Potential • Shoto Todoroki

040. Lingers

Unedited/unreviewed (for some reason I have no option to insert the photo...)

2100

The hospital room was a quiet, relentless reminder of the passage of time. Yuka lay motionless, surrounded by a tangle of tubes and beeping machines. The room was cold and sterile, its artificial lights harsh against the soft daylight filtering through the blinds.

Every single day, Shoto Todoroki walked into that room with the same heaviness in his heart. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one echoing a mix of hope and despair. He approached Yuka's bed, his face a mask of concern and exhaustion, though he tried to hide it. He'd sit by her side, his hand gently resting on hers, hoping she could feel his presence.

"Hey, Yuka," he would start, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's me again. I'm here. I know you can't hear me right now, but I want you to know that I'm not going anywhere."

Each day, he brought a new bouquet of flowers—bright, colorful blooms that stood in stark contrast to the room's sterile whiteness. He placed them carefully on the bedside table, a small gesture of life amidst the constant hum of the machines.

The doctors and nurses came and went, their visits efficient but impersonal. Shoto, however, was there for every shift change, every update, every tiny shift in Yuka's condition. He brought her favorite books and read aloud, hoping that some part of her might hear him and come back. He even brought photo albums filled with memories of their happier times, flipping through them as he talked about their past adventures.

"Remember this?" he'd ask, holding up a picture of the two of them laughing at the school festival. His lips twisted into a nostalgic grin, though it didn't last longer than a second. "We had so much fun. I miss your laugh. I miss you."

There were nights when Shoto would stay long after visiting hours had ended, sitting in the dim light, his head bowed. Tears would slip silently down his cheeks as he held Yuka's hand tightly. He'd talk to her about everything—his day, his fears, his hopes. Each word was a plea, each touch a desperate reach across the chasm of silence.

He would often break down, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. He'd sit by her bed, clutching her hand, whispering his regrets and his dreams. "I need you to come back," he'd say, his voice cracking. "I need you to come back to me."

The days blurred together. Each morning, he faced the same crushing uncertainty: would today be the day she woke up? He never let his resolve waver, remaining steadfast in his commitment to be there for her. His presence became a constant, a silent promise of unwavering support.

And every night, as he left her side, he would glance back at her, the weight of his unspoken promise hanging in the air. His heart was heavy, but his hope remained undiminished. He would be waiting for her, no matter how long it took.

Yuka's chest heaved as she came to, blinking against the harsh, sterile light above her. Her eyes slowly adjusted, but the moment she became aware of the straps binding her wrists and ankles, panic shot through her like a bolt of electricity. She was trapped. Bound. The cold bite of the restraints digging into her skin sent her spiraling back into memories she wished she could forget.

Yuka's breath came in shallow gasps, her chest tightening as the weight of the restraints pressed into her wrists and ankles. The sterile air stung her lungs, too sharp, too clean, like the operating rooms she had been trapped in before. Her skin felt like it was burning, itching, every nerve on fire as if her body remembered every cut, every bruise, every moment spent in agony under All For One's control. The room was too bright, too white, the scent of antiseptic clinging to her, suffocating her with memories she desperately wanted to forget.