the day it stopped raining | midoriya izuku

07 | sparkling clouds

TOKYO
24°C
LIGHT RAIN

Two weeks went by ever since the kickstart of Midoriya's inexplicable kindness. An action similar to an elderly delivering a mail, but leaves have a nice day on the corner of the letters, relieving a small smile that lingers all morning on their doorstep. Someone as sanguine as the green boy would embed his rays of sunshine gleaming from his eyes and blinding smile into the palm of his hands, relieving porcelain hearts by the burning touch of warmth and security.

Every single night, at 8PM, the rookie hero would fly towards heaven and sneaks a look into its gates to see its angel sleeping without fail. Though sometimes he would see her sitting on the couch watching tv. Despite not knowing who this angel was (if she is an angel, after all), Midoriya seeks solace watching her from afar. Like when she steps onto the balcony to receive anonymous gifts from him, or when he took the time to watch her like a guardian, wondering what she's thinking or feel on endless days of rain. Still, the boy made sure he was invisible.

Most days, his gaze would linger on the infamous mask of every human being—to observe the features of her expression. To see and presume what she feels and what she thinks. Midoriya was no mind-reader nor someone as observant like Kacchan, but when it comes to a moment of saving someone who probably needs the least of help—he couldn't help but meddle. As he should be.

Upon glancing at the bag of spicy ramen and iced coffee, Midoriya would lean away from his hiding place at the balcony to watch her reaction unfold. And without fail, none of which would happen no matter how much he hopes.

The girl in red would always stare at the bag with ambiguous eyes and lips as thin as a flatline. For a moment, her gaze would lift just a bit, spacing off into the distance in deep thought. To Midoriya, an expression that's difficult to decipher was enough to tell him about the kind of person this unknown girl was.

But he hopes to ask that question racing in his mind to her someday.

A hypothetical conversation that he compulsively play out in his head—a crisp analysis, a cathartic dialogue, a devastating comeback—which serves as a kind of psychological batting cage where he can connect more deeply with people than in the small ball of everyday life, which is a frustratingly cautious game of change-up pitches, sacrifice bunts, and intentional walks.

Now, as the sky fell for the nth time in his life, in this city, Midoriya took a deep breath, his nerves shivering his muscles despite the number of times he did this. With the wind and rain gusting past his numb cheeks, he jumps and floats off the rooftop, motoring himself to the side of the balcony as usual, and glances from behind the wall of the apartment, looking for any sign of her in the living room.

No one.

Counting to five, he hops over the railing, strides to the door, hangs the bag on the knob, then turns around to jum—

Something held him back.

Midoriya felt his heart pounding.

Or someone.

The grip of their hand on his gloved one was gentle. In between the lines of letting him go or to make him stay. Midoriya was secretly hoping for the latter, but he was already turning around to face them—her.

If Midoriya could meet someone for the first time again, he would. He wanted to feel the curiosity that sparks the stars in his eyes when he saw her sitting in the rain as if it was meant for her. He wanted to feel the unexplainable sorrow through her woeful eyes. And if he could, he wanted to make her smile before he even stood in front of her like this.