❦ airy ❦

The poor little boys voice was shaky, tears filling his eyes, "You told me Santa was real! He’s not?"

You shook your head as your daughter narrowed her eyes, "He’s not real?"

Wally froze, "Oh no." "Oh no?" she repeated. "Oh no," you agreed.

Wally pointed at you, "See? Your mom said it too." You shook your head, "You got yourself into this one. Don’t drag me into it."

He looked at you like you’d stabbed him in the back, "Traitor."

"You know what they say, marriage is all about sacrifice."

"Not ours! You’re supposed to be on our side!" Your husband scratched his head before coming up with some big story about how Santa is real! And how he helped save Christmas with Santa once! (Although to you, it sounded strangely similar to the story of Rudolph…)

The children dissolved into giggles and you watched them from the stove.

Wally sitting cross-legged on the floor with one toddler hanging off each arm.

His hair was a mess. His shirt wrinkled like it hadn’t seen a dryer or iron since he’d gotten it. And yet, there he was, looking happier than he'd ever been in his life.

Your heart squeezed.

God.

You loved him. You loved this.

The noise. The mess. The chaos. All of it.

It was perfect.

Dinner ended with your son somehow wearing more pasta than he actually ate.

Bath time became a battle that you’d won while bedtime became the war that was almost lost every night.

By the time both children were finally asleep, you felt like collapsing.

Wally looked equally exhausted, "You think they're secretly working together?" You laughed at him, "To do what? They’re just babies," He shook his head, “No no, I think they're trying to kill us."

"They're four!” You laughed.

His face immediately softened like it always did when he made you laugh.

Like you were still the most amazing thing he'd ever seen even after all these years. Even after everything you’d been through together.

You reached over and fixed a piece of hair that was sticking up.

Wally caught your wrist and pressed a kiss to your palm.

Just because.

Just because he could.

Just because he was Wally.

Your Wally.

The dishes sat forgotten in the sink. The kitchen lights were dim. The house was quiet for once.

You leaned against the counter. Wally stepped between your legs.

His hands settled on your waist.

Instinctive. Familiar.

You melted into him immediately.

"You know," he murmured. You looked up at him, "Hm?"

"We should have another kid."

You nearly choked, "Wally." He looked at you like he hadn’t just said the stupidest thing you’d heard in years, "What?" "No." 

He looked like you’d just kicked his pet dog, "Come on." You gave him a look that said ‘are you crazy?” , "We barely survived these two. And they’re even harder to keep up with now.”

"I think we'd crush a third one. You know, third times a charm and all." He looked so confident all you could do was try not to laugh. "That is not how parenting works." You buried your face in his shoulder, laughing despite yourself.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek, laughing alongside you.

The sound was familiar enough to make your eyes close.

It was the kind of familiar that settled into your bones, into your muscle memory. Into the deepest parts of you.

You could have stayed there forever. And maybe you would have.

If someone hadn't knocked on the door.

Three sharp knocks.

Wally groaned dramatically, "Ignore it." You laughed, already pulling away from him, "No." "Pleaseee." You shook your head. "What if it's a murderer?"

You laughed at his dramatics, "Then they're about to be very disappointed. I live with a very strong super hero, you know."

He rolled his eyes and finally let you go, his hands sliding reluctantly from your waist, "Don't go far."

"I would never.”

The porch light illuminated a delivery driver, strangely late at night, but maybe it was another overnight shipping order you’d forgotten about.

There was a clipboard in hand and several packages stacked beside him, "Need a signature. From an…Artemis Crock."

"Oh." You took the clipboard. Signed your name. Accepted the packages. Exchanged polite smiles. Then, when his back was finally turned away after some awkward goodbye waves, you shut the door.

The entire interaction lasted less than thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

That was all.

Thirty seconds.

But when you turned around.

The world ended.

Again.

The kitchen was empty.

There was no music. No dishes. No laughter. No warm yellow lights. No pasta. No toys scattered across the floor. No tiny shoes by the doorway. No family photos hanging on the wall.

No Wally.

No children.

Nothing.

Just silence.

A suffocating, unforgiving silence.

The box slipped from your hands and hit the floor.

You didn't hear it.

You were too busy staring at the empty room.

The real room.

The room that had never known him. The room that had never known any of them.

Because there were no children, and there never had been.

And Wally…

Your breath caught, sharp and painful.

Wally was dead.

The realization slammed into you with all the force of a collapsing building.

Your memories shattered, fragments breaking apart like a glass vase being tipped off a table.

The illusion was unraveling.

Years and years and years.

Gone.

You remembered.

God, you remembered.

The funeral.

Barry crying. Artemis unable to look at anyone. Dick standing motionless beside the casket.

The pity.

The sympathy.

The unbearable sympathy.

Every glance saying the same thing.

Poor thing. 

Poor thing.

Poor thing.

You hated it.

You hated them for giving it. You hated yourself for needing it.

So you'd stopped answering their calls. Stopped opening their messages. Stopped attending the meetings.

To them, you just…stopped existing. Stopped being around, little by little.

Until one day the silence became too much.

And your powers…your powers had always created illusions.

So you created one more, just one.

Just for a little while. Just until the pain stopped.

But it never did.

The illusion simply got bigger and bigger until it became a whole new life.

A life where you had a house. A marriage. Two children. A life where you did Friday night dinners and bedtime stories together. Where you celebrated anniversaries and had arguments about laundry.

Years of moments that never happened.

Years with a man who wasn't there.

Your knees hit the floor, hard. And yet, you barely felt it.

A sob tore from your throat. One so ugly and broken, it could only be terribly human.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying desperately to hold together something that was already shattered.

"Wally."

The name came out as a whisper.

A prayer. A plea.

Yet, there was no answer.

No footsteps. No laughing in the hallway. No red lightning. No warm hands finding your waist.

There was just…Nothing.

The house remained empty.

Exactly as it had been for years.

And for the first time in a very long time, you were alone. Truly alone.

Forced to remember what your heart had spent years trying to forget.

The truth your illusions could never erase. The truth waiting outside your carefully crafted bubble. The truth that remained no matter how desperately you tried to rewrite it.

Wally West was dead.

And no amount of pretending or fake illusions you made would bring him home.

⁀❦ ©airybcby , m.list

‧° likes comments and reblogs are appreciated

Not in one dramatic moment. Not with some heartbreaking confession or cruel goodbye. Just little by little.

Texts answered hours later. Calls missed and forgotten. Pictures of new cities posted online while your messages sat unread. Then nothing at all.

There was no explanation. Definitely no fight. And there was absolutely no closure.

All you had was silence- silence so complete it made you question if you had imagined everything before it.

At first, you defended him to anyone who asked you why he hadn’t been to visit you.

“He’s busy.”

Why he hadn’t bothered to call?

“He’s adjusting. Time zones, you know?”

Why he couldn’t text you? Or anyone, at that.

“You know how he gets when volleyball takes over.”

You defended him so often that it became muscle memory, something you could repeat without thinking. You said it to his sister when she asked if you’d heard from him lately. You said it to your friends when they told you to move on. You said it to yourself when another month passed with no word.

But excuses rot when you keep them too long.

So now you sit in gym bleachers that smell like polished wood and sweat, clapping for a girl with the same quick grin her brother used to wear, and pretend not to notice the stares.

She spikes the ball hard enough to win the set.

The crowd erupts.

You cheer with everyone else, loud and automatic, until your throat burns.

When the game ends, she jogs over, ponytail sticking to the back of her neck, smile wide.

“You came!” she says, like you ever wouldn’t.

“Obviously.”

She laughs, then digs through her bag. “Oh, right. He told me to give you this.”

Your heart trips so violently it feels embarrassing.

She hands you her phone.

On the screen is a message from an unsaved international number.

Tell her I’m sorry.

That’s it.

No name. No explanation. 

No how have you been? 

No I missed you. 

Just four words tossed across oceans like they should be enough.

The humiliation of it nearly buckles your knees.

All these years of waiting. All the drafts unsent. All the ways people looked at you and were right.

You stare at the message until the words blur, then hand the phone back.

“Can you reply for me?” you ask quietly.

She blinks. “What do I say?”

You think of the boy who used to appear at your window in the middle of the night. 

The promises he made to you at graduation. 

The painful silence that followed. 

The version of you that stayed behind, faithful to someone who had already chosen leaving.

Then you smile, small and sharp.

“Tell him,” you say, “I know.”

Because you do.

Hinata Shoyo was a bird, and you were a bar in his cage. He needed out, and you weren’t built to survive that.

⁀❦ ©airybcby , m.list

A third attempt earned him the same result, "...What?"

Had they changed the locks? Could you even do that in one day? Was there a need for that?

Before he could investigate further, the front door swung open.

And every thought he might have had immediately disappeared.

You stood in the doorway wearing an elegant black dress.

The kind of dress that belonged at a fancy restaurant. Or a charity gala. Or literally anywhere except a half-unpacked house.

Your hair was styled and your makeup was done. And tucked beneath one of your arms was a clipboard.

Vivian blinked, "Oh, shit." Your smile faltered, "What?"

Immediately, panic settled in.

Anniversary.

It had to be an anniversary.

But he had those written in his phone calendar. And his physical calendar. He wouldn’t make a mistake as big as that.

It had to be a reservation.

But…you would have told him. And usually he made the reservations…okay not that either.

Maybe it was some important event he'd forgotten.

His brain started desperately searching through every date he could think of.

Your birthday?

No.

His birthday?

Definitely not.

Valentine's Day?

No, wrong month.

First date?

First kiss?

The day he'd said I love you?

The day he'd given you a key to his old apartment?

The day you'd bought the house?

Were people supposed to celebrate that?

"Oh my God."

You stared, "What, Viv? What’s the matter-"

"Did I forget something?" He blurted it out, eyes squeezed shut because he was sure there was something he’d forgotten. 

There was a brief moment of confusion. Then realization dawned on your face and you burst into laughter.

Vivian groaned, "Oh, come on."

"You think I dressed up because you forgot an anniversary?"

"Yes..?” You laughed even harder. His shoulders finally relaxed.

Okay. So he wasn't in trouble.

That was good.

Then you straightened, your expression suddenly becoming serious and scarily professional. You adjusted the clipboard you were holding,  "Good evening, sir."

Vivian immediately pointed at you, "No." You ignored him, "Welcome to your private showing."

"No."

"Today I'll be presenting a truly exceptional property."

"Baby." He was all but begging you to drop the act.

"A property recently listed on the market."

He shook his head, "Not anymore. It’s our house." You gave him a small smile, "A property featuring one handsome professional football player."

Vivian covered his face, "Oh my God." "And one incredibly attractive homeowner." You added.

"Please stop."

"Would you like a tour?"

He sighed. The long-suffering sigh of a man who had been dating you for years. "...Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Thought so."

You immediately grabbed his wrist, "Excellent. Follow me."

Before he could even set his duffel bag down, you were dragging him into the foyer. The foyer  that currently consisted of sixteen boxes, one lamp, and a dining chair that appeared to have lost a fight with a bear if Vivian could guess by the amount of scratches on the wooden legs.

You spread your arms dramatically, "As you can see, the home features an open concept entryway."

"It's open because we haven't unpacked." Vivian mumbled, too entranced in your little act to actually say it out loud.

You gasped, "Sir, please refrain from insulting the property."

He gave you a look, "It's literally my property." You pointed to yourself, "No, it’sd my property."

"We both signed the paperwork."

You waved a hand at him, playfully dismissing his comment, "Technicalities."

Vivian laughed and the tour continued.

To the living room. Through the office. You even let him see the guest bedroom. You dramatically tried to sell him on the backyard.

Every room received an increasingly ridiculous presentation.

The living room apparently featured "state-of-the-art TV space."

The office boasted "excellent potential for avoiding your responsibilities."

The backyard offered "unlimited opportunities for touching grass."

By the time you showed him the laundry room, Vivian was already fighting a smile.

You threw open the door dramatically, "And now, one of the home's most exciting features." He knew his face was borderline in a full smile, "The laundry room?"

"The laundry room." You pointed proudly toward the washer, "It works." Vivian stared at you like you were crazy. Then laughed so hard he had to lean against the doorframe, "That's your sales pitch?"

"Do you know how many apartments I've had with broken laundry machines?"

"...Right. Okay I’m sold on the laundry room." You smiled victoriously, "Damn right."

The longer the tour went on, the more relaxed he became.

His exhaustion didn't disappear. But he felt less tired, more alive when he was with you.

Because every ridiculous joke reminded him that he was finally home with you. And that was all he'd wanted.

Eventually, you led him upstairs where the hallways were lined with unopened boxes.

The walls still looked strangely bare. Nothing was fully settled yet. But somehow it already felt like you two were right at home.

You stopped outside the last room then cleared your throat, "And finally, sir."

Vivian folded his arms, "Yes?"

You pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

Boxes lined the walls. Half the closet remained empty. The comforter wasn't even fully put on.

Yet it somehow felt more complete than every other room combined.

You stepped inside and Vivian followed.

Then you turned dramatically, stretching out your arms, "And finally, sir, we arrive at the master bedroom."

Vivian stared at you. Then he looked around the room and then back at you, "We've been in the master bedroom before."

You waved your hand in his face, "Details." "Pretty important details."

You ignored him, "As you can see, the room is spacious, inviting, and perfect for relaxation."

Vivian pointed at one of the many boxes you two had to still unpack, "There's a box of Christmas Decorations. It’s May." You looked at the box too, "It adds character."

Vivian snorted at your explanations. You stepped closer, "And the best feature?"

"Mhm?"

You nodded seriously. Then grabbed the front of his jacket, "Is this..."

Before he could respond, you pulled him down and kissed him. The surprised noise that escaped him made you grin.

His hands immediately found your waist like it was instinct.

You smiled into the kiss and let yourself fall backward.

A laugh escaped him as you dragged him down with you. The mattress bounced beneath your combined weight.

"Jesus-"

You giggled, "See? Comfortable." Vivian shook his head, smiling despite himself, "You're unbelievable." "I've been told." You reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The room wasn't finished.

The house wasn't finished.

There were still boxes everywhere.

Still things to unpack.

Still so much room for memories left to make.

Your smile softened, "So…" "So?" He raised an eyebrow at you, although you couldn’t quite tell because of his hair was in his face.

"Did you like the tour?"

Vivian glanced around the room one last time.

Then looked back at you.

His gaze was warm, fond. He was hopelessly in love.

He leaned closer until his forehead touched yours. "I think," he murmured, "I need another one."

Your laugh barely escaped before he kissed you again.

And even if you were surrounded by cardboard boxes and unfinished plans and a hope of the future you would built together, Vivian decided there wasn't a single place in the world he'd rather be.

⁀❦ ©airybcby , m.list