're from another world, but that doesn't change the fact that they still care about you. Even if they don't know how to show it."

The words hit Midoriya harder than he expected. He hadn't thought about it like that. In his mind, he had been a burden—an unwanted reminder of something painful. But maybe, just maybe, they weren't looking at him with sorrow because of what they lost. Maybe they were just trying to figure out how to have him back again.

Before Midoriya could respond, the door opened again. This time, it was Todoroki, his expression unreadable as always.

"We're meeting in the common room," Todoroki said quietly. "You should come."

Midoriya hesitated, glancing at Shinso, who gave him a small nod as if to say, You'll be fine.

With a deep breath, Midoriya stood, following Todoroki out into the hallway and down the stairs. The rest of Class 2-A was gathered in the common room, their faces a mix of exhaustion and apprehension. Hawks was leaning against a wall, arms crossed, while Aizawa sat on the couch, his face as tired as ever.

But the person who stood out the most was All Might.

He was sitting quietly at the end of the room, his frail form hunched over as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Midoriya hadn't seen him since his arrival, and now that he was here, it only made the pain more real.

All Might looked up, his sunken eyes meeting Midoriya's, and for a moment, the entire room felt like it stopped.

"Midoriya," All Might said softly, his voice breaking the silence like a whisper of regret.

Midoriya felt his throat tighten. He had seen All Might weak before, in his own world. But this All Might... there was something else in his eyes. A sorrow so deep that it made Midoriya's heart ache.

"I didn't know if I could face you," All Might continued, his voice barely audible. "Every time I look at you, I see the student I lost. The one who gave everything to save this world."

Midoriya clenched his fists. "I'm not him," he said, his voice shaking. "I didn't do those things. I didn't sacrifice myself."

All Might smiled sadly. "I know, my boy. But the heart doesn't always listen to reason. It feels what it feels."

The words hit Midoriya like a punch to the gut. He had been so focused on his own confusion, his own fear, that he hadn't considered what it must be like for All Might—to see his dead student alive again, only to know that it wasn't really him.

"I wish I could tell you that everything will be fine," All Might said, his voice trembling. "But I don't know how to guide you through this. I don't know how to guide myself."

Tears burned in Midoriya's eyes, but he blinked them back. He wasn't sure what to say. All he knew was that he felt an overwhelming sense of loss—not just for himself, but for everyone around him.

The room was silent, everyone watching the exchange. Aizawa, Shinso, Hawks—they all stood as witnesses to this painful reunion. And yet, despite the tension, there was something unspoken in the air: understanding.

Midoriya finally stepped forward, kneeling in front of All Might. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry I'm not the person you lost."

All Might reached out, placing a trembling hand on Midoriya's shoulder. "You don't have to be."

For a moment, they stayed like that—two broken souls trying to find solace in each other's presence. And as the weight of their shared pain settled over them, Midoriya realized something: maybe he wasn't the Midoriya they had lost. But that didn't mean he couldn't still be there for them.

And maybe, just maybe, they could be there for him too.