Chapter 23: The Island and the Observers
The walk to school the next morning was a lesson in observation. Gaara moved through the river of other students—laughing, chattering, hurrying towards their own academies—like a stone in a stream, the current of life flowing around him, leaving him untouched. He wore the U.A. uniform, a skin that still felt foreign and ill-fitting. The weight of the sand gourd on his back was a familiar, grounding presence in a world that had become profoundly unstable. He did not look at the other students, and they, for the most part, did not look at him. He was just another figure in the morning rush.
That anonymity vanished the moment he stepped through the towering gates of U.A. High.
Here, he was not anonymous. He was infamous. As he walked the long, sunlit hallways towards his classroom, he felt the shift. Conversations would dip in volume as he approached, then stop altogether as he passed, only to erupt in a flurry of whispers the moment his back was turned. He could feel their eyes on him, a hundred tiny points of pressure. They were gazes of fear, of morbid curiosity, of pure, unadulterated disdain. He was the villain from the news, the monster from the USJ, a living, breathing exhibit of the terror they had all witnessed on television.
He did not react. He had learned long ago that any reaction—a glance, a frown—would only feed their fear. He retreated inward, his face becoming a more perfect mask of placid emptiness, his teal eyes fixed on the path ahead. He was an island, and these whispers were merely the sound of the ocean waves breaking on shores they could never reach.
The classroom was the same. A tense silence fell as he entered, and it did not lift until he was seated at his desk in the back. The air was thick with the unspoken, unified resolution of his classmates. They did not look at him, but their avoidance was a conscious, coordinated act. It was a wall of silence, more formidable than any barrier of ice or sand.
This cold war of isolation reached its zenith in the bustling, chaotic heart of the school: the cafeteria.
The room was a symphony of life. The air was filled with the delicious smells of Lunch Rush's expertly cooked food, the loud, overlapping chatter of hundreds of students, the clatter of trays and silverware. It was the social nexus of U.A., a bright, vibrant space where friendships were forged and rivalries were stoked. For Gaara, it was a foreign country.
He moved through the line methodically, taking a simple tray of curry and rice. The Pro Hero Lunch Rush gave him a thumbs-up, as he did for every student, but his cheerful posture was a fraction of a second too slow, his usual booming voice a little more subdued. Even the heroes were wary.
Tray in hand, Gaara scanned the vast, crowded room. It was a sea of tables, each one an island of social interaction. He located his objective: a small, two-person table in the furthest, quietest corner, near a large window that looked out onto the training grounds. It was the place of maximum isolation. He began to walk towards it.
The journey was like parting the Red Sea. Students would see him coming and would unconsciously lean away, pulling their chairs in, creating a clear, unimpeded path for him. No one met his eyes. They looked at their food, at their friends, at the ceiling—anywhere but at him.
When he reached the table and sat down, a tangible perimeter of emptiness formed around him. The tables immediately adjacent, previously full, suddenly had students who were "finished" with their meals, leaving in a quiet but hurried exodus. A circle of empty space, a perfect quarantine zone with him at its epicenter, was the result.
He ate his food. He did so with a slow, mechanical precision, not tasting it. His focus was entirely outward. He watched the other students. He watched Iida chop the air while explaining a concept to a confused-looking Kaminari. He watched Mina Ashido and Toru Hagakure laugh so hard that Ashido nearly fell off her bench. He watched Bakugo and Kirishima argue loudly over who could eat the most spicy food.
He observed them all, these strange, vibrant creatures, with the detached curiosity of a zoologist studying a newly discovered species. He cataloged their interactions, their expressions, their easy camaraderie. It was a world of complex rituals and unspoken languages that he would never understand. He was not a part of their ecosystem. He was a different, invasive species, and the local wildlife was wisely keeping its distance.
From a table much closer to the center of the room, two of those creatures were observing him back.
"He just… sits there," Uraraka Ochako said, her voice a low, troubled whisper. She poked at her mochi with a chopstick, her usual bubbly appetite gone. "He doesn't talk to anyone. He doesn't look at anyone. It's… really sad, actually."
Izuku Midoriya said nothing. He was staring at the solitary figure in the corner, a profound, aching conflict churning in his gut. He saw the empty chairs around Gaara's table. He saw the whispers and the pointed looks. He saw the cold, calculated plan of his classmates in full, silent, brutal effect.
Iida, who had been detailing his preliminary training regimen for the Sports Festival, finally noticed their distraction. "Is something the matter, you two?"
"It's about the new student," Uraraka admitted. "The plan that Todoroki-kun came up with… it just feels… wrong."
"Wrong?" Iida replied, adjusting his glasses. "On the contrary, it is a perfectly logical and non-violent course of action. We are utilizing a school-sanctioned event to establish dominance and encourage a volatile element to remove itself. It is the most rational solution." He then stood up. "Excuse me, I must procure another carton of milk for optimal bone health!"
As Iida marched off, Uraraka turned back to Midoriya, her expression serious. "Deku-kun, you've been quiet about this since yesterday. You don't agree with it either, do you?"
Midoriya looked down at his own trembling hands. He felt a deep sense of shame for his own silence in the classroom. He had wanted to object, but the words wouldn't come. "I don't know," he finally confessed, his voice barely audible. "What he did at the USJ was… it was terrifying. I've never felt power like that. But…" He took a shaky breath. "The way he looked, after Mr. Aizawa hit him… he just looked like a scared kid. And All Might… All Might is staking his own reputation on him. He must see something in him."
He finally looked at Uraraka, his green eyes filled with a desperate sincerity. "I feel like we're supposed to be heroes. We're supposed to save people. And what the class is doing… it doesn't feel like saving. It feels like… kicking someone who's already on the ground."
Uraraka's face softened with empathy. "I know what you mean," she said, her voice low. "I'll be honest, he scares me. A lot. When that sand was chasing Todoroki-kun… I was terrified. But…" She looked over at Gaara's table. "My family, we've always had to work extra hard for everything. I know what it's like to have people look down on you or judge you before they even know you. I don't want to be that kind of person. I don't want to be prejudiced against someone who might just be… a victim."
Their quiet, heartfelt conversation was interrupted by movement. Gaara had finished his meal. He stood up, his tray in hand, and began the long walk towards the disposal area. His path would take him directly past their table.
As he approached, their conversation died. They both looked up, their hearts suddenly beating a little faster. This was it. A chance. A moment to say something. To offer a simple, "Hello." To break the suffocating wall of silence.
He drew level with their table. His teal eyes, empty and vast, met Midoriya's for a single, fleeting second. Midoriya's mouth opened, but no sound came out. What could he possibly say? "Sorry my classmates are planning to psychologically break you at the Sports Festival?"
The moment passed. Gaara looked away and continued walking, his footsteps silent, his posture rigid. The chance was gone.
He disposed of his tray and walked out of the cafeteria, leaving behind the noise, the life, and the two students who were the only ones in the entire school who saw him as anything more than a monster.
Uraraka let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. She looked at Midoriya, whose face was a mask of frustration and self-reproach. The gulf between them and the new student seemed impossibly wide, a chasm of fear and trauma that could not be crossed with a simple greeting.
Midoriya looked at the determined faces of his classmates, all united in their cold war, and then at the empty doorway through which the solitary boy had just disappeared.
How, he thought, a sense of dread settling in his stomach, can you offer a hand to someone who won't even let you get close enough to speak?