Chapter 17: Strained Bonds

A few months had passed since the incident at my grandparents' house. The days of recovery had slowly turned into a routine of training and school, and life had resumed its usual pace. Yet, the weight of the experience still lingered, shaping the way I approached my goals and challenges.

Training had become more intense than ever. Every morning, I pushed myself to the limits, determined to master my quirk and strengthen my body. My sessions were rigorous and demanding, each exercise meticulously designed to enhance my control over "Code" and increase my resilience. I was driven by a deep sense of responsibility, both for myself and for those I cared about.

The physical and mental strain of the training was evident. My muscles ached, my body was often bruised, and exhaustion was a constant companion. I threw myself into the grind with a singular focus, blocking out distractions and pushing through the pain. Each day, I could see incremental improvements in my abilities, but the cost was becoming increasingly apparent.

Despite my relentless dedication, there was a noticeable shift in the dynamic between Momo and me. Momo had been visiting regularly, her concern evident in her eyes. Yet, as the months wore on, I noticed a change in her demeanor. She was more reserved, her cheerful disposition tempered with a hint of worry that she tried to mask with smiles and casual conversation.

It was clear to me that Momo cared deeply, but she seemed hesitant to voice her concerns directly. During our conversations, she would often sidestep the topic of my training, instead focusing on lighter subjects or trying to cheer me up with small gestures and thoughtful comments. Her attempts to support me were always sincere, but there was a tangible sense of unease beneath her surface.

I could see the worry in her eyes whenever she watched me train. She would occasionally linger at the edge of the training grounds, her gaze following my movements with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. Her usual confidence seemed to falter whenever the conversation turned to my well-being.

One afternoon, as I was finishing a particularly grueling set of exercises, I noticed Momo standing a short distance away, her expression clouded with concern. She had come to visit, as she often did, but today she seemed particularly unsettled. She fidgeted with her fingers and avoided making eye contact.

After the session, I approached her, wiping sweat from my brow. "Hey, Momo-san. Everything okay?"

Momo looked up, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before she quickly glanced away. "Oh, Ren-kun, I was just… watching you train. You're working really hard."

I nodded, a tired but determined smile on my face. "Yeah, I have to push myself if I want to get better. It's important to be prepared for anything."

Momo hesitated, her fingers twisting together anxiously. "I know you're focused on your goals, but… are you sure you're not overdoing it? You seem really exhausted lately."

I could sense the underlying worry in her voice, but she seemed reluctant to delve deeper. "I'm fine, Momo-san. It's just part of the process. I need to be at my best."

Her eyes searched mine, as if looking for reassurance that wasn't entirely there. "I just don't want you to push yourself too hard. You've been through so much, and… I don't want to see you get hurt."

There was a softness in her voice, a vulnerability that she rarely showed. I could see how much she cared, even if she struggled to express it directly. "Thank you, Momo-san. I appreciate your concern. I promise I'm being careful."

Momo nodded, though her worry was still apparent. "Okay, Ren-kun. I just… I care about you, and I want to make sure you're okay."

Her admission, though understated, was heartfelt. I could see the internal conflict she was grappling with, torn between wanting to voice her concerns and not wanting to intrude on my determined efforts.

As she left, I watched her walk away, her shoulders slightly slumped as if carrying a burden of her own. I knew that her silence was not from a lack of care but from a deep-seated concern that she struggled to articulate. Her presence was a comfort, and her unspoken support was something I valued immensely.

Despite Momo's quiet worry, I continued to push myself harder. I increased the intensity of my training sessions, adding more complex exercises and pushing my physical limits further. The drive to become stronger consumed me, and I found myself spending more time alone, immersed in my rigorous routine. I began to distance myself from Momo, not out of disregard for her feelings, but because I felt an overwhelming need to focus solely on my goals.

The training became my escape from the haunting memories of the attack, a way to channel my anxiety and drive into something tangible. But as I poured myself into my regimen, the space between Momo and me widened. Our interactions grew shorter and more superficial, with my mind preoccupied by the next set of drills or the next challenge I had set for myself.

In the midst of this, Momo's visits became less frequent. The warmth of her presence, which had once been a source of comfort, was now overshadowed by my single-minded pursuit of improvement. I could see the sadness in her eyes, and it pained me to realize how my relentless focus on training was impacting our bond.

The days continued to blend into a rigorous routine of training and school, but Momo's concern lingered in my mind. Her feelings were a reminder that the path I was on was not just about personal achievement but also about the relationships and support systems that mattered.

Despite her quiet worry, Momo's presence was a source of strength for me. Her support, though often unspoken, played a crucial role in my journey. I hoped that in time, she would find the courage to share her thoughts more openly, and that together, we could navigate the challenges and uncertainties that lay ahead.