seen | k.bakugo x f!reader |

The fluorescent hum of the UA High classroom did little to soothe the frantic scribbling at the edges of my notebook. Aizawa-sensei's monotone voice droned on about midterm projects, a blur of instructions that I knew, even as he spoke, would slip through my grasp. Around me, pens scratched diligently, classmates absorbed in their notes, a sea of focused faces.
I should write it down, I thought, a familiar anxiety tightening in my chest. I really should. But the words just wouldn't form. When Aizawa finally dismissed class, leaving me with barely two scrawled lines, a sigh escaped me. Another day, another missed detail, another conversation I'd have to initiate just to catch up.
I packed my bag, the weight of my unused textbooks a familiar burden. The locker area offered a brief reprieve, a moment of solitude. As I secured my history and arts books, my gaze caught on the small, jagged scar on the back of my hand. The war. Six months later, and the memories still clung, sharp and unwelcome – pain, distress, fear. My scar was nothing compared to what others carried, their bodies etched with the brutal cost of heroism.
I wasn't special. Just average. Unseen.
The cafeteria, a cacophony of youthful energy, swallowed me whole. I found an empty table, retreating to its furthest corner, seeking the quiet that never seemed to last. Soon, the 'Bakusquad' descended, their laughter and boisterous chatter filling the air, drowning out any hope of peace. They didn't even notice I was there, sitting just a few feet away, eating my lunch in silence. It was fine. It was normal. It was me.
