Airwaves Unscripted (PapaMic)

By the time morning rolls around, I'm—shockingly—not dead.

Mentally? Yeah. Emotionally? Definitely. But physically? Still kicking. Which means I have to go to school and pretend I didn't spend last night watching my mom nearly cave in the living room and my stepdad basically tell me I shouldn't exist.

Normal stuff. Super casual.

So I do what I do best.

I bury it.

I put on my U.A. uniform, run a hand through my messy curls (stylishly unkempt, I tell myself), and throw on my best grin before heading out.

The moment I step into 1-A, I slap on the brightest, friendliest, most ridiculously cheerful expression possible.

"Good morning, my lovely fellow victims of the public education system!" I declare, dropping my bag dramatically onto my desk.

Iida jolts like I just slapped him with a textbook. "Midoriya! Please be more respectful of—"

"Sorry, Iida, I can't hear you over the sound of school slowly draining our souls." I plop into my seat and stretch. "Anyone else feel like they got run over by a metaphorical truck of responsibility? No? Just me?"

"More like an actual truck," Kaminari groans, flopping onto his desk. "Training yesterday was brutal."

"Right? Aizawa-sensei really out here making us consider early retirement before we even get our hero licenses."

"Midoriya," Yaoyorozu says with a sigh, "you can't retire from something you haven't officially started."

"That's quitter talk."

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Deku, why do you look so happy?" Uraraka asks, tilting her head. "Did something good happen?"

"Nothing special," I say with a shrug. "Just basking in the joy of existence."

"You sound like you hate existence," Jirou points out.

"Correct!" I flash her finger guns.

She snorts.

Bakugo, sitting across from me, glares. "The hell is wrong with you, nerd?"

"Bakugo, please," I say, putting a hand over my heart. "We both know there's not enough time in the day to unpack everything wrong with me."

Sero chokes on his drink. "Holy shit, man, you good?"

"Never been better!" I beam.

Total lie. Absolute garbage. I feel like a half-crushed soda can, but that's not important.

What is important is that no one notices. That no one sees the cracks. That I go through today the same way I go through every day—smiling, talking, cracking jokes.

Because that's what I do.

I keep moving forward.

English class with Present Mic is always an experience.

It's like watching someone host a game show where the contestants didn't sign up and the grand prize is emotional damage.

"OKAY, CLASS!" Dad—no, Mic, Mic, be normal, Izuku—claps his hands together, his grin somehow wider than should be legally possible. "WHO'S READY TO LEARN SOME ENGLISH?"

A collective groan echoes through the room.

"COME ON, GUYS!" He waves his arms. "ENERGY! PASSION! GIVE ME SOME—"