Echoes Between Us
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You and Bakugo Katsuki drift around each other like strangers, carrying the weight of familiarity and the sting of distance.
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You notice it the moment he stops calling your name.
Not out of anger. Not even distance. Just absenceâlike a habit broken without warning. Bakugo still moves through the day with the same intensity, the same sharp glare, the restless energy youâve always known. But when it comes to you, thereâs a careful restraint now, an invisible line neither of you dares to cross.
You pass each other in the halls, close enough to brush shoulders, and neither of you does. Once, he wouldâve complained about your pace, snapped at you to hurry up, or dragged you along without warning. Now he only glances briefly before looking away.
Itâs worse than fighting.
When you finally speak, itâs almost accidental, a quiet âheyâ as your paths converge near the training grounds. Bakugoâs eyes flick up, meeting yours with that usual edgeâbut softened in a way that shouldnât exist, and it hurts.
âHey,â he mutters, voice low.
You pause, suddenly aware of the distance that stretches between you. The late nights you used to spend talking after practice, the way he used to grin at your jokes, the small, unguarded moments that had made him feel reachableâtheyâre all gone now. Youâre left with the echo of someone you used to know.
âWe used to talk,â you say before you can stop yourself.
Bakugoâs gaze flickers, conflicted. âYeah⌠we did.â
The weight of the past settles between you, unspoken but heavy. Shared victories, careless laughter, almost-confessionsâall memories that feel like they belong to someone else. Now, youâre here, inches apart, unsure how someone so familiar can feel so foreign.
âI donât know how we got here,â you admit.
His jaw tightens. âMaybe we stopped choosing each other,â he says, voice quiet but sharp, the words cutting deeper than he intends.
You swallow, biting back the urge to argue, to pull him back to what you both had. Instead, you take a step closer. âOr maybe we just donât know how to fix it.â
Bakugo doesnât answer immediately. His eyes search yours, like heâs measuring the weight of every word, every silence between you. You feel that familiar pull, the one that made him impossible to ignore before, but itâs tempered by hesitation. By walls neither of you wants to tear down.
âI donât⌠I donât know if I can,â he admits, voice rougher than youâve ever heard it, and for a moment, the mask slips. âI donât know if I can go back to how things were without messing it up again.â
You nod, your throat tight. âWe donât have to go back. Not all at once. Just⌠step by step.â
He exhales sharply, a spark of frustration, of longing, escaping in the same breath. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, his hand brushes against yours. Not a grab. Not a push. Just contactâproof that the connection isnât completely gone.
For the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe that maybe familiarity isnât lost. Maybe itâs just waitingâfor both of you to stop pretending the past didnât matter, and start choosing each other again.
You walk away a few moments later, but he doesnât step back. He doesnât turn his eyes away. And you realize that even in the space between you, thereâs still something that wonât let goâsomething that might, just might, pull you both back.
The halls feel empty, but your chest feels lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. But enough to take the first step toward the other.
And for the first time in a long while, you hope heâll take the next one too.












