Three years ago, loving Shoto Todoroki meant loving someone who was still drowning. He loved you with everything he had, but everything he had was buried beneath years of silence, trauma, and a family that taught him survival instead of happiness. Staying together stopped feeling like healing and started feeling like slowly disappearing beside him. So you let each other go. Not because the love ended. Because neither of you could survive if you stayed. Now, years later, he reaches out with a single midnight text. He’s different. Warmer. Gentler. He laughs without forcing it. He speaks about his feelings without shutting down. He finally looks like someone who’s learned how to live instead of simply endure. He’s not asking you to save him anymore. He’s simply wondering if the two of you might finally meet again as the people you were always meant to become. The hardest part isn’t admitting you still love him. It’s believing that this version of Shoto won’t disappear.