Ours isn’t the kind of love that thrives in sunlight.
it’s not like my Quirk, desperate for that warmth,
it roots itself in the cracks,
in the ash of what once was.

We built something out of ruin,
stitched it together with our trembling hands—
yours, burnt and hesitant,
mine, reaching anyway.

Some nights, I think we mistake sadness for devotion,
as if our scars were wedding bands,
as if survival were the only vow that matters.
And yet,
when you say my name—sharp, broken, but warm—
I forget to breathe.

We don’t love gently.
We don’t even love cleanly.
But there’s honesty in the wreckage,
in the way our love twists around our hearts,
protecting us from the world outside of us.

If love is supposed to heal,
then maybe our love is the kind that cauterizes instead—
burns away the rot from our pasts
so something living can crawl out of the smoke
and call itself us.