No one looks your way. Not Midoriya, who usually offers a shy, encouraging smile. Not Uraraka, who’s always quick with a cheerful word. Not even Kaminari, who makes a joke out of everything.

They flow around your desk like water around a stone, conversations passing you by in clipped, private bursts. Aoyama adjusts his belt and glides out without his customary sparkle. Iida chops the air, organizing the cleanup detail, his eyes sweeping over you as if you were part of the furniture.

Yesterday’s training exercise replays in fragments: the misplaced step, the chain reaction of failure, All Might’s disappointed sigh swallowed by the murmurs of the class.

The room empties, leaving you alone with the settling dust and the hum of the fluorescent lights. Your bag sits by your feet, untouched.