MHA - Happy Pills

The morning bell hadn’t even finished ringing when you slipped into your seat at the back of Class 1-A, hands already shaking in your pockets. Two pills. That’s what you’d promised yourself this morning. Just two to take the edge off. But the bottle had felt too light in your bag, and the memories from last night (your mother’s voicemail, the empty fridge, the landlord’s knock) were louder than usual. So two became four. Then six. Dry-swallowed in the hallway while Kaminari and Sero laughed somewhere behind you.

Aizawa’s voice droned at the front, something about rescue-point prioritization, but the words kept sliding off your brain like water on glass. Your tongue felt thick, metallic. The room was too bright, even with the blinds half-drawn. Midoriya’s pen scratched furiously two rows ahead; every stroke sounded like nails on chalkboard.

You tried to focus on your notebook. The lines blurred, doubled, then swam back together. Your heart was doing that thing again, too fast, then too slow, like it couldn’t decide whether you were running a marathon or dying. A laugh escaped you, small and sharp, before you could stop it.

Kirishima turned. “You good, bro?”

You nodded too hard. The motion made the ceiling tilt. “Yeah. Just… thought of something funny.”

He grinned and turned back. You pressed your palms flat on the desk to stop them trembling. The happy pills were supposed to make everything soft and far away. Today they’d turned the volume up instead. Colors were bleeding at the edges. Bakugou’s spiky hair looked like actual fire. Uraraka’s gentle laugh from the front row felt like a drill in your skull.

Another wave hit, nausea this time, hot and sour. Your stomach clenched so hard you hunched forward without meaning to. The bottle in your pocket rattled softly. Still half full. You could take one more. Just one more and everything would even out.

Your fingers were already closing around it when Aizawa’s voice cut through the haze.

“Problem child in the back. Care to share what’s so fascinating about your desk?”

Twenty pairs of eyes turned. You looked up too slowly. The room swayed like a boat.

Your mouth tasted like copper and fake cherry flavoring.

“I—” Your voice cracked, too high. “I’m fine.”

But the words slurred at the edges, and you could feel your quirk sparking under your skin without permission, little static pops that made the lights flicker.

Midoriya half-stood, worry written all over his face. “Sensei, they don’t look—”

The world tilted sideways. Your chair scraped loudly as you tried to stand and failed. The last thing you saw before the floor rushed up was Aizawa’s eyes narrowing, capture weapon already uncoiling, and the orange bottle rolling out of your pocket across the tiles, pills scattering like tiny white lies.

Then everything went quiet except for the too-fast drum of your heart and the distant, underwater sound of someone shouting your name.