Small Shadows in Wayne Manor
The library in Wayne Manor was your favorite place in the entire world, though you'd never say so out loud. Words felt heavy in your mouth these days, like stones you had to push past your teeth. So you stayed quiet, curled up in the corner behind the large leather armchair where nobody ever sat, your knees pulled tight to your chest.
You'd been living here for three weeks now.
Three weeks since the social worker with the kind smile and tired eyes had brought you through those massive doors. Three weeks since Mr. Wayne—Bruce, he'd said to call him Bruce, but that felt too familiar, too assuming—had knelt down to your level and told you that you were safe here.
Safe. The word echoed strangely in your head.
You traced your finger along the spine of a book you'd pulled from the lowest shelf. You couldn't read all the words yet—you were only seven, after all, and the last school you'd attended had been... well, it had been a while ago. Before everything got bad. Before Mom stopped coming home. Before the apartment got cold and the cupboards stayed empty and you learned that being quiet, being invisible, meant being safe.
You flinched, jerking your head up so fast your neck cracked. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Dick Grayson stood in the doorway, still in his police uniform from his day shift. He had that smile on his face, the one that was supposed to be comforting but made something in your stomach twist instead. Too bright. Too much.
"Hey, sorry, didn't mean to startle you." He held up his hands, taking a step back, and you noticed—he always noticed. Noticed when you tensed. Noticed when you pressed yourself further into corners. Noticed when your breathing went shallow and quick.
You didn't respond, just watched him with wide eyes, your book clutched against your chest like a shield.
"Alfred's got dinner ready," Dick continued, his voice softer now, careful. Like you were something fragile that might shatter. Maybe you were. "Thought you might be hungry. You didn't eat much at lunch."
You had eaten lunch. Three bites of sandwich, half an apple. It was more than you used to get in the before-times, when meals were whatever you could find in the back of the cabinet. Stale crackers. Ketchup packets from fast food restaurants. Once, you'd eaten dry pasta, crunching it between your teeth because there was nothing else.
Three weeks of regular meals still felt surreal. Like a dream you'd wake up from.
"I'm not hungry," you whispered, and even those three words felt like too much, like you'd given away something you shouldn't have.
Dick's expression shifted, something sad flickering across his face before he hid it. "Okay. Well... would you want to come sit with us anyway? You don't have to eat. Just... be there?"
You shook your head quickly. Too many people in the dining room. Bruce at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet. Tim typing on his laptop between bites, always working. Damian making cutting remarks about everyone's table manners. Cass watching everything with those knowing eyes. Duke trying to make conversation. Jason showing up sometimes, his presence loud and overwhelming even when he was being quiet.
Too much. Too loud. Too many eyes that might see you, really see you, and find you wanting.
"Alright," Dick said, and he didn't push. That was something you appreciated about him, even through your fear. He didn't push. "I'll have Alfred bring something up here for you, okay? Just in case you get hungry later."
You wanted to say no, wanted to say you didn't need anything, didn't deserve anything, but he was already gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding and turned back to your book, but the words blurred together now. Your hands were shaking.
They were always so nice. All of them. And that was what scared you most.
In the before-times, you'd learned the rules quickly. You had to, to survive.
Rule One: Stay quiet. Noise attracted attention, and attention was dangerous. When Mom's boyfriends came over, you made yourself small, silent, invisible. When the yelling started, you pressed your hands over your ears and hummed inside your head where no one could hear.
Rule Two: Don't ask for things. Asking meant being a burden, and burdens got left behind. You learned to ignore the hunger pangs, the cold, the fear. Needs were weaknesses.
Rule Three: Take up as little space as possible. Physically, emotionally, existentially. Be a ghost. Ghosts didn't get hit. Ghosts didn't get screamed at. Ghosts didn't get forgotten because they were never really there to begin with.
Rule Four: Don't trust touch. Hands could hurt. Hands could grab, could shove, could hit. Even gentle hands could turn violent without warning. Better to avoid them altogether.
Rule Five: Don't get comfortable. Comfort was temporary. Safety was an illusion. Everything could change in a moment, and you had to be ready to run, to hide, to disappear.
Wayne Manor didn't follow these rules. Nobody here seemed to know them at all.
Alfred appeared in the library doorway twenty minutes after Dick left, carrying a tray with a sandwich cut into small triangles, apple slices, and a glass of milk. He didn't comment on your hiding spot behind the chair. He simply set the tray on the small side table nearby and gave you a gentle nod.
"Just there when you're ready, Miss," he said, his British accent making everything sound proper and safe. "No pressure at all."
Miss. He called you Miss, like you were someone important.
You watched him leave, then stared at the food. Your stomach growled—betraying you, always betraying you—but you didn't move. The sandwich would still be there in an hour. Food didn't disappear here like it used to. That was something you were slowly learning, though the lesson never quite stuck.
Later, when the sky outside the tall windows had gone dark and the manor had quieted, you crept out from behind the chair and ate the sandwich in quick, furtive bites. The bread was soft, not stale. The apple was crisp, not bruised. The milk was cold and fresh.
You cried while you ate, and you didn't know why.
You woke up on the library floor.
You'd meant to go back to your bedroom—the bedroom they'd given you, with its big bed and soft blankets and the nightlight Bruce had installed without asking after he noticed you sleeping with the bathroom light on. But sometime after eating the sandwich, you'd pulled down a few cushions from the couch, made a nest in your corner, and fallen asleep there instead.
The bedroom was too big. Too exposed. Here, behind the chair, with your back to the wall and a clear view of the door, you could breathe.
You jerked awake fully, your heart catapulting into your throat. Jason stood in the doorway, leather jacket on, helmet tucked under one arm. He must have been out all night—he did that sometimes, though no one talked about where he went or what he did.
He took in your makeshift bed with a long look, and you waited for the lecture, the disappointment, the anger. You'd made a mess. You weren't in your proper room. You were being difficult, ungrateful.
But Jason just shrugged. "Library's a good spot. Better than some of the places I've crashed." He moved to one of the shelves, running his finger along the spines until he found what he was looking for. "You like the classics?"
You blinked at him, confused by the turn in conversation.
He pulled out a worn copy of The Secret Garden and tossed it gently so it landed on your cushions. "Try that one. It's about a kid who finds a place that's just hers. Thought you might relate."
Then he was gone, just like that, leaving you staring at the book like it might bite you.
You didn't touch it for three hours. But eventually, curiosity won, and you opened to the first page.
When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.
You read until Alfred found you and very gently suggested that perhaps some breakfast would be nice, and maybe you'd like to wash up a bit first?
It happened on a Tuesday.
You were in the kitchen—a rare venture out of the library—because Alfred had promised to show you how to make chocolate chip cookies. You'd watched from the doorway for ten minutes before he'd noticed you, and instead of shooing you away, he'd simply tied an apron around his own waist and asked if you'd like to help.
You did. You really did. Even though helping meant being visible.
You were carefully measuring flour, your tongue poking out in concentration, when Duke came in from his morning run. He was sweaty and breathing hard, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
"Hey, little bit!" he said cheerfully. Duke was always cheerful, always sunny, like his name. "Whatcha making?"
"Cookies," you whispered.
"Awesome! Can't wait to try them." He moved past you to get to the sink, and his hand—just meaning to be friendly, just a casual touch—landed on your shoulder.
You dropped the measuring cup.
It shattered on the tile floor, flour exploding everywhere in a white cloud, and you were suddenly back in the apartment, back in the before-times, and someone was grabbing you, and you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't—
"Hey, hey, it's okay!" Duke's voice, but distant, like he was speaking underwater. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
You were on the floor. When had you gotten on the floor? Your back was pressed against the cabinet, your knees to your chest, your hands over your head. Protecting. Always protecting.
"Don't touch her." Alfred's voice, sharp in a way you'd never heard it. "Step back, Master Duke."
"I know. Step back, please."
Footsteps retreating. The kitchen went quiet except for your harsh breathing.
Then Alfred's voice, soft and low, from somewhere above you. Not close. Not touching. "You're safe, Miss. You're in the manor. No one will hurt you here. You're perfectly safe."
It took fifteen minutes for your breathing to slow. Twenty before you could lower your hands. Alfred stayed the entire time, sitting on the floor across the kitchen from you, just... present. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.
Duke had left. You felt bad about that later, when you could feel anything other than terror.
"I'm sorry," you finally whispered.
"Whatever for?" Alfred asked, genuinely puzzled.
"The mess. The cup. I'll clean it up. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Miss," Alfred said, and his voice was so gentle it made your chest ache. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. We'll clean it together, and then, if you'd still like, we'll make those cookies. Does that sound acceptable?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Alfred smiled, soft and sad and kind. "Splendid."
You hadn't meant to eavesdrop.
You were in your usual spot in the library—you'd been spending even more time there after the kitchen incident three days ago—when voices drifted down the hallway from Bruce's study. The door must have been ajar.
You should have made noise, should have alerted them to your presence. But old habits died hard, and you knew how to be quiet. How to listen. Information was survival.
"...can't keep walking on eggshells." That was Damian's voice, sharp with frustration. "The child flinches every time one of us enters a room. It's been nearly a month."
"She's been through trauma, Damian." Dick's voice, patient but strained. "We knew this wasn't going to be easy."
"I'm not saying send her back to the system," Damian retorted. "I'm saying we're clearly not equipped for this. We're vigilantes, not therapists. Perhaps a specialized facility—"
"No." Bruce, firm and final. "She stays."
"Bruce, baby bird's got a point, kind of." Jason, and hearing him agree with Damian about anything was surprising. "We're messing this up. She won't eat with us, won't sleep in her room, won't let anyone within five feet of her. Duke's still beating himself up about the kitchen thing."
"That wasn't his fault," Tim interjected. "Or hers. It's a trauma response. I've been researching—"
"Of course you have," Jason muttered.
"—and everything she's displaying is consistent with severe neglect and possible physical abuse. She needs professional help, Bruce. More than we can give her."
Silence. You pressed your hand over your mouth, keeping your breathing shallow and quiet.
Then Cass's voice, quiet but clear: "She stays. She needs family. Not facility. Needs home."
"We learn. We adapt. We help. She stays."
Finally, Bruce spoke. "Cass is right. We're her family now, and family doesn't give up. We'll do better. We'll get her professional help, but she stays here. With us. That's not up for debate."
"Then what do we do?" Dick asked. "Because I don't think any of us can handle watching her hurt like this."
"We give her time," Bruce said. "Space when she needs it. Patience. And we make sure she knows, every single day, that she's wanted here. That she's not a burden. That she's ours."
Your throat closed up. Ours.
"Alfred's been making progress," Tim offered. "She helps him in the kitchen sometimes now. Just... from a distance."
"And she read the book I gave her," Jason added, sounding almost defensive. "I saw her with it."
"Small steps," Bruce said. "That's all we can ask for. Small steps."
You left before you could hear more, creeping back to your corner on silent feet, your heart doing something complicated in your chest.
They wanted you. They wanted to keep you.
You didn't know what to do with that information.
The nightmare came, as it always did, around three in the morning.
In the dream, you were back in the apartment. The one with the broken heater and the smell of mildew and the sounds of fighting through the walls. You were hungry—so hungry your stomach hurt—and Mom wasn't home. She hadn't been home in days, or maybe weeks, time got fuzzy.
You were trying to be good, trying to be quiet, trying to be invisible, but someone was there. Someone was angry. Someone was reaching for you with hands that meant hurt, and you couldn't run, couldn't scream, couldn't—
Not in your bedroom, because you never made it to your bedroom anymore. You'd dragged your blankets into the library days ago, made a permanent nest behind the chair. No one had commented on it. Alfred just started leaving your pajamas in there, neatly folded.
You were curled into a ball, tears streaming down your face, your whole body shaking. The fear was so real, so present, that you couldn't remember where you were. Manor or apartment? Safe or danger?
You gasped, scrambling backward, but your back hit the wall. Trapped. You were trapped.
"It's just me. It's Tim. You're safe. You're in the manor."
Tim. Tim who was always typing, always working, who looked exhausted all the time but still smiled when he saw you. Tim who left interesting books on the side table for you, who never asked you to talk.
Your breathing was too fast. You couldn't slow it down. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't—
"Okay, panic attack," Tim said, and his voice was calm, clinical. "That's okay. That's totally normal. I get them too. Can you—okay, you can't answer. That's fine. I'm going to count, and I want you to try to breathe with me. Just try. No pressure."
He started counting. Slow, steady. "In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four."
You tried to follow. Failed. Tried again.
"That's it. You're doing great. Again. In, two, three, four..."
It took a long time, but eventually, your breathing slowed. The panic receded to a manageable level of terror.
"There you go," Tim said softly. He was sitting on the floor, you realized, but far away. At least six feet between you. Not crowding. Not threatening. "You're okay. It was just a nightmare."
"I'm sorry," you whispered automatically.
"Don't be. Nightmares suck." He paused. "Do you have them a lot?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
"Yeah. Me too." He was quiet for a moment. "You know what helps me sometimes? Alfred's tea. And having someone nearby. Not, like, touching or anything. Just... present. Would you want that? I can stay over here, work on my laptop. You don't have to talk or anything. Just... not alone."
You considered it. Being alone after nightmares meant the fear lingered, meant the shadows stayed menacing. But having someone close meant being vulnerable, meant risk.
But this was Tim. Tim who understood panic attacks. Tim who stayed far away without being asked.
He smiled, small and genuine, and pulled out his laptop. "Cool. I'm just going to be over here, super boring, working on this case file. You try to sleep. Or don't. Whatever feels right."
The soft glow of his laptop screen and the gentle tap of keys became a strange sort of comfort. When you finally closed your eyes again, the nightmare stayed away.
It started with Alfred, because of course it did.
You were helping him fold laundry—a new routine that had developed over the past week. He folded, you handed him things from the basket. Not much talking required, just quiet companionship.
"May I ask you something, Miss?" Alfred said as he folded one of Bruce's shirts with military precision.
"You seem to find comfort in the library. Might I inquire what it is about that particular room that appeals to you?"
You handed him a towel, thinking. In the before-times, you wouldn't have answered. Answering meant being known, and being known was dangerous.
But this was Alfred. Alfred who left you food without comment. Alfred who'd sat on the kitchen floor with you. Alfred who never, ever pushed.
"It has walls," you said quietly. "And I can see the door. And nobody goes there much. So it's... it's quiet. And safe."
Alfred's hands paused in their folding. "I see. That's quite sensible. Everyone needs a place where they feel secure."
"In the before-times—" You stopped, surprised you'd said it out loud.
"The before-times?" Alfred prompted gently.
"Before here. When it was... bad. There wasn't anywhere safe. Not really. So I'd hide. In closets, mostly. Or under beds. Places where I couldn't be seen."
"That sounds very frightening," Alfred said, and there was no pity in his voice, just understanding. "I'm glad you don't have to hide like that anymore."
"But I still do," you whispered. "Hide, I mean. Behind the chair."
"Ah, but there's a difference." Alfred resumed folding. "Before, you were hiding from danger. Here, you're choosing a space that makes you feel comfortable. That's not quite the same thing, is it?"
You'd never thought of it like that.
"You're not hiding, Miss," Alfred continued. "You're simply taking up residence in a place that suits you. There's nothing wrong with that. Master Jason often sleeps in the library as well, you know. And I've found Master Tim in there more times than I can count, fallen asleep over his books."
"Indeed. We all need our sanctuaries. Yours simply happens to be behind a rather comfortable leather chair, surrounded by books. I can think of far worse places."
Something in your chest loosened, just a little.
"May I tell you something, Miss?" Alfred asked.
"We're very glad you're here. All of us. I know the adjustment has been difficult, and I know we're not perfect. But this is your home now, for as long as you want it to be. And that means you get to make it yours. If that means sleeping in the library, so be it. If that means eating meals alone until you're ready to join us, that's perfectly acceptable. You set the pace. We'll follow."
Tears pricked your eyes. "I don't know how to do this," you admitted, your voice breaking. "I don't know how to be here. How to be... wanted."
Alfred set down the shirt he was folding and looked at you with such gentleness it hurt. "My dear child, none of us truly knew how to be a family when we started. Master Bruce was a traumatized young man who could barely take care of himself. Master Dick was an angry boy who'd lost everything. Master Jason was a child from the streets who trusted no one. And on it went, each person bringing their own wounds, their own fears. But we learned. Together. And you will too."
"What if I can't?" you whispered. "What if I'm too broken?"
"Then you'll be broken here, with us," Alfred said simply. "And we'll help you pick up the pieces. That's what families do."
You cried then, really cried, and Alfred handed you tissues and let you sob without trying to fix it, without telling you to stop, without touching you.
When you finally quieted, he simply said, "More laundry?" and you nodded gratefully and went back to work.
He was small for his age, but he carried himself like someone much larger, much more dangerous. His eyes were sharp and assessing, and he rarely smiled. He spoke precisely, formally, and he seemed to have no patience for weakness.
You avoided him more than any of the others.
So when you rounded a corner in the manor and nearly collided with him, you gasped and immediately flattened yourself against the wall, making yourself as small as possible.
Damian stopped, studied you with those piercing eyes, and frowned. "You're afraid of me."
It wasn't a question, so you didn't answer.
"I haven't done anything to you," he continued, sounding almost... offended. "I've barely spoken to you. Your fear is irrational."
Fear usually was. But you didn't say that.
Damian's frown deepened. Then, with a huff of annoyance, he sat down. Right there in the hallway, cross-legged on the floor, looking up at you.
"There. I'm smaller than you now. Less threatening. Will you stop cowering?"
You stared at him, confused.
"I'm trying," Damian said, and for the first time, he sounded uncertain. Not like himself at all. "Father says I need to be more... approachable. Grayson says I have to show that I'm safe. I don't particularly understand why I must prove myself when I've done nothing wrong, but apparently, this is how families function."
Slowly, carefully, you slid down the wall until you were sitting too, still pressed against it but no longer looming above him.
"I'm not good at this," Damian admitted, and the confession seemed to cost him. "I was raised to be a weapon. Emotions were... discouraged. Vulnerabilities were punished. I'm trying to be different here, but it's difficult. I don't always succeed."
You understood that. Different rules in different places. Different versions of yourself for different situations.
"You don't have to be good at it," you whispered. "Being... being here."
Damian's head snapped up. "You speak."
"Hm." He considered this. "I heard you had a panic attack in the kitchen. Todd mentioned you don't like to be touched."
You tensed, waiting for mockery or dismissal.
"I don't like to be touched either," Damian said instead. "Most of the time. It feels like an invasion. Like someone is taking something from me without permission."
"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, exactly."
"The others don't always understand. They're very tactile. Grayson especially—he hugs everyone. It's exhausting." Damian's nose wrinkled. "But they're learning that I have boundaries. And they'll learn yours too. You simply have to be clear about them."
"You say 'no.' Or you move away. Or, if you're feeling particularly direct, you tell them that touching you without permission is unacceptable and will not be tolerated."
The idea of saying that to any of them—to Dick with his kind smile, to Duke with his friendly energy—seemed impossible.
"It becomes easier with practice," Damian said, as if reading your mind. "And they will listen. That's the difference between here and... wherever you came from. Here, 'no' means something."
You wanted to believe that.
Damian stood, brushing off his pants. "I have training. But if you'd like, you may sit in the library tomorrow at three o'clock. I'll be there to read. We don't have to talk. We can simply... coexist."
Then he was gone, leaving you sitting in the hallway, something warm and fragile blooming in your chest.
Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
Three months in, and you could eat breakfast in the kitchen if no one else was there.
Six months in, and you'd spoken full sentences to Alfred, Tim, and Cass.
Nine months in, and you'd watched a movie in the theater room with everyone, sitting in the back row where you could see all the exits.
Progress, Bruce called it during your weekly meetings with Dr. Huang, the therapist who came to the manor because you couldn't handle the idea of leaving, of being in public, of being seen by strangers.
Progress, but not linear. Never linear.
The setback came on a Tuesday.
You were in the library—always the library, your sanctuary, your safe space—curled up with a book, when a sound made you look up.
A man stood in the doorway. Not one of the family. Older, wearing a suit, with calculating eyes that swept the room and landed on you.
"Well, hello there," he said, and his smile didn't reach his eyes. "You must be Bruce's newest stray."
Every alarm in your body screamed danger.
You couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. You were seven years old again but also frozen at every age you'd ever been, every moment someone had looked at you like that, like you were nothing, like you were prey.
The man took a step into the room.
"I'm Ra's," he said, like you should know that name. Like it should mean something. "An old friend of Bruce's. Or enemy. Depending on the day." His smile sharpened. "And you are?"
You pressed yourself into the corner behind the chair, your book falling from numb fingers.
"Not talkative, I see. That's all right. I prefer children who know when to be quiet."
Damian appeared in the doorway like a small, furious storm, his hand on the sword you didn't know he'd been carrying. "Step away from her. Now."
"Damian. My grandson." Ra's didn't seem bothered by the sword. "Still so dramatic."
"I said step away." Damian's voice was cold, deadly. Nothing like the boy who sat with you in the library and read in comfortable silence. "You have no business with her."
"I was merely introducing myself."
"You were frightening her. Leave."
More footsteps, running. Then Bruce was there, and Dick, and Jason with a gun you'd never seen him carry inside the house.
"Out," Bruce said, and his voice was Batman's voice, the one that made criminals flee. "You're not welcome here, Ra's."
"You terrorized a child. Out. Now. Or I'll remove you myself."
The man—Ra's—looked at you one more time, and you felt that look like fingers around your throat. Then he smiled, bowed slightly, and left.
The silence after was deafening.
You couldn't stop shaking.
"Don't," Damian snapped. "Don't crowd her. Give her space."
But you didn't want space. For the first time since coming here, space felt dangerous. That man had been in your space, had invaded it, had taken your sanctuary and made it unsafe.
A sound escaped your throat, high and wounded.
"It's okay," Bruce said, and he was kneeling on the floor now, but far away, not close. "You're safe. He's gone. He won't come back."
"How did he get in?" Jason demanded. "How did he get past security?"
"We'll find out," Bruce said grimly. "But right now—"
"I want—" Your voice cracked. "I want—"
You didn't know how to finish. Want what? What did you want?
Cass appeared in the doorway, and she looked at you, really looked, and then she sat down on the floor. Just sat, cross-legged, her hands in her lap, her expression calm and open.
She patted the floor next to her.
An invitation. Not a demand.
You don't know what made you move. Maybe because Cass had never scared you, even from the first day. Maybe because she barely spoke, like you, and seemed to understand silence. Maybe because her eyes were kind.
You crawled out from behind the chair and sat next to her, not touching but close. Closer than you'd been to anyone in months.
Cass didn't say anything. She just sat with you, present and solid and safe.
One by one, the others sat too. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Damian, Tim appearing from somewhere. All of them on the floor, none of them touching you, just... there.
Your family, you realized with a jolt.
Your family, sitting with you in your broken moment, not trying to fix it, just being there.
You cried then, messy and ugly and loud, and no one told you to stop.That night, you couldn't sleep.
You lay in your nest behind the chair—your nest, Alfred had started calling it, which made it seem more intentional, more okay—and stared at the ceiling.
You'd thought you were making progress. You'd thought you were getting better, getting stronger, learning to be here.
But one stranger, one moment, and you'd fallen apart.
"Can't sleep either, huh?"
You jerked upright. Jason was in the doorway, holding two mugs.
"Hot chocolate," he said, holding one up. "Alfred's special recipe. And before you ask, yes, I got permission to bring it to the library. No, I won't tell him you're still sleeping in here—he already knows. And no, I'm not going to sit close to you or do anything weird. I'm just going to sit over here—" he gestured to the couch across the room "—and drink my cocoa. You can do whatever you want with yours."
He set your mug on the side table and went to the couch, sprawling out like he owned it.
You looked at the cocoa. At Jason. At the cocoa again.
"Ra's is gone," Jason said conversationally. "Bruce tracked him all the way out of Gotham. Put every security measure we have on high alert. He won't get in again."
"But he did before," you whispered.
"Yeah. He did. And that's on us, not you. We should've been more careful."
You picked up the mug, letting the warmth seep into your hands.
"You know what I think?" Jason continued, staring at the ceiling. "I think you were incredibly brave today."
You almost laughed. Brave? You'd frozen, panicked, fallen apart.
"No, really," Jason said. "You stayed in that room even though you were terrified. You didn't run. You didn't hide. That's brave."
"But you didn't. And then, after, when we were all there? You sat with Cass. That's the closest you've been to any of us. Do you know how huge that is?"
You hadn't thought about it like that.
Jason sat up, looking at you seriously. "Listen, kid. I'm going to tell you something, and you can believe it or not, up to you. But here it is: healing isn't linear. You're not going to just get better and better in a straight line. Some days will be good. Some days will be shit. Some days you'll feel like you've made progress, and some days you'll feel like you're back at square one. That's normal. That's how it works."
"How do you know?" you asked quietly.
"Because I've been there." Jason's smile was bitter. "I died, came back, lost my mind for a while. Had to relearn how to be human. Had to figure out who I was all over again. And some days, I still don't know. Some days, I still want to hide. Still want to run. Still don't trust that this—" he gestured around "—is real."
"But you... you're so... strong," you said, unable to finish your sentence.
Jason was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath before speaking. "Looking strong is easy. Everyone’s strength shows up in some form. But that doesn’t always mean it’s real strength. True strength comes in being able to admit how weak you are."
For a while, you both sat in silence, looking at each other. Jason looked like someone who couldn’t fully trust himself, yet somehow managed to project confidence.
"So... you're still... healing?" you asked, gathering a bit more courage.
Jason smiled, but it was a bitter smile. "Still. Sometimes it’s a step forward, sometimes it’s just a second of standing still. But every day, I take one more step."
For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. There were so many questions in your head, so many thoughts, but somehow, all you wanted was to sit there quietly and share the moment with him.
"Thank you," you said finally. "For saying that."
Jason nodded slowly. "Sometimes, having someone understand you makes all the difference. Everyone’s scared of being alone, but no one really is. You just have to remember that."
You both sat there for a while longer. Jason finished his hot chocolate, you kept holding yours, but without any rush. All the feelings inside you were slowly, patiently fading.
The night was quiet, with only the rustling of the wind outside and the distant, ghostly sounds of the city. But in that moment, here, in the library, neither of you were alone.
This was actually an old song I wrote two years ago. I hesitated a lot about whether to share it or not, but I finally shared it to add some activity to my account. Maybe the lyrics will come later...
