Bills. A magazine subscription you forgot to cancel. And something else — thick, cream-colored paper. The kind that costs more per sheet than your weekly grocery budget.

Your name in elegant calligraphy. Return address: Uraraka, O., & Midoriya, I. A single address in Musutafu.

Ochaco Uraraka & Izuku Midoriya.

Together with their families, request the honor of your presence.

The words blur. The steam from your mug swirls up, carrying the bitter scent of coffee you no longer want to drink.

You open the envelope with trembling fingers. A photograph falls out — the two of them, pressed cheek to cheek, his freckles soft against her round face. His smile, that impossible, galaxy-bright smile you used to wake up to. Her hand clutching his in a grip so tender it makes your chest cave in.

The date is printed in gold foil. Three months away.

Three months.

Your coffee has gone cold. You didn't even notice.