He stared up at the white ceiling, counting all the cracks and crevices that covered his walls. He doesn’t think how much time passes, nor does he care. Right now he feels nothing but this cold numb feeling and mental exhaustion that ties him to his futon, anchoring him to the comforting blankets beneath him. His mind is a muddy path and he is trapped by the mud caking his legs. It’s easier to just sink in the mud instead of tread on to unknown goals. So he sinks. He sinks, he sinks, he sinks and he doesn’t know why. Why there’s a weight pulling down on his chest, why the feeling feels so familiar (a fist pushes him down into the tatami mats, screaming at him again and again and-)
He hears a knock on the door. Maybe if he ignores it it’ll go away, become part of the white noise clouding his brain. Another knock ensues, but it is followed by a voice.
“Todoroki-kun, it’s Momo. I know you’re in there. I didn’t see you at dinner so I decided to check on you, please just answer the door.”
He took a deep breath and used his arm to hoist himself up (why did his arm always feel so weak when he knew it was strong?) His body felt like a sack of potatoes and he felt like falling so he made sure to grab on to as many surfaces as he could as he made his way to the door. He slowly opened the door and peered outside to see an anxious Momo waiting for him. She looked concerned, and Todoroki hated for her worry to be wasted on him.
“Hello, Momo, I’m sorry for taking a while, I was reviewing my notes and I forgot to go to dinner. I have food in my room, so you have no need to worry,”
“It’s alright but please eat something, I’ll have trust you’ll do so,” She smiled and they exchanged goodbyes as she headed back to her room. Todoroki was thankful for the friendship he had with Momo, her grace and maturity created a great environment when they hung out. He hopes he is even a little bit as good of a friend to Momo as she is to him.
He remembers the promise he made her about eating, but for some reason his stomach feels empty and his appetite is nonexistent. He doesn’t feel like eating. Oh well, what can it hurt, he thinks.
All the numbness and emptiness was getting annoying and he just wanted peace. He checked the clock as it read 7:47 PM. He knows his sleep schedule will get messed up but he can’t bring himself to care, so he just cocoons himself in blankets on the smooth familiar texture of tatami mats. He lets his eyelids close as he subconsciously wraps his arms around a pillow, allowing himself to succumb to a deep slumber.
This “deep slumber” didn’t last as long as Todoroki was hoping it would. He woke up to a darkened room with the only light being his electric clock that read 2:43 AM. He clamps his eyelids shut, and perserveres to be ensconced in his dreamworld once more. Alas, as predicted, once he is awake there is no more hope for sleep. He manages to stumble to his feet and walk over to his balcony.
He slides open the door and a cold breeze hits his face, red and white locks spill around his face (worsening his bed hair) and envelope him in a frosty feeling. The cold air on his body is comforting. The cold always reminds him of gentle hands, hopeful promises, and motherly love. He leans against the rail, his hair billowing in his face. He stands there and thinks. He thinks about the world, of hate and unkept promises.
He looks around, wondering how long he’s been outside. When he methodically makes his way back inside he looks at the clock, which now displays 3:37 AM.
He decides to make some tea, as it always soothes him with its comforting warmth. Unfortunately, the hot water was downstairs, so that meant he had to break curfew and not wake up the others. As he makes his way down the stairs, a camomile bag and sugar packet in hand, he comes to the realization that he could’ve just boiled some tap water with his quirk, and he started feeling really stupid. At that point he felt there was no point in turning back when he was already on floor 2. With a sigh, he continued his journey downstairs.
When he reached the kitchen, he turned on the dimmest light possible and started making tea. His mind was filled with that static again, and he hoped the tea would help. He didn’t use the tea kettle, not wanting to risk a panic attack. He’d gotten better at ignoring it, but he doesn’t feel like he can at the moment. He managed to make his way over to the couch. He wrapped himself up in his blanket and sipped his tea, he mind clearing a bit allowing him to think. He doesn’t want to go home this weekend, but doesn’t think he’ll have a choice. He doesn’t care anymore, or at least he thinks he doesn’t. His eyelids started feeling heavy, but he tried to hold on to his consciousness, not wanting to deal with the consequences of falling asleep on the couch. He eventually gives up, allowing his eyelids to close and his mind to rest.