Winter arrived gently that year, as if even the seasons were afraid to disturb the fragile quiet that had settled over U.A. Snow dusted the rooftops, the training fields, the dorm balconies. Students laughed, played, rested, celebrated the freedom of the holidays.

But Izuku Midoriya moved through the world like he was underwater.

Slow.

Muted.

Untouched by the warmth around him.

Every morning, every afternoon, every night, the class could find him in the same place: the cemetery on the hill overlooking the city, sitting cross‑legged in front of Katsuki’s grave with his gloves off and his breath fogging in the cold air.

He talked to him.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just… softly. Like Katsuki was sitting beside him, hands shoved in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t listening.

Today, the sky was pale and heavy with snow. Izuku brushed the thin layer of frost from the headstone, fingers lingering on Katsuki’s name.

“Hey, Kacchan,” he murmured. “I… I have news.”

He swallowed, blinking back the sting in his eyes.

“I got my professional hero license today.”

The words felt unreal. Like they belonged to someone else.

He let out a shaky breath. “You would’ve made fun of me for crying during the exam. I can hear you already—‘Deku, stop blubbering, you nerd.’”

A small, broken smile tugged at his lips.

“I wish you were here to say it.”

He reached into the bag beside him and pulled out a fresh bouquet—blue baby dragon’s breath, vibrant even in the cold. Katsuki’s favorite. The only flowers that ever felt right.

Everyone else brought lilies or roses or chrysanthemums. Izuku never corrected them. He just quietly replaced the vase every week, making sure it was never empty, never wilted, never anything less than perfect.

Katsuki deserved that much.

He arranged the flowers carefully, brushing a thumb over the petals. “Three weeks until graduation,” he whispered. “I’m trying, Kacchan. I’m… surviving.”

The word tasted strange.

Surviving.

Not living.

Not yet.

Izuku reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the paper rings—the ones they had made together, laughing on the dorm floor, hands brushing, cheeks red. He kept them in a small protective case now, worn from being opened too often.

He set them gently beside the vase.

“I still wear mine sometimes,” he admitted. “Only when I’m alone. It feels like you’re still here.”

A gust of wind swept across the hill, cold and sharp. Izuku closed his eyes, letting it wash over him.

“I’m doing my best,” he whispered. “I promise. I’m going to be a hero you’d be proud of.”

His voice cracked.

“But I miss you. Every day. Every hour.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cold stone.

“I wish you could see me graduate. I wish you could yell at me for tripping on stage. I wish you could… just be here.”

Snowflakes drifted down, settling in his hair, on his shoulders, on the flowers he’d just placed.

Izuku stayed there until his fingers went numb, until the sky darkened, until the cold seeped into his bones.

He stayed because leaving felt like losing Katsuki all over again.

And when he finally stood, brushing snow from his coat, he whispered one last thing—soft, fragile, and full of love.

“I’ll come back tomorrow. I always do.”

And he walked down the hill, leaving behind a grave that never looked lonely.

Because Izuku never let it.