Airwaves Unscripted (PapaMic)

Aizawa watches me for a second, like he's gauging whether I can handle what he's about to say next.

Spoiler alert: I probably can't.

But that's never stopped anyone from throwing me headfirst into disaster before, so why start now?

"Midoriya," he finally says, voice steady. "Your mother may not be released today."

...

Excuse me?

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline.

It doesn't come.

My throat tightens. "What do you mean?"

"The police are still investigating what happened," he explains, watching my reaction closely. "Until they have everything sorted, they may not let her go home."

No.

No, no, no.

They can't—she's not some criminal. She lost control once after years of putting up with Hisashi's bullshit, and now she's—

I squeeze my hands into fists, forcing myself to breathe. Panicking won't help.

I just... I just have to wait, right? That's all. They'll see she's not a threat, they'll let her go, and everything will go back to—

No.

No, it won't.

Even if they let her out today, nothing goes back to normal.

I take a slow breath. "Okay," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "So... what happens now?"

Aizawa leans back, arms crossed. "Legally, you need a guardian."

Oh.

Oh.

I blink. "...Right. That makes sense."

Which means I can't go home.

Which means I have to—

Oh, fuck me.

I meet Aizawa's gaze. "And that means...?"

He sighs. "Until this is resolved, you'll need to stay with someone else."

Someone else.

As in, not my mom.

My stomach twists.

"You can stay with me and Yamada," he continues, "but if you'd prefer another U.A. teacher or a hero you trust, we can arrange that. I'll do my best to respect your choice."

I swallow hard.

He's serious.

I mean, of course he is. It's Aizawa—he doesn't joke about this kind of thing.

But hearing it laid out like that?

Like I actually have to pick who takes me in like some stray dog?

I force a laugh, but it comes out a little shaky. "Wow. You're really just... handing me a whole foster care application, huh?"

Aizawa doesn't react. He just waits.

Because this isn't a joke.

This is real.

And I have to decide what happens next.

I shake my head—hard.

"No," I say immediately. "She's gonna be out. For sure."

Aizawa doesn't argue. He just watches me. Studying. Waiting.

Like he's expecting me to crack.

Like he's waiting for the moment I realize how stupid it is to put my faith in something I can't control.

But I do control this.

Because I know my mom.

She's strong. She's smart. She's been putting up with Hisashi's bullshit for years, and yeah, maybe she finally snapped, but that doesn't mean she's gonna sit there and let them keep her locked up.

She's got this.

"I trust her," I say firmly. "She wouldn't just—just leave me alone in this. She knows I need her."

Aizawa exhales, slow and even. "It's not about whether she wants to come home, Midoriya. It's about whether the police decide she can."

I grit my teeth. "And what? You think they won't?"

He doesn't answer.

And that pisses me off.

"You don't know her like I do," I snap, standing up. "You don't get to sit there and act like she's—she's some criminal who—"

"That's not what I'm saying." Aizawa's voice is calm, but there's something sharp underneath. "I'm saying the situation isn't in her hands. And it's not in yours."

I hate that.

I hate every word of that.

Because it's true.

Because no matter how much I want to believe she'll walk out of there today, I don't know that.

But I refuse—refuse—to think otherwise.

"So what?" I say, crossing my arms. "You just expect me to give up on her? To pack my bags and pretend this is all fine?"

"No," Aizawa says simply. "I expect you to be prepared in case it isn't."

I open my mouth—then snap it shut.

Because I can't argue with that.

I want to. I want to scream that my mom's too strong for this, that she'll fight her way out if she has to.

But I also know her.

And I know she'd want me to be safe.

My jaw clenches. "I'm not going anywhere."

Aizawa just watches me for a long moment. Then, finally—

"Alright," he says. "I'll respect that. For now."

"Not for now," I mutter. "For good."

He doesn't respond.

And I hate that he doesn't.