#amfstargirl

Being a product of a mistake between an infamous prostitute and a well-known, almost "celebrity"-like man was not really an ideal life. Being shunned away by the woman who you call Mom, who's supposed to whisper sweet words to you and rock your fragile body back and forth to ease you of whatever you feel bad about, instead shoves you into the arms of an unknown man who's your supposed father. Yeah, that sucks.You've always adored your mom. Despite the horrible words she casually whispers to you - "you ruined me, kid"—you turn a blind eye to her actions and act deaf to her cruel words and instead pretend that she's the mom who loves you and adores you just as much as you do for her. Because it was better. It just was. Your brain can't really process the fact that your abusive mother can be abusive. No, not when she was the one who carried you for 273 days, birthed you, and gave you your name. A 5-year-old's brain can't possibly carry the thought of having that same woman hate you. So even when it was your birthday, you waited for her all day to come home and give you kisses and maybe a birthday cupcake or present. just for once, she comes home drunk, messy, and dizzy with a man on her arms while laughing feverishly. It crazy to think that was the most happiest you've seen her; she was always scowling when she was with you. Strange. Even so you greet her with a hug. "Momma, I've been waiting for you all day—" she cuts you off and tells you to get away from her and calls you this strange name "annoying" huh. Wonder what that means. And for the next hours you spend your birthday alone, in your bedroom. Awake and hungry. But it doesn't matter at least mom came home! Sometimes she doesn't even come home for a few days, but she came home today! That means she must love you. Only for a few days she stays at home with the strange man she brought home on the day of your birthday. It doesn't bother you, it was normal after all. She always do this and then after a few days the man's gone. Yeah, this is just temporary. You say as you clean the house full of dirty clothes and empty alcohol bottles. And then one night the strange man is yelling at your mom; screams filled the tiny apartment with smashing sounds of bottles echoing around the room. You're furious, and you want to defend the woman who you oh so lovingly call "mother" You push the man away, and it angers him. With his bloodshot eyes, he grabbed the bottle and smashed it at the side of your tiny head. You soon wake up in a large room with bright lights and thick white walls. Soon you find out that you're in a hospital; its so cool, it's the size of your living room! Maybe even bigger… Moments later you found out that your mother gave you up to some unknown man who is to be called your "father.". You thrash and scream against the nurse's hold and scream for your mommy, yet she never came.A strange man came and introduced himself. He said he was "Alfred" and said from now on he will take care of you. That's silly because no one in your entire life has had someone take care of you. Soon he drives you to a gloomy big house with lots of statues as Alfred proceeds to tell you that this will be your new home now. Different portraits adorn the walls, and shiny pottery and impressive works of art fill the house. Alfred soon introduced you to your father, Bruce Wayne. Now this is where it all starts. With your new home, hope sparked through your heart, and you believed that somehow, someway, maybe you'll be able to get the love that you have always longed for, yearned for, waited for.

Wrong.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, the most powerful man of Gotham, the heartthrob, the Batman, but never the father of y/n l/n. He doesn't even know you. Doesn't even try to acknowledge you and your hard work, desperate to try anything to make him pay attention to you. To give you the attention you crave and yearn for ever since you arrived at the comfort of his home. You weren't stupid. You knew who he was and his nightly activities. You understood. But what hurts was that despite this, he managed to give every. Single. One. Of his children, attention except you. Was it because you weren't like them? Was it because you didn't fight bad guys for a hobby? Or was it because he never deemed you worthy of his time? Why? Were all the things the kids and big adults whispered behind your back true? That you were a child of a whore and you were bound to become one too over a matter of time? Was it true you'll never compare to your siblings? Being compared to your siblings, who had so much talent and had their own special abilities that yours can't compare to, was draining—and partially true. Your little ballet classes can never impress bruce over his other children's combat skills, multilingual abilities, and genius calculations. And you learned to accept that over the years as you grew up.

Richard grayson, dick, the loving big brother, the family guy. Maybe he was a good guy. After all, he managed to acknowledge you for about 6 seconds one time! He even asked you about your ballet classes! Though that was only to distract his self before Damian came. Always the big brother and Lil brother duo! .. Despite being busy with being a full-time cop and a vigilante, he still makes time for family, the ones he considers as family. Not you, never you. Who were you kidding? Dick is the star of the show, and you're just another side character in his main character life! Just a plain, old, boring bystander. That's all you will ever be to little Richard Grayson's glam life story.

Jason todd was different. He was known as someone who was brutal and full of anger. So it was no problem for him to shove you and tell you off. He had no conscience in telling you to go away, and you liked that. You like the fact that at least he had the decency to not give you false hope. Jason todd hates you, and you know it. Jason todd is jealous of your normalcy and how oblivious you are to the danger of the world. In his eyes, you were his replacement; looking at you makes the green monster of envy crawl out of him and take his anger out on you. The way you are so vulnerable stirs something up inside of him, and he realizes that your eyes look just like his when he was full of wonder and innocence. It made him restless and irritated. It reminded him of his mistakes, foolishness, and those memories he buried deep inside his mind to save him from countless nightmares he desperately ran away from.

Timothy Drake, the genius Robin, the hero by choice, the prodigy son. You would be lying if you said that you weren't jealous of Tim at all. I mean, look at him! He's a genius, a hero, a heartthrob, and a role model to several youths of Gotham. He was exactly like Bruce, and I mean exactly like Bruce. His life revolved around solving crimes, fighting bad guys, acing all of his tests, and coffee. Anything was more important other than you. Sure! He has time to cuddle with his family for movie night (without you, of course) but never has the time to play video games with you. Everything seemed to send thrills to his veins and spark an interest in him except your very existence. If you were just a mere bystander in Dick's story, you weren't even in Tim's!

Cassandra. The girl of the family. You have always envied her. Not only was she the only girl of the family and doted on by every single one of your brothers, but you and she also shared the same interest. What's even more infuriating was that she didn't even have to try. She didn't have to beg countless times to have anyone attend her performances because they were all there. Even Jason, who hid in the shadows. They were all there to support her and show her the love you have always asked for, begged for. She swooned all of them with her dancing, and you can't help that maybe her hands are more gentle, maybe her feet are more pointed, maybe her posture is more straight than yours, maybe she's prettier than you, maybe she's more worth than you.

And finally. Damian al Ghul Wayne. The youngest son, the baby brother, the scarred child loved by his family. When Damian came into the manor, you were thrilled. You thought that maybe you and he could bond over the same trauma. Maybe finally someone can understand you.You thought wrong again. Damian thought you were weak and a disgrace to the bloodline of the Wayne family clan. He called you thousands of cruel names and insulted you whenever he had the chance to. He always belittled you and showed you no mercy, going as far as to drag the blade of his sword across your neck, drawing blood, just for him to cruelly laugh in your face and tell you that you are being dramatic. You forgave him. You were a good kid. Right? So why is it that a kid who made thousands of innocent lives bleed through his sword is sitting with his father—your father—on the couch, sleeping soundly on his chest? It's not fair.

They were never fair.

As Dick was checking the CCTV footage of the manor out of boredom, he managed to catch a glimpse of footage—about 2 weeks ago—of a person packing their bags and putting things from the manor into a box and leaving. It must be a thief! But that's impossible. The manor has many securities that even a skilled assassin could not pass through the gates; it's impossible. Unless…Dick took another glance at the footage and zoomed in on the screen and squinted his eyes. And for a second, his breath hitched and his heart pumped fast, his hand trembled, and his eyes dilated.

It can't be.

Of course, the toll it took on your emotional health was immense, but there was nothing you could do about it. You knew that no matter what you did, you could never capture their attention, not even for a moment. By the age of six, you took up martial arts, hoping your family would be proud of you for sharing their passion. But all you received was a pat on the shoulder from Dick when you won a gold medal.

At ten, you delved into video games, hoping to bond with Tim. You spent four days learning all the rules and knowledge about the game, and two whole weeks mastering it. But when you finally mustered the courage to ask Tim to play with you, he stared at you with bored eyes, barely registering your presence. After twelve minutes of rambling about the game, he sighed, pinched his eyes, and said, "I can't. I'm busy, okay?" before leaving your small room. The video game stayed in a box, forgotten and dirty, for thirteen years, a testament to the same treatment you received over and over.

You took every opportunity, every chance to learn something they were talented in, hoping to catch a glimpse of love in their eyes. But all you got were bored, empty stares. Every hobby you had was dedicated to them, except for one: ballet. The art of dancing, with its sharp and strict moves, dancing on your tiptoes, chin up, and a graceful smile on your face. Nothing could take this away from you, not even Cassandra, who was the apple of her family's eyes as she danced on stage. You loved dancing; it filled your heart with joy and bliss. You believed this was the one thing they could never take from you. That's what you thought.

Ballet demanded strict poise and discipline, watching every bite you took and every drink you swallowed. Your mother was a beautiful woman, enchanting enough to enthrall your father. Her eyes could charm thousands of men and bend their morals to her desire. She was like a siren, captivating men with her ethereal beauty. Your father was no different, dazzling people with his money, perfect white teeth, and undeniable allure. He made heads turn and people giggle at his mere presence. So why did you feel as if you were nothing like them? Created by a goddess and a god, yet you turned out to be so unsightly that your mother sneered and threw you out of her arms, forcing you into the embrace of an unknown man.

You panted lightly, staring at your features in the mirror. Why? Why? Why? Why are you like this? Why can't you feel beautiful? Why can't you be beautiful? Why can't you be a sight for sore eyes like the men and women around you? Their features blended so well with their faces, but you? You felt like a pig with makeup on. You saw beauty in everyone but never in yourself.

Your performance is in about a few more days and you haven't eaten anything healthy for the past 3 days, you're starved, you're pressured, and your family hasn't even answered your text in which you, inviting them to please come watch your performance. Dragging your body to walk home, Alfred unfortunately can't drive you home as he is too busy with work (helping your family with their nightly activities) you hiss as the cold wind blew against your fresh scars-the result of you scratching your face with your nails due to resentment for yourself because of the question in the back of your mind: “why can't you just be good enough?”

The harsh glare of your ballet dance teacher only added more pressure, intensifying the burden on your weak shoulders. You carried the lingering thought that your family didn't care about you and the nagging feeling that you would never be good enough for them. The performance was just a few days away, and you hadn't eaten anything healthy for the past three days. You were starved, pressured, and desperately longing for your family's support. Yet, your texts inviting them to watch your performance went unanswered.

Dragging your exhausted body home, you felt a deep sense of despair. Alfred, who usually drove you home, was too busy with work, assisting your family with their nightly activities. As you walked, the cold wind bit into your fresh scars, the result of scratching your face with your nails out of self-loathing. The question haunted you: "Why can't you just be good enough?"

Your footsteps echoed in the empty streets, each step a reminder of your solitude. The streetlights cast long shadows, mirroring the darkness that seemed to envelop your soul. You could hear the distant laughter of families and friends enjoying their evenings, a stark contrast to the silence that filled your life.

But even though you're killing me

Arriving home, you unlocked the door with trembling hands. The house was quiet, as it always was when you were alone. The once warm and inviting living room now felt cold and unwelcoming. You dropped your bag and collapsed onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. Tears streamed down your cheeks, a release of the pent-up frustration and sadness. Gasping for breath as you dragged your shivering legs to your cold, small bed room as you dropped your exhausted form to your squeaking bed, staining your pillows with your tears.

I need you like the air I breathe

In your heart, you still held onto a sliver of hope that your family would show up to your performance. You envisioned them in the audience, watching with pride as you executed every move with precision and grace. But reality was harsh, and you knew deep down that their absence would cut deeper than any physical wound. But you needed them. They were the salt to your wounds yet you still crave for their attention. It's not too late right?

Please.

You spent the next few days in a haze, practicing relentlessly for the upcoming performance. Every pirouette, every leap, and every graceful move was tainted by the thought of your family's indifference. You pushed your body to the limit, hoping that the pain would numb the emotional agony. Again, again, again– again y/n! You need to perfect this! This could be the chance for you to prove to them that you're worthy of their attention! That you belong in this family just as much as they do! You can't give up. Stop trembling. Stop acting so weak. If you don't stop acting like a child then maybe they'll eventually throw you out of the house too.

Please

The day of the performance arrived, and you stood backstage, nervously adjusting your costume. Your heart pounded in your chest as you peeked through the curtains, scanning the audience for familiar faces. But as the minutes ticked by, it became clear that your family was not coming. Your lips trembling, your brain can't fathom the idea of them not coming to this performance—of course you'd expect y/n to be unsurprised by this behavior but it's not fair! You worked so hard for this only for them to answer you with nothing but silence.

I need you more than me

You destroyed yourself for this; for them! You worked every bone in your body and stretched every limb of yours, starved yourself for days, just for them to dismiss your one request to just be there. You just wanted that family where they were all so supportive of you, they all loved and adored you. The worst part is they are just not to you. And you had to learn that the hard way.

I need you more than anything

Summoning every ounce of strength, you stepped onto the stage. The spotlight shone brightly, and for a moment, you felt a surge of confidence. The music began, and you moved with the grace and elegance you had practiced so hard to perfect. Each step was a testament to your dedication, a silent plea for recognition and love. Tears threatening to spill from your eyes as a feeling of pain and happiness surged through your chest.

As you danced, the audience watched in awe. To them, you were a vision of beauty and talent. But inside, you felt empty. Every jump, every turn, and every sway of your limb was dedicated to them. With trembling lips you swallow the lump in your throat and ignore the pain in your chest as you play your part of the performance. The applause at the end of your performance was hollow, a reminder that the ones you longed to impress were not there to see it. Backstage, you received praise from your fellow dancers and instructors, but it did little to lift your spirits. You longed for a simple word of encouragement, a sign that your family cared. Instead, you were met with silence. You smiled faintly at them thanking them and exchanging a few compliments here and there. At this moment you couldn't feel anything. You were numb from all the pain you have suffered from this family.

Please, please

That night, as you lay in bed, the weight of the day's events pressed heavily on your chest. You stared at the ceiling, your mind racing with thoughts of inadequacy. The question echoed once more: "Why can't you just be good enough?"

"Those days are over," you say to yourself as you pack your bags and place your belongings into boxes. You've grown, and after 13 years in the manor begging for scraps of their attention, you've realized that what you want will never become reality. It took you a whole decade and three more years to come to this realization. You shake your head softly and smile sadly. What were you thinking? Of course, they wouldn't care about you. Your normalcy and mediocrity never appealed to them, and you’ve decided those days are finally over. It was time to move out and discover what you were truly meant for.

"What was I made for?"

you ask yourself. This question feels so much better than constantly wondering, "Will they finally look at me?" You take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air of your new home. You breathe in and out, closing your eyes for a moment. This was it. You had made it. Slowly, you open your eyes and look at the people surrounding you, those who truly cared for you and saw you through your scars of insecurity, your perfect little hobbies, and your flawed personality. To them, you weren't Y/n Wayne, child of a billionaire, nor Y/n L/n, child of a prostitute. You were just Y/n, who tried so hard, failed, but ultimately succeeded.

The manor has been noticeably quiet for the past few days. The silence weighting discomfort as if something was wrong–as if something was missing. It was surprisingly first noticed by none other than Richard Grayson himself. The first Robin of Batman, the irreplaceable side kick, the first son of Bruce Wayne, and the darling of the crowd whom everyone loves and adore. As he walked through the large halls of the home he grew up in, he felt something was out of place. Like something wasn't in place or rather something was missing. It took him some time to figure it out as the clock ticks

Tick

Tock

Tick

Tock

Aha! He's got it! It was because there wasn't any classic orchestral music playing through the thick walls of the manor. The soft music of pyotr tchaikovsky wasn't heard anywhere around the corners of the walls. That's strange. The sweet melody of violins and cellos wasn't found in any room at all. He didn't know why but it bugged him. He sighs as he disregards it, nevermind he said, must be Alfred playing his favorite old songs. He walks around the manor to look for his siblings and father and somehow stumbled upon this.. Unknown and empty small room. “wow this is.. Something” he muttered under his breath. He inspected the room and saw multiple trophies decorating the room. It was impressive how someone can achieve this many gold medals and such. His gaze traveled across the room and saw a box full of webs and dust, and got interested as he opened it to see an old video game and thought that it must have been Tim's before he decided to throw it away out of boredom. With no more much to do he slid through the doors and whistled his way out of the room, unaware of how many memories a person created in that very same room withering away.

Tim and Damian recognized the absence of humming and the pattern of footsteps that used to echo around the house from an unknown room. The silence made them uncomfortable. They had grown so accustomed to the faint noise that it had somehow brought them comfort. The melodic lullaby of humming painted a serene picture of paradise, lulling them easily to sleep—a struggle they had faced all their lives as vigilantes, or in Damian's case, as an assassin. Their heartbeats aligned with the rhythm of the faint noise.

For Tim, it was a sweet form of salvation from the demons that haunted his nights and kept him from a good night's sleep. For Damian, it was the comfort he never knew, a stark contrast to the heavy stare of his grandfather and the weight of expectations placed on his shoulders by his mother's watchful gaze.

Jason couldn't care less about what happens around that manor. He hated that place. It made him rethink all the moments he wished he could take back. Jason Todd is a hateful man but a good soldier. He destroys in order to protect. He kills in order to let another live. A morally gray person. In his eyes he was what Bruce wayne–Batman couldn't be. But even a man who goes out at night to protect needs a break. So when he came to the manor and went straight to the library and saw that the usual piled up classic books weren't to be seen at their usual spot he found it.. Unsettling per say. The books written by Jane Austen that were filled with marked pages, sticky notes, and annotations not found in the main table of the room were strange to him. He didn't even know who did it but it made him feel like he was home. The silly doodles and random words written on the sticky notes, careful not to dirty the book, made him chuckle every time he saw it; so where was it now?

Cassandra was into ballet. She grew up silenced, observing others, forever cautious. as to why she expresses herself through dancing: ballet. A moment where she can breathe and let go. Where she can freely pour her heart into dancing. Every point, every movement, she releases her unsaid emotions. She was raised that way. Except then she was thought to swallow her words and release her pent up emotions into bad things instead of gracefully dancing. She was completely in love with dancing. Whenever she went to collect her ballet shoes there's always an extra bandage, extra shoes played on the floor. She never knew why and she never questioned it. Just ignored it. But now she somehow froze at her spot to see nothing but her shoes and not next to the light pink ones that had a small bow to compliment its design. Ever so stunning; the person who wears it must have been the same kind of persona-wait.. Person? There's another one.. Oh.

Bruce Wayne was a busy man. By day, he handled his company, Wayne Enterprises. His days were filled with paperwork, meetings, and managing marketing strategies. But by night, he never slept. No, he donned the mantle of Batman, the prince of Gotham City, the guardian of Lady Gotham. He didn't have time for anything he deemed unworthy of his attention. He noticed every tiny mistake, be it at work or on the streets of Gotham. At work, he spotted grammatical errors and unstraightened lines of decorative mugs. As Batman, he detected the slightest hint of lies in a criminal's eyes. So, yes, he noticed that something—or rather, someone—from the manor was missing.

As dick whistled his way out of the room unable to find his family members, he decided to go to the batcave and have a little fun while being alone. He did all things he could think of. Look for more cases to solve, dig some stuff out criminal records, blah blah blah.. Then he decided to check the manor's CCTV.

As dick was checking the cctv's of the manor out of boredom, he managed to catch a glimpse of footage-about 2 weeks ago of a person..? Packing their bags and putting things from the manor into a box and leaving. It must be a thief! But that's impossible.. The manor has many securities that even a skilled assassin could not pass through the gates, it's impossible. Unless..

Dick took another glance at the footage and zoomed the screen and squinted his eyes. And for a second, his breath hitched and his heart pumped fast, his hand trembled and his eyes dilated..

It can't be.

You.. Y-..y/n? What were you doing? Where are you going? He bit his lips harshly as he watched the footage like a hawk. His hands came to fidget with his hair. Was that really you? You look so grown.. Several thoughts ran through his mind as he pondered on what you were doing. After a matter of time he somehow remembers. Oh yeah! Your contact number. His hands trembling, in a hurry he pressed your name in his phone and.. Shoot. His eyes widened at the several missed calls and texts from you. Not even a single response from him. Come to think of it, when was the last time he talked to you? Like, really talked to you? He quickly text you “heyy baby birdddd I miss you! Let's hang out right now!” while biting his thumb as he bounced his thighs up and down from anticipation. And then suddenly.. He remembers! The room! It was yours! Before he even knew it, he was quick on his feet and ran like a mad man towards your room. He panted slightly at the face of your door and harshly opened your room unaware of his strength. He went through every corner of your room. He explored every side of your room to find something-anything that can give him even a spoil of information about you. And that was when he found a tiny pink notebook. He chuckled softly, out of breath, hair messed up like a mad man but dick didn't care, no because he finally found your one and only diary! Filled with bows and pink glitters.. Hah..you were so cute. He went through your diary, invading your privacy and saw all of the things you've said. The way you praised him, the way you adored your family, your little adventures, your previous ballet performances (you did ballet? Wow, you're just so talented.. Oh his little bird.) he suddenly heard a high pitched ping! And scrambled to his phone as he expected a response from you but instead all he was met with was “y/n has blocked you”.

What..? Why? Didn't you want to spend time with your precious big brother? His blood shot eyes twitched and sweat ran down from his face. The suddenly a deep voice said:

“dick? What's going on here?”

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your hair flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her child, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

 Not being able to hear anything, yet feeling like you're hearing everything—that paradox can unravel you. You watch their faces, trace the contours of their emotions, and your mind fills in the silence with imagined sound. You invent the timbre of their laughter, the rhythm of their speech, the volume of their joy or anger. It's a symphony composed entirely in your head—one that plays endlessly, but never quite feels real. The silence isn't empty; it's crowded with echoes that never existed. 

It feels like there's a constant voice ringing in your ear but you can't hear anything. And the worst part was that you couldn't really tell this to anyone given the fact that you were treated like an unfamiliar creature stepping foot on earth, surrounded by faces accepted by society. Deemed as normal. They speak and they understand each other. They didn't have to squint their eyes as they try to read one's lips in hope of understanding what they're saying. They weren't you. You don't really blame them for truly accepting you. Because you couldn't understand yourself either. 

But you weren't always like this. 

Jason Todd was many things. A son. A soldier. A killer. A hero. A freak. Batman’s greatest failure—and perhaps his most painful legacy. Jason had worn every label, carried every scar, and bore the weight of every contradiction. He could accept being broken, being feared, even being hated. What he couldn’t accept—what gnawed at him in the quiet moments—was the idea that he might be a good man. Because deep down, he didn’t believe he was. Redemption was a story for others. For Jason, the darkness wasn’t just a phase—it was home.

There had been one too many scenarios where he had felt like he was just an empty piece of a shell–which he probably was–his only purpose was to be someone or something that Batman couldn't be. Be the very object of what Batman couldn't do for the sake of the mother gotham. Every punch, every kick, every blood shed by the power of his name red hood which thieves and villains speak in trembling lips, their body painted black and blue, purple painting their features–all driven by anger and sorrow. Anger, for people like them. Who takes and hurts the innocent. Sorrow, for him, for Robin, for the “boy wonder” who never had the taste of justice and the luxury it leaves in your mouth. The satisfaction it lays at the bed of your coffin. Jason was never truly alone. No, not with his thoughts. Not with the constant laughter of the clown who left a scar in his heart ringing in his ear, defying his choices, controlling his everyday way of living. 

April 27 x years ago

Screams of agony tore through the warehouse, reverberating off dark, lifeless walls that seemed to drink in the sound. The echoes were sharp—metallic screeches that could split the soul and bleed the ears. Every clang of steel was a splash of crimson, painting the concrete in strokes of violence. Shadows danced in the dim light, locked in a brutal struggle for survival.

Jason lay broken on the cold floor, his body limp, his face a canvas of bruises and blood. The metal had kissed him cruelly, leaving swollen flesh and shattered pride. His eyes, barely open, flickered beneath the flickering light—each blink a battle. The clown loomed over him, striking again and again, each blow a mockery of justice. Jason’s uniform was soaked in blood, the iconic “R” torn and fading, barely clinging to the fabric like the last remnants of hope.

His body was torn, his hope was fading, the laughter of the clown slowly making him spiral into madness. It felt like every second was a tick on the clock to his death. He coughed the blood out of his lungs traveling out of his mouth, as he weakly muttered “batman..” 

The joker paused as he looked at the boy with amusement. He laughed harder as he mockingly clutched his stomach while wiping a fake tear in his eyes. Jason gritted his jaw at this. The dull ache pressing on his gums. “Batman isn't going to save you, Jason. He's not going to come” 

Jason clutches his stomach as he curls his toes with the pain of being hit multiple times and at the thought of his father abandoning him. The clang of the crowbar sent him waves of chill and fear of being beaten black and blue again. 

When Jason came back he wasn't the same boy anymore. So many changes were made in his body as he skipped the years he was supposed to live. The years he was supposed to experience everything a normal human being did. He looked into the eye of the mirror and saw no one but a strange man who crawled inside his body. because he knew damn well that this wasn't Jason Todd. It couldn't be. His sweet honeyed smile gone, his ocean blue eyes–now green with envy and bitterness–no longer shined with love, his features which were once light with youth and hope painting his face– now older and empty. 

When he met Bruce his anger was loud and destructive. Confessed every sin he sinned under the whisper of the dark. With clenching Jaws and gritted teeth, his anger sobs through the air. His blood shot eyes daring not to break contact with his father's stern blue orbs he was once familiar with. 

“he took me away from you” 

Batman's eyes soften and flicker as he watches his son break. 

With his brother, that's when he broke–truly broke. 

Jason slid down the cold wall like gravity had finally won. His body crumpled into himself, knees pulled close as if trying to hold in everything that was splintering inside. His breath stuttered, jagged like shattered glass. One hand dug into his hair, trembling, while the other shielded his face in a futile attempt to hide the tears—hot, relentless, and silent.

Dick was beside him in seconds, arms wrapped tight around his younger brother like he could somehow glue the broken pieces back together. But Jason wasn’t just cracked—he was bleeding grief from places no one could reach. 

“I’ve got you,” Dick whispered, voice barely audible over Jason’s sobs. “I’ve got you, little wing. I’m here.”

Jason’s voice cracked, thin and childlike, a ghost of the boy he used to be. Through the tears and hiccupped breaths, he murmured, “I’m just… I’m just so angry all the time. I don’t know what to do with it.”

The words hung between them, heavy and heartbreaking. Dick tightened his grip, forehead resting against Jason’s temple, sharing the silence and the storm. He didn’t have answers. Not right now. But he’d stay there as long as it took—through every tear, every tremble, every furious heartbeat.

The thunder roared louder but softer that night. Like it mourned with jason–like it felt what he felt. The rage mixed with painful sorrow. 

Jason liked reading. He found a moment of peace whilst reading the letters written by poets both in the modern time and the oldest poets that ever lived. Each word creates a shelter between the cracks of his heart. Reading has always felt like home to him. He found it astonishing how a person’s gift for writing could conjure entire worlds within the vast galaxy of another’s mind.

He would often visit the neighborhood library of Gotham where for once it had felt like peace lives within the city even for just a crumble of time. The scent, the texture of the wood where books were laying, the cracks of the window where the sun beam peaks through all felt familiar to him–and it had felt like they too were familiar to him. His calloused hands slide gently through the thick barrier of woods against his skin. His eyes scan through various books, each with their own story to tell. 

He sighs through his nose as he picks up a book, one he had familiarized himself so quickly. Jane Austen “pride and prejudice” though he may scoff at the social dances and drawing rooms, he had quite grown fond of Elizabeth Bennet’s fierce independence and scathing wit. The book had openly explored social rebellion and emotion turmoil which for a guy like him seems to beg to differ. A guy like him, reading such stuff may seem like a grenade placed next to porcelain tea cups–but despite so, Jason may be shaped by trauma, identity crises, and rejection, but he is also someone with sharp intellect and simmering emotion beneath the surface of his image. 

As he walked through the hushed halls of the library, the soft pitter-patter of his footsteps echoed gently against the polished floor. His towering frame and broad shoulders seemed oddly out of place among the delicate rows of books and quiet study nooks. Jason kept his head low, moving like a quiet breeze—present yet unobtrusive. His intimidating silhouette contrasted sharply with the calm, scholarly atmosphere.

So lost in thought was he that he didn’t notice another figure drifting toward the same aisle, equally distracted by the book in her hands. In a sudden, clumsy moment, they collided—hard. Books tumbled to the floor with a thud, papers fluttering like startled birds.

Startled, Jason blinked and bent down to help. The stranger mirrored his motion, their hands moving quickly across the scattered titles. His gaze traveled over the carpet until it landed on a lone book lying just out of reach. As he reached for it, his hand met another. Small. Warm. Hers.

Both froze.

What had been a reflexive move to cradle a book had instead cradled something far more electric. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, wide with surprise. He stared, momentarily thrown off by how her presence—tiny, bright, like a burst of sunlight—seemed to clash so perfectly with his quiet storm. 

His eyes scanned the books in the stranger's hand, he noticed a familiar cover of a book they were carrying–for some reason it stood out of all of them. Then he realized that they were carrying the exact book from just moments ago before a blur of time when he and the stranger crashed into each other. Jane austen–a true gifted poet. Capable of such imagination that she created cosmos of universes across the minds of those which reads her poems and stories. 

He watched her lips twitch—barely a smile, yet something warm lingered at the corners. Beneath his calloused hand, he felt hers shift ever so subtly, a soft shuffling movement that reminded him—

Wait.

He was still holding her hand.

His eyes widened, the realization hitting like a quiet jolt. Flustered, as he cursed softly–he quickly released his grip and muttered a low, almost embarrassed, “Sorry.” 

The girl didn’t flinch. Instead, she offered him a quiet smile—small, but steady. Without saying a word, she lifted her hand to her chest. Jason’s brow pulled into a faint frown—not one born of annoyance, but a subtle crease of curiosity. 

He watched, transfixed, as her hand moved in slow, deliberate circles against her chest, her fingertips brushing gently over the fabric. The sincerity in her expression softened the moment. She wasn’t just forgiving him; she was letting him know she understood.

Jason blinked as he slowly understood what she was saying to him. He wasn't unfamiliar with the language, he exchanged basic words with his sister–cassandra–whenever she fell mute.

He rose to his feet, offering her a warm, appreciative smile and soft nod. She mirrored the gesture, standing as well. They shared one final look—a faint, knowing curl of the lips that spoke volumes. Though subtle, the smile lingered, etched in each other's eyes. And then, quietly, they parted.

As Jason turned, his steps faltered—each one slower than the last. A quiet sigh escaped him as he pinched the bridge of his nose, tension weighing heavy between his brows. Then, glancing back, he caught sight of the stranger's figure drifting out of view. Before she could vanish entirely, his body moved on instinct—feet surging forward, carrying him toward her without a second thought. 

He gently tapped the stranger's shoulder as he was met with a view of their confused face, yet with a smile. With a tight lipped smile of his own, he reached for his cell phone as he typed the words

“Please, let me help you. It's the least I could do.”

Trapped in a bleak, dim chamber with fury wrapped in flesh,  

A young girl quivers, each breath a fragile whisper.  

The walls echo her cries—terror turned to trembling song—  

Yet silence answers, hollow and cruel.  

Hope hangs absent in the choking air,  

Each breath a thorn, each heartbeat heavy.  

The man’s voice—a thunderous plague—  

Crawls through her veins, clawing at the edges of her soul,  

Tearing skin with every word,  

Till the room itself drowns in his rage.

Until

Nothing. 

You sigh as you lift your hands to cradle your head. An act of hope to find a way to soothe the raging ache finding shelter inside your head. You blinked as you slowly gathered yourself together whilst your hand traveled from cradling your head–threading through the locks of your hair, as it took place in your nape. rubbing it with slow–delicate hands. 

You bite your lip, as you feel the sting from your eyes. Tears gathering to pool beneath your orbs. You find yourself blinking fast and steady–as to no avail–instead you close your eyes in order to stop the tears from pouring down, across the features painting your face. You had no idea why you were crying. 

Well maybe you did. 

You never really got used at being deaf. I mean–you did but..not really? It was just like a radio tuned to static.  

Every morning, you reach for the dial hoping for a melody, a voice, a signal… but all you get is silence where sound should be. That's what it felt like to you. Even after years the.. Incident..happened, your brain never really fully wrapped around the idea that you'll never hear again. That you won't get to hear the voices of those you treasured anymore, you'll never hear the most peaceful sounds nature makes, and you'll never get to hear nor sing the music that you held so close to your heart.

You release a soft blow from your lips as you try and distract yourself from such thoughts. You took a moment to compose yourself as you lightly hit your cheeks with your palms. “let's do something productive today” you thought to yourself, and with that, the day began.

Outside, the sun cast a golden haze over the sleepy streets. You made your way to the neighborhood bakery, the warmth inside spilling out like a soft hug. The air was sweet—caramelized sugar, freshly baked dough, a hint of cinnamon. You picked out a few of your favorite bread treats, their familiar comfort nestled neatly in a paper bag. The staff greets you with a smile, ever so familiar with your presence. You type your order on your cellphone as you delicately sign “thank you” to them. 

With sugar kisses warming your palm, you wandered next toward the library. It was quiet there, a different kind of silence—welcoming, thoughtful. The library was also one of the places where you had felt like you belonged–Especially in a place in Gotham where the very concept of silence was deemed foreign–It was familiar to you as you were familiar with its silence. Everything was quiet there. It had felt like your world was no longer so different and apart from others. 

You passed between the rows of books, fingertips brushing worn spines, letting the hush of stories settle around you. Today had not been so cruel to you–except that moment earlier this morning where you had paused your optimistic ways of dealing with the negative matters in life such as before you had found your way in the library. 

You shake your head gently, dismissing the thought with a quiet smile—today feels too joyful for melancholy. Your eyes wander across the shelves, taking in books of every hue and size. Each one seems to hold a secret passage, a portal into untold worlds waiting to be discovered. Your fingers glide along the spines with delicate reverence, trailing over them like whispers of possibility.

After selecting your treasures, you make your way to the librarian at the circulation desk to go home, a quiet excitement blooming inside. You could already picture how the rest of your day will go–The evening stretches ahead like a promise—as you settle in and lose yourself among the lines, the carefully crafted words breathe life into characters so vivid they feel like old friends.

You were pulled from your thoughts as you noticed a small vibration coming from your back pocket–most likely indicating a notification. You pulled out your phone whilst you walked with your books trapped between your arm and chest as you gripped your treats from the bakery with your hand. As you do so, you have failed to notice another figure–who by the way seemed to be distracted too, making you and the said “figure” collide together. 

The stranger's body had somewhat felt like it was hard as a bricked wall making you lose your balance and stumbled slightly –and in the process, making you lose your grip on your books. Your books tumbled across the wooden floor, mingling in chaos with the stranger's. The sharp clatter echoed through the quiet hallway, drawing unwanted attention. You sucked in a breath, your heart leaping as your eyes briefly met theirs—startlingly green, like fresh spring leaves caught in a storm. Embarrassment flushed your cheeks as you dropped to your knees, fumbling to gather the scattered pages. You kept your gaze low, silently cursing your distraction and the mini disaster it had sparked. 

You take a look around the floor to see if there was any book left and alas–your eyes fell into one of your books that you had carefully picked earlier. You extend your arm with your hand reaching out for the book. But before you can do so–instead of your hand making contact with the rough but somewhat smooth texture of the book—it has made contact with another. Delicate yet rough, calloused yet soft, big yet gentle. You felt your eyebrows subtly quirk up as you pursed your lips–quickly taking your hand out of the embrace of the stranger's. 

You turn your gaze up onto the stranger's face once again as you catch a glimpse of his expression. His flustered expression painted across his features as you watch how his eye lashes flutters softly against his skin.You squint at his lips, watching closely as he mumbles something, his expression laced with a hint of shame. He looks up, catching your gaze, and you offer a humble, gentle smile in response.

Your hand slowly rises to rest against your chest. You hold his eyes for a moment, noting the soft curiosity etched in his features. With quiet sincerity, you begin moving your hand in a circular motion—an unspoken gesture of apology. Your eyes travel across his face, studying one feature after another, trying to decipher what he might be thinking. A flicker of understanding lights up in his eyes as his brows lift slightly, the smallest of gestures confirming that he understands. 

You both stood up, exchanging quiet smiles that carried a shared understanding. Your eyes flicked subtly to the side—a silent signal that you were about to leave. As if reading your intention, he gave a final, gentle nod before turning and walking away in the opposite direction. You did the same, your steps light but your mind still lingering on the brief encounter.

Balancing a small tower of books in your arms, you made your way toward the librarian. Just as you reached the desk, a soft tap on your shoulder startled you. You turned around—and there he was again. The stranger from earlier, his presence both surprising and oddly comforting. His kind smile held a trace of nervous energy, and without a word, he pulled out his phone. You watched, curiosity bubbling beneath your calm exterior, as his fingers quickly typed something on the screen. 

“Please, let me help you. It's the least I could do.”

Your lips parted slightly as you read the message. You glanced down at the stack of books and pastries in your arms, then looked back at him. Hesitation flickered in your eyes. He seemed intimidating—quiet but intense. You swallowed hard and reached for his phone, noticing the words "Notes" written at the top of the screen.

“Sure… why not.”

You hadn’t really thought it through. He looked trustworthy enough—or maybe you just didn’t want to make a fuss. Living independently meant picking your battles wisely. And with your hearing impairment shaping how you navigated the world, survival instincts were your closest allies. But you weren’t careless. Inside your mini bag was a can of pepper spray: compact, subtle, always ready. Gotham wasn’t a city that slept alone. Shadows lingered, but so did heroes. Always nearby. Always watching. 

With silence lingering in the air, both you and the stranger barely looked at each other–walking side by side, as the stranger took the responsibility of carrying your books. 

When you were close enough–not wanting to reveal your real address–though maybe you should have thought of that more earlier–you stopped for a moment and so did he. You reached for your phone and typed 

“this is close enough. Thanks for the help:)”

He gave you a polite smile as he reached for his own phone and typed his response 

“yeah ok, No problem. Again, sorry abt earlier.”

“no problem👍” you typed. 

Exchanging one last smiles, you took your books from his grip as you walked away, not even realizing that you didn't get the chance to ask for his name. 

Being a night vigilante was not easy. You bare multiple scars and memories that may scar you for life. feeling the pain of sharp blades both physically and mentally can really take a toll on you. Red hood–jason, had just encountered a very sticky situation last night. There was a fire and the little girl, far away from reach–couldn't fully understand what he was trying to say. Later on, he found out that she was deaf. The barrier between him and the girl made it harder to see him plus his mask wasn't really helping as it formed a barrier between his lips and other features from people's field of vision.

 So here he was. With an appointment for sign language class. He figured that he shouldn't take the idea of the low possibility of encountering such a situation again. I mean the possibility was low–but never zero. 

The receptionist smiled at him but faltered as he saw his appearance, most likely intimidated. But nevertheless guided him to a room where the man said he'll take his lessons and timidly smiled at him–jason returning a nod at his way instead. 

He looks around the room to absorb his surroundings. The walls were cream white with subtle little butterflies littered all over the walls. The lamp beside his left was soft and warm paired with the sunlight, bathing him in warmth. The sunbeam kissed the right side of his face making his forest green eyes shine. Jason liked the room, it felt safe. 

While his eyes were roaming around the room, the door lightly opened as a woman walked in with a book and a laptop in her hands, carrying it close to her chest. And for a moment they locked eyes. 

Oh. 

It was you. The girl whom he bumped into in the library several days ago. One whose eyes were wide from meeting his, carrying pastries with clear packaging adorned with a pastel pink bow in the center. 

Based on your reaction you seemed to recognize him too. You quickly recovered from your shock as you made your way to him with a welcoming smile. His eyes traced every inch of your features as the soft glow of the sun touches your skin. 

His eyes shift their focus in your hands as it softly waves at him. 

Hi. 

His lips twitch–barely reflecting your radiant smile. 

Your eyes lights up at his effort. you raised your hands preparing to say something, you experimentally tried to introduce yourself to him through sign language. 

“hi, I'm y/n” 

He blinked, slowly, as if trying to confirm you were real. The memory of your startled expression in the library, the pastel pink bow, the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air—it all came rushing back. You had looked at him then with a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite name. Now, standing before him again, your presence felt like a quiet echo of that day.

You signed your name again, slower this time.  

“Hi, I’m Y/N.”

He hesitated, then raised his hand, fingers trembling slightly as he mirrored your gesture.  

“Hi. I'm Jason"

Your smile widened, encouraging. You shifted the laptop and book to one arm and reached into your bag, pulling out a small notepad and pen. You catch him silently mouthing your name–trying to roll it out of his tongue like he's tasting wine. 

You raised your eyebrow as you signed “you know sign language?” 

He gave you a tight lipped smile as he pinched his thumb and index finger leaving a small space in between, mouthing “only a little”

Your mouth turned into a shape of “o” as you nodded at him. 

You sat down, the sunlight catching the strands of your hair as you settled in. Jason looks around not knowing what to do while you were busy doing something else. 

You tapped the table twice to get his attention, then raised your hands.

“Ready?” you signed, eyebrows lifted in playful challenge.

He nodded, a little too eagerly, and you smiled—just enough to make his heart stutter.

You began slowly, forming the sign for “thank you” and gesturing toward him.  

He mimicked your movement, a little clumsy, his fingers brushing his chin too high.

You shook your head gently, reached out, and adjusted his hand with a featherlight touch.  

“Lower,” you signed, your fingers dancing in the air.

He tried again. This time, you gave a small nod of approval.

“Better,” you mouthed, not needing sound to make it clear.

You moved on—“friend,” “coffee,” “learn.” Each sign came with a story, a memory you shared through expressive gestures and the occasional scribble on a napkin. He watched your hands, but more than that, he watched your eyes. They sparkled when he got it right, softened when he struggled.

You were a great teacher. 

 Jason’s gaze flickered past you, catching movement just over your shoulder. A figure stood behind you, clearly trying to get your attention. He tilted his head slightly, gesturing toward them with a subtle nod.

You turned, and Jason watched quietly as you exchanged a flurry of signs with the stranger. Their hands moved quickly, playfully, and Jason couldn’t help but notice the mischievous smile they threw your way—then his.

The stranger's finger–for a moment– pointed at Jason, then raised two fingers to their chin, brushing them downward twice with a teasing grin.

Jason’s brows furrowed. He instinctively touched his chin, glancing around for a reflective surface. Spotting the room's window, he leaned closer, inspecting his face for smudges or crumbs. Nothing.

You turned back to him just as he looked up, his fingers still lingering awkwardly at his chin. His expression was a mix of confusion and mild concern.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sound warm and light. Barely there. He blinked at you, clearly still puzzled. 

You shook your head and only moved on with the next words, not explaining anything from your earlier conversation. 

It went like that for about an hour when finally your session was done. You gave him–for the last time in this day–a warm smile as you carried your belongings signing goodbye to him. 

He nodded his head at you as he signed “good bye and thank you” to you. 

He walked his way through the halls as people smiled at him–or tried to as he speed walked.. Sort of ran through the crowd. (not really, he's just dramatic) 

As he went outside, he put on his helmet and climbed to his motorbike, black and quick. Perfect for him, It mirrored his whole appearance–dark and intimidating.

 He gave his motor an experimental roar of engine then with a quiet breath, he kicked the gear and rolled forward, the hum of the engine steady beneath him. He sped through the streets of Gotham, until he finally reached his destination. His apartment. 

Jason finally stepped through the door, peeling off his helmet with a sharp exhale. The familiar scent of his cozy apartment wrapped around him like a blanket. Home. At last.

He trudged lazily down the hallway, his body heavy with exhaustion—so much so that he didn’t notice the stack of boxes until it was too late. With a dull thud, he collided with them, sending the pile wobbling and himself stumbling toward the floor.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, bracing for impact—only to feel a pair of hands catch his shoulders, steadying him with surprising gentleness.

He looked up. Then his gaze found another. 

Soft eyes met his. Concerned, soft, and.. Oddly familiar? 

Oh. 

It was you. 

Again.

Your brows furrowed as you signed a flurry of apologies, your hands moving faster than your silent mouthed words ever could. Jason gave a weak, crooked smile and waved you off, brushing away the moment like dust on his jacket.

He stood, brushing himself off, and began gathering the scattered contents of your box—items that had spilled not from carelessness, but from yet another accidental run-in. You knelt beside him, helping quietly, your fingers brushing his now and then.

Seriously, what was it with you two always bumping into each other?

After helping you gather the scattered contents and gently tucking them back into the box, Jason tapped your shoulder. You turned, and he held up his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?”

You smiled, the kind that reached your eyes, and typed back.

“I’m moving in. You?”

Jason blinked, visibly surprised. His fingers hesitated before typing.

“Oh. I live here.”

Your mouth parted slightly in surprise, but it wasn’t just that. There was something else—joy, maybe. A quiet kind. The kind that blooms slowly, like sunlight warming a room.

A hush settled between you, not awkward, just full. You both glanced around the hallway, as if trying to make sense of the coincidence—or fate.

Then Jason tapped your shoulder again. You turned, and this time, he raised his hands. His movements were a little clumsy, a bit unsure, but unmistakably familiar.

“You want help?” he signed.

Your eyes lit up at his actions–he remembered the lessons. 

You nodded, smiling softly, then signed back with ease and warmth:  

“Follow me.”

Jason nodded as he took some boxes from you (mostly the heavy ones) carrying with ease as he followed you down the hallway. 

And just like that, the hallway felt less like a corridor and more like a beginning.

Jason felt his feet move at a familiar pace in a much familiar direction. 

It can't be?

 Right? 

He saw your figure stop as you stood still in front of a door. You glanced at him and looked back at the door as if saying that both of you have reached your destination. 

His nose silently scrunched up as his eyes twitched upward slightly. He stares at your figure, then the door, and then the one beside it… Which was apparently his door. Right beside the door you both were facing. Which was your door. 

He inhaled through his nose as he said nothing and gave you a tight smile as you opened the door for him. 

His heavy boots echoed against the walls as it touched the floor. Several boxes littered across the room, each one labeled differently. As his eyes wandered around the room, they landed on a fish tank positioned just beyond the window.  

Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting a radiant glow of gold and crystal blue across the water.  

Inside, vibrant fish glided effortlessly, their scales shimmering with life. They moved with such grace and vitality, it was clear they were thriving.

It was sitting just next to your soft emerald green sofa. You happily bounced at your sofa with your eyes staring at him, expecting. You scooted close to the corner of your sofa as you patted the space right beside you. 

Jason rubbed his nape as he bashfully walked and sat down at your sofa, his eyes now capturing the close up view of your fishtank. He didn't know why but he was just so intrigued by it—How the sun beam softly touched the edges of the tank and how the glow of golden sat beautifully with the water's crystal blue reflection. 

He liked the fishes too. Swimming so peacefully. Their tales are beautiful and soft, swaying through the water. Varies of colors filling the tank. 

You gently tapped his shoulder and handed him the container—fish food.  

He took it with a quiet nod, opened the lid, and held it just above the tank. With a light tap, he released a perfect sprinkle of flakes onto the water’s surface.  

A soft chuckle escaped him as he watched the fish slowly gather, their movements calm and deliberate.  

Then he turned to you—and for the first time, he smiled. Not the usual polite curve of his lips, but something real.  

He pressed his lips together thoughtfully, stood up, and began typing on his phone.  

“This was nice. Thank you, Y/N. I’m gonna go now. See you around.” 

He saw as you nodded at him while you stood up and waved at him while he got out of your room. 

In silence, he went to his door, just about a right distance next to yours. He took off his boots, then his leather jacket, and fell on his sofa while releasing a slow exhale from his mouth. 

He slowly felt his eyes fall heavy and before he knew it, darkness consumed his vision. His shoulders dropped as the comfort of sleep finally visited him. 

You watched Jason leave, the soft motion of the door closing behind him like a quiet punctuation mark. The air felt still. You turned your head toward the fishtank, where your fish glided through the water like tiny dancers, their fins catching the light in shimmering strokes. A small smile curved your lips.

You curled up on the sofa, knees tucked tightly to your chest, your chin resting on them. The gentle hum of the tank vibrated faintly through the cushions — a subtle rhythm you could feel. Your eyes followed the fish, their movements calm and unhurried, like they knew no rush.

After a while, you stretched out on your stomach, arms sprawled, eyes tracing the patterns on the ceiling. The moments earlier replayed in your mind, vivid and silent, like a film with no sound — just expressions, gestures. Everything was like a puppet show to you. 

You and that guy just kept bumping at each other for no reason. You released a soft blow as recalled the moments earlier. 

It was in the morning when the sun was set high and you were busy packing your things together. Why you may ask? Well, you were moving places as the other apartment you're moving in was closer to the center where you teach sign, so you decided, why not? 

Your mom came by for a short period of time to help you gather your things and help you move them to your new apartment. As you were finishing moving them out, you suddenly remembered your appointment today and got up quickly–but got back and hurriedly hugged your mom as you said bye to her while she laughed at you endearingly. 

When you arrived at the center, the atmosphere felt warm and gentle. A few people looked up and greeted you with soft, polite smiles. You returned the gesture with a grin, your eyes bright with quiet excitement.

At the counter, Don greeted you with a familiar smile. He didn’t speak — he simply pointed toward the room across from you, where your student was waiting. You nodded in understanding, your grin widening.

Bringing your palms together, you drew them close to your chin, then moved them downward in front of you — the graceful motion of “thank you” in sign language. Don responded with a small nod and a smile that said more than words ever could.

As you walked through the door, you noticed a man looking around the room but stopped for a second as he seemed to notice the sound of the door opening. 

He looked up and you saw how the soft glow of the sun illuminated against his peach skin, the sunlight bouncing against the surface of his emerald orbs–making it seem as if his eyes were glowing. 

Oh.

It was him.

The guy from the library — the one who had knelt to gather your scattered belongings before you could even react. You remembered how his hands had hovered, unsure whether to help or retreat, and how he’d glanced up just long enough to meet your eyes before quickly looking away.

Now, here he was again.

Standing near the classroom door, posture stiff, eyes flicking toward you and then down, as if your presence had caught him off guard. His build was unmistakable — broad shoulders, arms that looked like they belonged to someone who could lift a car — yet his demeanor was anything but intimidating. There was a quiet hesitation in the way he shifted his weight, like he wasn’t used to being noticed.

You watched him for a moment, the memory of that brief encounter playing in your mind like a silent reel. The contrast between his appearance and his bashful energy seemed funny to you. 

You grin at him and sign “hi, I'm y/n” 

He stares at you in silence, his expression unreadable, save for the slow, deliberate blink of his eyes. Twin emeralds, glowing faintly, bore into you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You glance around the room—left, then right—seeing if somehow there was someone else in the room that he can see, but you can't. 

Then, you try again. Slower this time.

“hi, I'm y/n”

That did the trick. As he was pulled out of his thoughts, he straightened his posture and gave you a tight smile, watching his eyes lift but never quite feeling genuine. 

He signed “hi. I'm Jason"

You felt your shoulders lift as you grin at him encouragingly. Then you sign

“You know sign language?”

Then he gestured at you saying “only a little” whilst pinching his index and thumb together with a very small gap. You nodded understandingly and moved on with your lesson. 

You tried to be a little optimistic and add some enthusiasm into the air between you and him as you question him “ready?” then watched as he answered with an eager nod. 

Your lessons started on simple words. Like “thank you” or “sorry” and others that were easy to follow but most of your students still felt so complicated to learn–you couldn't blame them, sign language was much different than every other language. 

 Even so, Jason followed with ease. Sure, he made little mistakes–his fingers a little too high, his movements a little too slow–but most of the time, he was quite eager to learn as he was attentive. 

He was a pretty good student. 

Then for a moment you saw his eyes shifting its focus to somewhere else–he gestured behind you with a nod of his head. You gave him a questioning look and turned around to find Mito, an old friend of yours as you both started working at the same time together in the center. 

You gave him a bright smile as he did so to you too while both of you got wrapped up in a conversation. 

“Hey, Y/N! Come join us later when you're done with your session,” Mito signed with quick, fluid motions, his fingers dancing through the air with practiced ease. His grin was wide, eyes sparkling as he added, “We’re having a small celebration at the faculty for Joy’s birthday.”

You nodded politely, your bright grin never faltering, though it softened into an apologetic smile. Your hands moved with gentle precision as you signed back, “Oh, that’s great! But sorry, I can’t. I’m quite busy with my things—you know, moving stuff.” Your fingers flicked and curved with subtle emphasis, the motion of “sorry” lingering a bit longer, weighted with genuine regret.

Mito gave you a look—his brows raised, lips pursed in exaggerated pleading, hands pressed together in mock begging. You couldn’t help but chuckle silently, your chest shaking as you mouthed a quiet “sorry” and signed a small, firm “No.” The motion was decisive, your hand slicing gently through the air.

“Okay, I’ll tell that to Joy,” he signed with a playful shrug, then added with exaggerated flair, “Hey, have fun with your session—though I assume you’re already having soooo much fun.” His hands stretched the word “soooo” with dramatic flair, fingers fluttering like confetti. Then he leaned in, signing with a teasing grin, “Heyyy Y/Nnnn, I get you.” For a second he pointed his finger to Jason then drew it back close to his chin–moving it downward twice saying “He’s cute.”

You rubbed your forehead, pinching your eyebrows together with a sigh, your fingers briefly pausing mid-air before signing a playful “Stop.” The motion was light, almost fond, as you shook your head at his antics.

You glanced back at Jason, catching him staring at his reflection, one finger subtly tracing his chin. Then his gaze shifted to you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. You grinned and waved him off, your hand moving in a soft, circular motion—an unspoken “Don’t worry about it.”

About after an hour your session finally ended and both of you said your goodbyes. The soft glow of the sun followed you through the halls as you quickly snuck into the faculty room where your colleagues were celebrating joy’s–another friend of yours from the center–birthday. The other staff in the room welcomed you warmly as you hugged joy and wished her a happy birthday saying things like how you wished you could stay and celebrate but she waved you off and told you it was okay. 

As you left and got home–your new home–you saw the boxes piled up outside of your apartment. You felt your brows twitch into a frown as you silently cursed the pick up truck drivers. Some gentlemen.. You sighed as you picked up the boxes, the frown not leaving your face. You carried the boxes across the hallway–it's weight refraining you from walking with more speed and it's frame blocking your sight of what's in front of you

Therefore crashing at another figure. 

The impact caught you off guard. You glanced at the figure whom you bumped into intending to apologize and lo and behold it was Jason. 

Again. 

You ran to where his body laid at the ground and cradled his shoulders signing non stop apologies at him. You saw his eyes widened for a moment as he processed the situation. 

He waved off your apologies and watched him pick up your belongings that were scattered across the floor. After doing so, he questioned you–using his phone–as to why you were here. You scrunch up your eyebrows and said “I'm moving in. You?” you saw his lips pursed as he typed “oh. I live here.”

Silence engulfed the hallway for a moment. Then at the corner of your eyes you saw Jason's hands move. 

“You want help?” he signed. Some gestures were missing and his fingers moved in a hesitant manner but you catched up quickly. See? He was a good student. 

You signed to him “follow me” and lit up as he seemed to understand you. 

His footsteps blended in with yours–your own footsteps barely being heard because of his heavy black leather boots.

You stopped at your door and opened it for him. He gave you a small smile and went into your room as he put down your boxes to the floor. You saw him subtly scanning the room and watched as his emerald orbs suddenly stopped and focused its attention on something from the corner of your room. 

You diverted your eyes from him and saw what his eyes were pointing at. 

The fishtank. 

You opened your mouth out of realization and walked to your sofa–bouncing on it eagerly while making space for him. You stared at him with encouragement then patted the space next to you, which was close to the fishtank. 

He exhaled lightly then rubbed his nape bashfully. He sat next to you–his hands in his lap as if he couldn't move them without your command. 

You stare at him and nod your head in the fishtank's direction. You watch as he purses his lips, while the golden light of the sun bounced against his skin, and the crystal blue glow reflected in his green eyes. 

Your teeth kissed your upper lip, nipping it lightly–then suddenly you remembered the fish food. 

You grabbed it–at the table beside the sofa–then handed it to Jason, who took it with delight. 

You watched as he scattered food across the water, the fish darting in a frenzy below. Your gaze lingered on his face, catching the soft curve of a chuckle that escaped his lips. Something in you eased.

Moments like these—fleeting, tender, almost imperceptible—stir something deeper. Each subtle expression, each quiet joy etched across someone’s face, makes you ache a little more. To listen. To understand. To truly hear.

He smiled. Genuinely. Then stood up and typed oh his phone 

“This was nice. Thank you, Y/N. I’m gonna go now. See you around.” 

You nodded your head and watched as he walked outside. 

And now.. 

Your here. 

You sighed faintly before you closed your eyes and let sleep engulfed your body. 

A sigh lingers in the hallway.

Jason stepped into his apartment, the quiet hum of the city outside barely muffled by the walls. He had just come back from hanging out with Roy and Lian—his shoulders still loose from laughter, his mind still half in their banter. But as he turned the corner toward his room, the mood shifted.

There you were. Sitting on the floor, knees pulled tightly to your chest, eyes unfocused and distant. You didn’t flinch when he appeared—you’d already sensed him coming.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. He could’ve just walked past. Pretended not to notice. But he didn’t.

Jason crouched beside you and gently tapped your shoulder. You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. He held up his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Y/N? Why are you outside your room?”

You blinked, then gave a sheepish smile. You took his phone and typed back:

“Accidentally locked myself out.”

Jason stared at the message, then at you. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his nape again—a nervous tic you’d come to recognize. Then he cleared his throat.

“Uhm... you can stay in my room for a while. If you want to.”

You hesitated. The offer was kind, but you didn’t want to impose. You signed a small “thank you”, fingers brushing your chin then moving outward. He caught the gesture, nodding slowly, still learning but trying.

Seeing your reluctance, Jason disappeared briefly and returned with a cup of water. He handed it to you without a word, the gesture simple but thoughtful.

You took it with a quiet nod, fingers signing “thanks” again.

Jason glanced toward his balcony, then back at you. “I could jump over to yours,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “Open the door from the inside.”

Your eyes widened. You quickly signed “No!”, shaking your head. You even typed on his phone to make sure he understood:

“That’s dangerous. Please don’t.”

But he was already halfway to the balcony, grinning like a reckless teenager. “Relax,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve done worse.”

You scrambled to your feet, heart racing as he climbed over the railing. “Jason!” you signed sharply, your hands moving fast. He glanced back, gave a cheeky wave, and leapt.

You rushed to the edge, watching him land with a soft thud on your balcony. He turned, gave you a thumbs-up, and unlocked your door from the inside.

You ran to your room and saw him open your door with a sheepish smile. 

When he opened, you scolded him with a flurry of signs—“You could’ve gotten hurt!”—but he just laughed, rubbing the back of his neck again.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice light. “You worry too much.”

Later, as you sat in his room, the tension eased. Jason noticed a few printed photos on your phone screen—snapshots of you teaching a group of kids. Their hands mid-sign, their faces lit with joy.

He leaned closer. “Are these... deaf kids?”

You nodded, smiling softly. You signed “They’re cute”, and Jason tried to mimic the gesture, fumbling slightly. He saw you draw two of your fingers–your index and ring finger–close to your chin, then move it downward twice. He squints his eyes feeling that the sign was familiar. 

“cute,” he said pointing at the picture, then paused. “I mean—the kids are cute. Not that you’re not cute. I mean—uh…”

You chuckled, covering your mouth. Jason groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I swear I didn’t mean it like that.” he signed with a few gestures missing–hurried and embarrassed. 

You signed “It’s okay”, still smiling.

He looked at you again, more serious this time. “Why do you do it? Teaching them?”

You typed slowly on his phone:

“There aren’t enough schools for kids like them in Gotham. They deserve more.”

Jason stared at the message, then at you. His expression softened.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

You signed “You’re not bad yourself.”

He chuckled, rubbing his neck again. “I’m gonna get better at signing. Promise.”

You smiled, and for a moment, the silence between you felt full—not empty.

Your lessons continued, week after week, folding into the rhythm of your lives like second nature. What began as simple tutoring—Jason fumbling through signs, you patiently guiding him—had quietly evolved into something more. The silences between you grew comfortable, filled with glances and gestures that didn’t need translation.

Jason started to notice things. Small things. The way your fingers moved when you laughed, how your eyes softened when he got a sign right without help. He found himself watching you more often—not out of curiosity, but out of something quieter, deeper. His gaze lingered longer than it used to, tracing the curve of your smile, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused.

Your scent clung to the air after you left—something faint, familiar, and maddeningly unforgettable. He’d catch it in his hoodie sometimes, or in the hallway after you passed through, and it would stop him in his tracks. It wasn’t just the scent—it was the memory of you attached to it. The way you looked at him when you were proud and how he craved for it more and more. The way you signed “thank you” with that soft, grateful smile.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. It wasn’t the kind of feeling that demanded declarations. It was the kind that crept in slowly, like sunlight through blinds—warm, quiet, and impossible to ignore.

And maybe you felt it too. In the way your hands lingered when you passed him the phone. In the way you waited just a second longer before leaving his room. In the way your eyes met his and held, unspoken words flickering between you.

Neither of you rushed it. That was the beauty of it. It was slow. Intentional. A friendship deepening into something neither of you dared name—yet. 

Then came the day you approached Jason, a quiet hesitance in your steps and a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. You held out two tickets to Ocean Park, your fingers brushing his as you passed them over. You didn’t sign anything at first—just looked at him, waiting.

Jason glanced down at the tickets, then back at you. His brows lifted slightly, surprise softening into something warmer. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he rubbed the back of his neck—a familiar habit whenever he felt flustered.

The red tint crept up his cheeks slowly, like warmth rising with the tide. He nodded, almost shyly, and typed on his phone:

“Yeah... I’d love to go.”

You smiled, signing a simple “thank you”, and he watched your hands with quiet focus, still learning, still trying. The moment hung between you—gentle, unspoken. 

The day of your.. Date? Hangout? His closet was a mess. Bedroom filled with dozens of clothes littered across his room. Perfume dancing in the air and music blaring through his walls. 

His palms was sweaty and he kept exhaling every minute as if he's hyping his self up. 

 Jason had pulled out all the stops.

His best clothes—freshly ironed, no bloodstains, no tears. A bouquet of flowers—hastily bought after a panicked sprint to the florist because, of course, he forgot to grab one yesterday. Now, standing in front of the mirror, he was rehearsing like a man possessed.

One moment he was flipping his hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. The next, he was doing dance moves that could only be described as “unhinged enthusiasm.” Then came the self-inflicted forehead smack, followed by a groan and a muttered, “Get it together, Todd.”

He practiced his smile. Too forced. Too smug. Too serial killer. He finally settled on something soft—genuine, maybe even charming.

Then came the knock.

Jason froze. His eyes twitched into a grin—a big one, almost giddy—before he quickly wiped it off and schooled his features into something resembling casual indifference. He strolled to the door, leaned against the frame like he hadn’t just been dancing like a lunatic, and opened it with practiced cool.

And there stood—

Dick.

Jason blinked. “What the—?”

Dick raised an eyebrow, his signature mischievous smile already forming. “What are you—”

Jason didn’t let him finish. With a swift motion, he grabbed Dick by the shoulders—not exactly gently—and shoved him back out into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence.

Then, muffled through the door:  

“Was that a bouquet? Are you wearing cologne? Is this a date?”

Jason pressed his forehead to the door, eyes closed, muttering, “I hate everything.”

Dick laughed loudly–clutching his stomach mockingly as Jason was grimacing at his face. 

Jason says 

“Dick not a word. If anyone–and I mean anyone ever hears about this, I swear I'm gonna kill you.” dick, unfazed by Jason's threats only laughs harder at his brother. 

  “Oh my god. Look at you! You’re all dressed up!”

Jason’s nose scrunched instantly, his frown deepening like a reflex. He looked like he’d just been caught committing a crime—except the crime was wearing a clean shirt and holding a bouquet of slightly wilted flowers.

Dick stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Is that cologne? Are you—are you blushing?”

Jason opened his mouth, ready to fire back with a threat that probably involved throwing Dick off the balcony, but then—

A knock.

This one was softer. Intentional. And Jason froze.

He should’ve known. Should’ve noticed the difference in the knock. But maybe he’d been too excited. Too distracted by his own nerves to realize the first knock wasn’t yours.

His posture straightened like a soldier at attention. Then, without a word, he turned to Dick and made a sharp gesture—finger pointed at him, then zipped across his lips. A silent “shut it.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

Jason added another gesture: his hand slicing across his neck in a dramatic “or else” motion, then mouthed the word “or…” with a glare that promised violence.

Dick held up his hands in surrender, backing away with a grin that said he’d be telling everyone about this later.

Jason took a breath, smoothed his shirt, and opened the door.

And there you were.

You stood at his doorstep, dressed in your best—elegant yet effortless. A touch of makeup kissed your features, subtle enough to let your natural beauty speak louder. The soft glow of the hallway light framed you like a portrait, and for a moment, Jason forgot how to breathe.

His eyes softened the instant they met yours. Something in his chest stuttered—his heartbeat thudding like it was trying to escape, like it couldn’t handle the sight of you. His legs felt unsteady, like the ground beneath him had turned to jelly. You hadn’t said a word, and yet you’d unraveled him completely.

You were beautiful. In every way. And in all ways.

Jason swallowed hard, trying to mask the awe in his expression. But it was there—in the way his lips parted slightly, in the way his fingers twitched at his side, unsure whether to reach for you or retreat. You had taken his breath away. Literally.

And all he could manage was a quiet, “Hey,” like it was the only word that hadn’t abandoned him.

“You look…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just handed you the slightly wrinkled bouquet with a sheepish grin.

You blinked at it, then at him, and signed “For me?”

Jason nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. I wasn’t sure if you liked flowers but... I thought it’d be nice.”

You smiled, signing “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Jason’s chest warmed at that. He stepped aside to let you in, and you walked past him, the scent of your perfume trailing behind like a whisper.

He grabbed his phone and typed quickly:

“Ready to go?”

You nodded, and as you both headed out, Jason couldn’t help but glance at you again. The way your fingers moved when you signed. The way your eyes lit up when you smiled. The way his heart felt a little too loud in his chest.

But before he shut his door he peaked his head at the tiny space left of the door and gave his older brother the nastiest glare he could give. while dick only teased him with making both of his hands kiss each other. 

When Jason took his head out off the door you gave him a concerned and weird look while he only smiles at you as if waving him weird behavior off. 

For once, the air between you and Jason hadn't been filled with awkward silence. Your conversation flowed great and maybe there was some silence here and there but–it was more of a comforting silence rather than a awkward one you want to run away from. 

It was the perfect weather too. Not too hot not too cold. It was like the universe was in favor of both of you. Jason liked it. It made you glow. Though really, you were always glowing in his vision. He just seemed to notice it now. 

The ocean park was so beautiful. But not like that, I mean it was? But–it was beautiful in a way it made you glow. It was beautiful how the light of the sun kissed your hair and the glowing color of blue sparkled against your skin. And how the sea animals made you smile and made your grin wider every second. You looked so.. Beautiful. 

That was all the words jason could use. You were just beautiful. 

He didn't know when he saw–felt it. But it was here now. 

He saw you stopped for a moment–the left side of your face reflecting the crystal blue glow of the water. And you started to sign

“You know, I'm going to my mother's place for dinner at Saturday. She said I could bring a friend over.. If I want.”

Jason smiles at you then he signed

“are you.. Asking me to..?”

You smiled at him and just simply nodded your head, but then a frown slowly took place in your face. “unless–you don't want to? —”

But then jason stopped you quickly signing “no, no. It's okay, I want to. I'm going.” 

You laughed at his antics, finding entertainment in Jason's flustered state but jason only froze. 

You… laughed.

Not a breathy exhale. Not a silent shake of the shoulders or a wide grin. No—this was real. Audible. Unrestrained. A sound Jason had never heard before, not from you. It rang out like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, raw and radiant. And he froze.

His breath hitched. His pulse stuttered. One of his eyes dilated, the other locked on you like he’d just witnessed something sacred. His heart—God, his heart—felt too big for his chest, like it was clawing its way out, desperate to kneel before you and offer itself up.

You were laughing.

And he didn’t know what to do with it. It was the kind of sound that rewrote everything he thought he knew about silence.

But then—

Oh no.

It was fading. The laughter was slowing, softening, slipping away like a dream at dawn.

Jason panicked.

Say something. Do something. Anything.

Before his mind could catch up, his hands moved on instinct—gentle but urgent—pressing against your stomach, fingers curling in with a single intent: to tickle you. To bring it back. That laugh. That miracle.

Because now that he’d heard it, he couldn’t bear the thought of silence again. 

But you were only startled by his hand suddenly grabbing your belly, giving jason a confused look but he only stared at you with dazed wide eyes. 

You shrug it off and went to your next destination at the park, not knowing what mess you left of jason. 

The rest of the evening was a blur of Jason’s antics—dramatic impressions, exaggerated pouts, even a failed attempt at juggling apples. All for one goal: to hear that laugh again. That sound that had cracked open something in him. He grew more desperate with each passing minute, until finally, he dropped all pretense.

“Please, Y/N?” he pleaded, eyes wide with mock despair. “I’ll bring flowers to your mom on Saturday. I’ll even give some to your dad!”

You froze.

Your smile faltered, just slightly. You swallowed, then turned to him with the gentlest expression you could manage—soft, patient, kind.

“Jason… my dad’s, um… gone.”

The words hung in the air like dust in sunlight. Quiet. Heavy. You didn’t mean to make him feel bad—it wasn’t his fault. Honestly.

He blinked, the words hitting him harder than he expected. “Oh,” he said softly. “I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” he signed to you. 

You offered a small, patient smile, one that tried to ease the weight in the room. You signed again, slower this time.

“Cancer. It was a long fight.”

Jason nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That kind of fight… it leaves scars.” he signed yet again “I'm sorry y/n–I feel like such a jerk. I really didn't mean to–I'll stop talking now. And I'll buy you anything from now on.”

You smiled at him–which reassured him. “it's okay” you say teasingly. 

The both of you moved to a bench where you were facing the water with various of sea creatures dancing and swimming in it. Peaceful and all. 

Jason turned to you and tried to ask you. “soo, what was your father like? I mean if you don't mind me asking-I.. I shouldn't have oh my g-”

You stopped him with a quit shake of your shoulders from laughter–a quiet one. And signed “jason. It's fine. I'm okay.” you dropped your hands for a while and took a quick breath then said. 

“my father was a good man. He used to treat me like a princess” you smiled at the memory. Nostalgia creeping through your mind. “he was brave. He–everyone adorned him and.. It was a long fight you know? But he fought.” Jason smiled at that, his hand slowly wrapping around yours as comfort. 

“but I guess.. It was really just his time. He.. Kinda knew it I guess. I mean, I'm–I'm fine with that. Knowing he left in peace. He wasn't scared or anything. I just…sometimes I just wish he was here to see my accomplishments.” your hands stop mid air as you felt your heart grow warm. It was nice talking to Jason. He made everything feel so light. 

You tilted your head, watching him. There was something in his expressions earlier —something raw. You signed gently:

“Did you lose someone too?”

Jason hesitated. “Not exactly,” he signed. “My dad’s still alive. But sometimes it feels like he’s not. Not in the way that matters.”

Your hands paused mid-air, then lowered slightly. You leaned in, inviting him to continue.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s… complicated. Always had this idea of who I should be. What I should become. And I tried. I really did. But it was like chasing a shadow. No matter how close I got, it wasn’t enough.” he signed with emotions–messy but written all over his face. 

You reached out, fingers brushing his arm. No words—just warmth.

Jason glanced at you, and for once, there was no mask. No bravado. Just a boy sitting beside someone who understood what it meant to lose a father, in different ways.

“He’s not cruel,” Jason added. “Just… distant. Like he’s always looking past me. At someone I’m not.”

You signed slowly, deliberately.

“I think he sees you. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Jason’s breath caught. He looked at your hands, then your eyes, and something softened in him.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “you say more with your hands than most people do with their mouths.”

You smiled, and this time, it reached your eyes.

Jason leaned back, letting the silence stretch between you. But it wasn’t empty. It was full—of understanding, of grief, of the quiet comfort that comes when someone finally sees you.

At the end of the evening–before your date ends, both of you stood in front of your door. but before jason could leave–you gather every courage and bravery in you and cradled his left cheeks, tip toed, and kissed his right cheek. 

As you pulled away you saw red tint covering his face and a wide grin plastered on his lips. He nodded his head at you—speechless and flustered as you said your goodbyes. 

As Jason opens his door 

Dick stands at the corner with his shoulders and his arms crossed, leaning in the wall for support while a smug smirk decorated his face. 

“wow, that was something-”

Jason only cutted him off with a pillow on his face. 

After Saturday night and your.. Date? At the ocean park, you and Jason became more inseparable. You'd often let him hangout at your place, with him sitting just beside your fish tank and feeding your fishes occasionally. Seriously, you were convinced that by the end of the week, your fishes will grow fat and bloated from Jason's eagerness to feed them every few minutes. 

And just yesterday he was at your place watching your fishes swim with his cheeks resting at the arm of your sofa when he signed to you–

“hey y/n, I was wondering maybe we could go to the bar tomorrow night?” his gestures more neat and clear now. 

“totally clean, not that crowded, and–cozy.” he signed with a smug smile, but something beneath his eyes somewhat seemingly begging you to agree. 

In which you did. 

Everything had been going fine. Better than fine, really.

Jason had stayed close all evening, his presence grounding you in the noise and motion of the world around you. You felt safe. Seen. Until he excused himself to use the restroom, brushing your hand gently before walking off.

You nodded, signing quickly:  

“I’ll be okay.”

He gave you a wink and disappeared into the crowd.

You exhaled softly, letting your eyes wander. That’s when you saw them—a group of girls, laughing too loudly, eyes trailing after Jason like moths to flame. You felt it then. That twist in your stomach. Insecurity. Jealousy. A quiet ache that curled into your chest.

You looked away, trying to shake it off.

Then—without warning—a man stepped into your space. Too close. His smile was wrong. His eyes were wrong.

“Hey there,” he said, voice slick. “You’re alone, huh? Come with me. I’ll show you a better time.”

You shook your head–his words too quick for you to read, backing up. You signed firmly:  

“No.”

But he didn’t understand—or didn’t care. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. You tried to pull away, panic rising.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, tugging harder. “I said come on.”

Before you could react, he was shoved back—hard.

Jason.

His eyes were blazing, jaw clenched tight. “Get your hands off her,” he growled, stepping between you and the man.

The man stumbled, then sneered. “What’s your problem, dude?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. His fists were clenched, his body tense. “You don’t touch her. You don’t talk to her like that.”

You stepped forward, signing rapidly, urgently:  

“Jason! Tell him to look at me. Tell him to talk to me!”

But Jason didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on the man.

“Y/N, just—” he snapped, voice sharp. “I got this, okay?”

You froze. His tone stung. You weren’t asking for protection. You were asking for respect.

The man scoffed. “Figures. You’re babysitting a mute girl. What, she can’t even speak for herself?”

Jason’s face changed.

Something in him snapped.

He lunged.

“Jason, no!” you tried to sign, but it was too late.

Jason tackled the man, fists flying. The crowd gasped, people shouting, but all you could hear was the thud of fists and the roar of your own pulse.

You just stood there frozen at the chaos in front of you. Jason didn't see you until someone shouted for him to calm down–the man so smug, now beaten black and blue and can barely open his eyes and walk. 

When jason turned his head at you, you were looking at him with—

Disgust? Anger? Regret?... 

“You didn’t see me,” you signed.  

“You didn’t hear me.”

Jason stepped closer, guilt flooding his face. “I—I was trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t need saving,” you signed, slowly.  

“I needed you to listen.”

Your frown deepened at this and you turned your heels swiftly while you cradle your shoulders.

At the corner of your eyes you saw Jason's shadow following yours hurriedly. 

Before he could reach out to you, you turned around at him and signed

“dont–don't follow me jason.”

His eyes pulled into a sad frown and signed back to you saying— “y/n please. I was just–I.. I lost control. I'm sorry, I was just trying to protect you.”

But that only made you angrier. 

“protect me? Or you just pity me?”

Jason gasped quietly at this and quickly signed “no! Y/n, there's nothing you could have done at that situation–I handled it.”

You mockingly smiled and rolled your eyes at this and signed firmly– “oh I get it. Your doing this because it makes you feel better. It feels good to help the helpless huh?”

Jasons eyes widened at your words. His heart breaking bits into smaller bits by every word you threw at him. 

“What?.. Is that what you think I'm doing? That all the time we spend together–all the things I did for you.. Was just because of that?” Jason said with hurt in his face–his signs and gestures turning messy. 

You–stayed firm and answered simply but cruelly 

“yes.”

Jason’s lips twitched into a frown. His voice cracked as he spoke, and his hands trembled as he signed—his fingers faltering mid-gesture, almost as if the tremor mirrored the shatter in his voice. His shoulders hunched inwards, barely able to contain the weight of what hung between you.

“So after all that…?” His hands stumbled on the signs before finding their rhythm. “I was the only one who thought we loved each other? That this—us—was leading somewhere?”

His eyes stung, glossing with tears. The whites were tinged red, and his irises, dark and glassy, seemed to drown in unshed emotion. His lips trembled with every word, but more telling were the subtle flinches in his face, the stiffness in his posture. Through both voice and motion, he embodied everything: confusion, betrayal, grief, ache. You could see your reflection in his eyes—and it looked just as broken.

You scrunched your nose, your lips curling into a bitter frown. Your lashes fluttering, disbelief painted across the features of your face. 

“Why do you love me?” Your hands moved decisively, sharply. “It's because you’re down. ” You kept singing, your movements deliberate, angry, even as your face stayed composed. “And I’m the only one still here. ”

Your jaw clenched. The stiffness in your wrists told him what your face didn’t. “And you need someone to cling to.” Your signs became colder, sharper—the fingers more pointed, the spaces more calculated. Almost as if conveying that if you were to speak right now–verbally speak–you would remain as the movement of your hands had shown. Firm and angry. Blunt but afraid. The air was thick with unspoken pain, and every gesture sliced through it like a blade.

Jason’s breath hitched. He flinched—not from your words, but from the way your signs struck him silent. His brows knit tightly, his entire face folding inward with a pitiful desperation. The anger had faded. Hurt took its place. Slowly crushing his heart into pieces. It had hurt so much that he almost felt it physically rather than his figment of imagination from his emotions. 

His shoulders sagged. His trembling lips parted again, but this time he didn’t speak right away. His head tilts softly at you, subtly inching his face closer to yours–but not that close. Almost as if squinting at your expression. like he was making sure he was seeing what he was seeing and not some hallucination. His hands lifted slowly, as if weighed down, before finally forming the signs you’d once memorized like poetry.

“Yes, Y/N…” His voice barely registered, thin and broken behind the sob building in his chest. “I was down when we crossed paths.”

Then he gasped sharply, and his next signs came quickly—his movements frantic and jagged, fingers spelling out desperation as his voice rose.

“Yes, I was sad when I met you.” He choked the words out like he feared you wouldn’t give him time to finish. His signs weren’t elegant now—they were messy, erratic, pulsing with heartbreak.

“But Y/N…” He formed your name slowly, reverently. A breathy whisper followed the sound, like he was praying. His hands moved again—pleading now. Open palms, trembling fingers, shoulders curled forward as if to beg you closer.

“Y/N… I loved you.” His voice cracked. “I love you.” whispering the words like an oath. Like his voice got too tired to say out loud. 

And you saw it all—not just in the way his lips trembled or in the tears running like rivers down his cheeks, but in how his chest heaved with every word, how each sign pleaded louder than his voice ever could.

Jason looked ready to collapse—every muscle tensing as though trying to hold himself together. But you? You were motionless. Unyielding. A statue carved from heartbreak.

People might look at your eyes and think, What a cold woman. But inside, your heart was disintegrating. The walls you’d built with Jason—the late-night conversations, the quiet glances, the shared laughter—had all shattered like glass.

You signed with finality: “Let’s just stop this.”

No tremble. No hesitation. Just a stark, irreversible decision.

Jason’s world stopped. His breath caught mid-inhale, lungs refusing to release. His legs—thick and strong—now felt like toothpicks, unable to support the collapse waiting to happen. His face was a portrait of sorrow, and his heart begged him to kneel, to take back the pain, to undo what had been said. Just to go back. To you. He was barely able to register your words as he suddenly felt like all the air was  sucked out of him when he saw the back of your figure facing him. Slowly drifting away from him. To your fish tank. 

Everything after that had felt distorted. Like it wasn't real. He felt like he jumped through space and time–because, there was no way that in this–or any other life time, he could live without his y/n. Everything had felt so wrong after that. He couldn't eat nor sleep properly–no. Not after getting used to waking up and thinking he wouldn't have to get used to it because.. He had you now. 

Well turns out it was a lie. 

Now everything had no sense at all. Like the universe was playing with him. One moment he had felt like he was finally happy then the next was him getting dumped by his source of joy and life. Wow. Classic humorous universe. Always playing with his feelings. You presence remained absent–your apartment? Empty. 

Everybody had noticed his absence–not physically–but.. Mentally and emotionally. It had felt like whenever they tried to talk to Jason, he was in a whole another dimension, stuck weaving onto multiverses. Even Lian–daughter of his best friend Roy had noticed his.. Absence emotionally. Normally Jason would give her warm and genuine smiles now it had felt so cold, empty, and shallow. Like he was nothing but a shell now. It had even got to the point where his big brother dick–tried to consult him regarding his current situation. It had taken dick 30 minutes of poking and prodding Jason to get him to burst. At first he yelled, very angrily. Then the next, he was sobbing in the loving embrace of his brother. Saying everything about what went wrong in his life the moment you decided to leave it. 

Dick pursed his lips as he stared at the disheveled state his brother was in. He could feel the desperation clawing its place into Jason's veins–the feeling of yearning finding comfort and shelter at the hole you left in his heart–in the shape of your silhouette. Every curve, every shape, carved rightfully with detailed accuracy right in his heart. 

Jason spent his next few days cooped up in his apartment. Sometimes dick pays him a visit from time to time to check in on him. Today must be one of those days as he hears a knock coming from his door. “weird” he thought. Dick usually comes through his window or sometimes just plainly barging in his apartment without a word. 

but jason–nonetheless gets up from his couch to open the door. What's supposed to greet him was his  big brother's face but lo and behold it was you. Standing there..staring at him with widened eyes and a balled up fist, seemingly nervous. 

You stare at each other in a trance as both of you bask at each other's presence. Finally locking eyes after what felt like an eternity. 

Jason tackled the man, fists flying. The crowd gasped, people shouting, but all you could hear was the thud of fists and the roar of your own pulse.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, heart racing. The scene blurred. The violence. The shouting. The helplessness.

It was happening again.

Your body remembered—too much. The trauma. The silence. The feeling of being invisible while chaos erupted around you.

You dropped to your knees, hands trembling, signing over and over:  

“Stop. Stop. Please stop.”

Jason didn’t see you.

Not until someone pulled him off, shouting at him to calm down.

He turned, panting, blood on his knuckles—and saw you.

On the floor.

Shaking.

Silent.

His face fell. “Y/N…”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, tears threatening to spill.

“You didn’t see me,” you signed.  

“You didn’t hear me.”

Jason stepped closer, guilt flooding his face. “I—I was trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t need saving,” you signed, slowly.  

“I needed you to listen.”

You walked away, your back turned against the man who had grown dear to you. Step by step, drifting farther, you scrunched your nose as tears finally broke free—ones you'd been resisting so stubbornly. It was as if every cell in your body rebelled against the message your hands had delivered. Even your fingers had stiffened, frozen mid-motion, as if silently begging you to stay. But no. You held back. Not yet. Not while you were still in Jason's line of sight.

Your shoulders trembled, and your breath came faster, rising and falling with growing urgency. Then you turned a corner—and that was when you let go. Of the composure. Of the restraint. Of everything keeping you from collapsing into sobs in front of Jason.

Due to a heavy heart–you stayed at your best friends house. 

After that everything had felt like it was all a blur. Like–what happened next didn't exist to you anymore. You struggled with all of it. With everything–honestly. 

Sleeping, eating—simple acts of domestic living had become insurmountable. You couldn’t find the will to do them anymore, not since you’d grown so used to doing it all with Jason. Together. Every moment had been woven with him in it, and now the threads felt loose, frayed.

You had lived too long inside dreams where the two of you could exist without fear, without consequence. You grew selfish in those illusions. Deep down, you knew the truth—that one day, Jason would find someone better. Someone more whole. Someone more deserving of the love he gave so freely. And you? You couldn't change. This version of yourself was the only one you had to offer. 

With lack of sleep, Your eyes were painted dust of black. Everything had felt so eerily wrong. You felt that your mind and heart couldn't fully catch up to the hard–cold reality that you and Jason.. Just didn't exist anymore. There was no you and Jason anymore, there was just you. 

Lately, feeling hollow and untethered, you decided to crash at your mom’s house for a while. You showed up unannounced—hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing a dull, oversized wool sweater and wrinkled sweatpants. A tight-lipped smile tugged at your face, heavy with sarcasm and exhaustion. Your mom greeted you with a tender smile, the kind that seemed to understand everything without asking. She tilts her head–like a mother does when she knows something is wrong. Her eyes softened, crow’s feet deepening around them, traces of time etched gently across her face. She didn’t need words. Her expression spoke what she was—brave, gentle, yet unwavering. A mother.

You bit your lip as your feet carried you toward her, hesitant but swift—trying not to look desperate, though you were unraveling inside. Then, with no more resistance, you stepped into her arms, and the tears came. Silent at first, then flooding freely. She tucked your head into the space where her heartbeat once lulled you to sleep, threading her fingers through your hair as she whispered soft, soothing words only a mother could conjure. Shushing your sobs, she held you close like she was trying to shield you from the world itself. She lifts your head with her hands–cradling your cheeks. Rubbed your back tenderly with a knowing smile as she takes both of you inside the comfort of your home. 

With her soothing words and tender hands holding you close at her embrace, you unravel your inner turmoil and pain. You told her of what happened. You watch as her eyes twitch into a sad frown of every word you say to her. The light lines of her face crumbling into a sad and understanding expression. You sat in silence for a while as her eyes turned into glass. 

Your mother raises her hand slowly, hesitating before she begins to speak. Her fingers move with deliberate intention, shaping the air with trembling signs, echoed by the quiet tone of her voice.

“You didn’t tell him… did you?”

You lower your gaze in shame and nod softly. Her hands reach for your chin, cradling it gently, lifting your face to meet hers. Her palm curls inward, then rests against her chest—a gesture of sincerity.

“I’m sorry.”

You exhale, your eyes flickering with emotion as you try to dismiss her apology. But she holds your hand firmly—her grip and gaze asking you to stay with her in the moment. She continues, her hands moving with delicate resolve, the tremble of her fingers betraying the weight of her regret.

“I’m sorry for what happened when you were a child,” she signs, her voice barely a whisper. “Believe me—I blame myself every single day.”

You frowned as you shook your head, not wanting for her to blame herself. It wasn't anyone's fault. No one knew. 

Her expression softens, though her eyes remain filled with sorrow. Her hands quiver as they form each sign, tears now tracing silent paths down her cheeks.

“If it wasn’t for me… you wouldn’t be suffering now.”

She blinks quickly, trying to compose herself, but the emotion is too heavy. Her fingers stumble through the next signs as her voice cracks.

“Your father would’ve been the better listener. He always understood… but I’m all you’ve got.”

She attempts a small laugh through the tears, the corners of her mouth curling up. It’s a tender joke laced with grief. You smile through your own tears, mirroring her bittersweet expression.

Then she pauses. Her hands come together, holding still for a moment as she searches for the right way to say what’s next.

“What I’m trying to say, Y/N,” she signs and speaks in tandem, “is—you have to be honest with Jason.”

Her smile is soft but firm.

“You don’t have to be the brave one.”

A breath. Then her hand rises again, index finger tracing gently along her jaw before pressing over her heart.

“No one is the brave one. What we do… is be brave together.”

She takes another pause. Her hands flutter slightly as she tries to ground herself again, her expression open and full of love.

“And the only way to be brave together… is to admit when you’re not.”

She looks you in the eyes, her gaze unwavering.

“Baby… you have to tell him. Because I know—deep down—I know you belong together.”

Her hands shape a soft hum, a comforting rhythm as she smiles.

“Okay?”

You blink back more tears and slowly nod, the weight of her words sinking in. Something shifts inside you. At last, you understand what you need to do. Leaning forward, you press a tender kiss to her cheek and wrap your arms around her, feeling her steady heartbeat.

Grateful—for her wisdom, her love, and the way she speaks even when words falter.

So here you are now. In front of Jason's face as you stare at him nervously.

 He looked like a mess. Your eyes turn half lidded as you stare at his state. His cheeks slightly hollow–most likely because he wasn't eating enough. His eyes were blood shot with deep eye bags–he wasn't getting enough sleep. You try your best to stop your hands from cradling his face, fighting hard to resist caressing his cheeks with such tenderness. Instead–you signed “can we talk?”

Sitting down at the–somehow–empty Cafe with suffocating silence you decided to speak first.

 “I'm sorry”

Jason frowns at your words as you catch him subtly scoffing. His tongue rolled to the side of his inner cheek–poking at it before saying– “why are saying sorry?” quiet disbelief lingering at his words. You inhaled sharply at his words. “because I got insecure and mad.. And i-.. Hurt you” your hands stay stilled as you slowly bring them down, not knowing the right words you should say next. 

Jason's frown lessened at your words. He raised his hands to speak back. “it's true.. That I was sad when I met you.” he spoke as he faltered ever so slightly. He inhaled as he spoke “but that doesn't mean that my love for you isn't true.. It's genuine.” Jason felt his lips tremble into a frown from what he was about to say. 

“You don't need to say sorry if.. You don't feel the same way.”

Your frown deepened at his words as you solemnly moved your hands–slow and delicate, different from the last time you saw each other. This time, you moved with empathy and understanding. 

“no.. the truth is I do love you.” you admitted quietly. Slowly unveiling the broken pieces of yourself that you have tried so hard to shield from Jason.

“even if I don't know if it's right to love you.” you see jason tilt his head and shake it as he disagrees with you in silence. 

You felt the sting in your eyes–tears gathering at the edge of your tear ducts. But this time, you let them free. You let Jason see you vulnerable, as he did with you. “I just got scared.. All my fears happened that night” you felt the tears pouring down your face as your lips trembled helplessly. You opened your heart to Jason as he listened with the same state as you. Panic rising beneath Jason's heart as he saw tears from your eyes. Each tear that pours is equal to a needle piercing through his heart. 

“I was selfish with you” you continued “I guarded my heart when you willingly let me enter yours.” Your nose scrunched as more tears began forming in your eyes. Your unsaid feelings–the expressions in your face you hadn't given Jason the pleasure of seeing has unraveled before his eyes now. “You told me your stories while I kept mine.” Jason heard a quiet whimper escape your mouth as your teeth clashes with your lips. He almost went to his knees to beg you not to cry because of him anymore. But he let you speak, as you needed to do so. 

You inhaled as you moved your hands–speaking. Saying “I.. I haven't really told you how I got deaf” Jason quirked his eyebrows at your words, he watched–anticipation radiating emitting from him as he watched you peel off the pieces of cloth you have wrapped so tightly around yourself to protect and guard your heart. 

April 27 x years ago

Trapped in a bleak, dim chamber with fury wrapped in flesh,  

A young girl quivers, each breath a fragile whisper.  

The walls echo her cries—terror turned to trembling song—  

Yet silence answers, hollow and cruel.  

Hope hangs absent in the choking air,  

Each breath a thorn, each heartbeat heavy.  

The man’s voice—a thunderous plague—  

Crawls through her veins, clawing at the edges of her soul,  

Tearing skin with every word,  

Till the room itself drowns in his rage.

Until

  The scream tore from the young girl’s throat—a sound raw with pain and devastation. You wailed, each cry echoing through the room like a shattered note of misery. Every raised arm brought more pain. Each blow left behind dark bruises like smeared ink across your delicate skin.

You were just a child when you met the man your mother came to “love” after your father passed away. When they walked through the door, fingers laced, joy written across their faces—you didn’t feel anger. You didn’t scowl or turn away. Not a single bitter taste lingered in your tongue as you watched them fondly. Instead, you smiled. You watched her begin to heal, to stitch herself back together after the emptiness your father’s absence had carved out of her. Seeing her happy gave you peace. Hope. You believed she had found someone safe.

You and your mother didn't see the signs–because there weren't any. 

There were no signs. Not even whispers of warning. He was gentle, attentive. He made breakfast for you, called you by endearing names,treated you so gently–almost as if you were his daughter, treated your mother with care—his fingers grazing her cheek as if afraid she might shatter.

There were no signs.

Until that night.

Thunder rumbled through the skies like a warning. Your mother wasn’t home, and he came stumbling through the door. The bitter stench of alcohol clung to him, heavy and sour. His steps faltered. His face was grim—twisted into an expression you had never seen before.

You offered a timid smile, unsure how to greet this unfamiliar version of the man you thought you knew. But the air thickened, tension curling around your chest like smoke. His gaze darkened, half-lidded and ice cold. His words—passive aggressive, sharp—cut deeper than any knife. He wasn’t the same man. This was someone else. Someone dangerous.

You turned on your heel, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of the moment. But his hand—a rough, calloused snare—grabbed your hair and yanked you backwards. Your back crashed against his chest as his breath rasped in your ear.

“You disrespectful child. Can’t even greet me properly,” he spat.

Then, he locked you in a room. The walls closed in around you as he unleashed his rage, fists flying until your body became a canvas of agony—painted in shades of bruised purple and blue. His fury didn’t stop until there was nothing left but ash. And then… darkness. Your vision blurred. Your mind shut down. And you slipped into unconsciousness.

When your eyes opened again, the world felt wrong. Your eyes flickered as you adjusted to the harsh light. 

Pain bloomed in every limb. You scanned the room—sterile walls, faint beeping—but something was off. Not the hospital itself… the silence.

Complete, unnatural silence.

No hum of machines. No rustle of your blanket. Not even the creak of the door when your mother burst in, eyes wide, panic etched into every line on her face. 

It was strange. You looked at her weirdly–seeing her hurried steps yet not hearing any thud of her feet against the floor was confusing. It was eerily quiet

She rushed to your side with blood shot eyes and trembling fingers, anxious and scared for her child–mouth moving quickly—

But you heard nothing.

Your chest tightened. You gasped, struggling for air, confusion mounting. Your vision wavered. Your mother kept speaking, eyes pleading—but the silence drowned her.

Panicked, you grabbed her shoulders and shook her—hands trembling, desperate. Tears already forming beneath your eyes. 

“Mom… What's going on? Why are you talking like that?” Your own voice sounded hollow in your ears. You weren’t sure it had even come out.

She blinked, confused, her lips forming a shaky, “What…?” Horror crept across her face. You watch as she clenches her jaw–trying so hard to not believe what she was thinking. 

You gasped harshly as you shook her violently each more you spoke with panic “Why won’t you make a sound?! Why is everything so silent?!”

Your cries turned into screams, your grip tightening as you shook her. Tears streamed freely down your battered face—ugly and unrestrained. She didn’t resist. She just stared at you, frozen. Her eyes wide. Swimming in guilt. Panic. Disbelief.

And denial.

Silence wrapped tightly around the room, fragile and unyielding, as you and Jason sat facing each other. He inhaled slowly, his eyes searching yours, threaded with sorrow and hesitance.

“So… that night when—when I…?” he began, his voice trailing off, unable to finish. His hands trembled mid-air, struggling to form the words he couldn’t speak. You gave a soft nod, and his face contorted—blinking back tears that clung desperately to his lashes.

“Baby…” he whispered, his voice cracking as his fingers shifted shakily into ASL. “Baby—I… I would never. I love you.”

The signs were uneven, his hands heavy with emotion, fingers aching to convey what words could not. And your resolve broke.

You sobbed, shoulders shaking, hands rising with difficulty. “I know… I know you won’t,” you signed through trembling fingers, tears painting streaks down your cheeks. “But I was just so afraid.”

Your hands wavered in the air, chest heaving as you struggled to hold your composure.

“My world… it’s so clearly different from yours. I feel like I don’t belong. I’m scared you’ll grow tired of me.”

Jason shook his head immediately, his hands moving quickly and firmly—cutting through your doubt with urgent disagreement. He didn’t want you to believe that. Couldn’t bear it.

You inhaled a shuddered breath, shoulders trembling, hands forming slowly again.

“I’m so jealous of the people around you,” you signed with a small whimper, looking away. “They get to hear you, see you, understand you in ways I can’t.”

Jason’s expression faltered, devastated, but he let you speak—let you unravel your truth.

“When I’m with you…” you hesitated, a sobbed coming from your chest barely audible, hands hovering. “I might as well be blind.”

You paused, breath hitching as tears spilled faster.

“When you speak. When you laugh. When you cry—” you gasped for air. “It hurts. It hurts so deeply… to see and not hear.”

Your hands dropped briefly to your lap, defeated. You needed a moment. Jason watched you, eyes rimmed red, heart in ruins.

Slowly, you lifted your hands again.

“I want to hear you speak. I want to hear you laugh. I want to understand you.”

Your sobs came harder, fingers curling mid-sign, voice cracking under grief. Jason’s tears matched yours, falling silently as he watched you fall apart—and prepared himself to hold you together.

You lowered your gaze, hands clenched tight in your lap—aching. Then, a pair of large, warm hands enveloped yours. Jason.

He leaned in gently, holding your hands as though they were made of glass. His grip was soft, reverent.

He guided your hands toward his ears, resting them there beneath his own. His eyes never left yours. He mouthed the words slowly and signed each one with delicate precision.

“Then I’ll be deaf for you.”

The promise was silent, but sacred. He kissed the back of your hand, lips featherlight against your skin. His hands remained over yours—cradling them like precious stardust.

He gazed at you with awe, like he was witnessing something divine. Like you were celestial—and he was lucky just to orbit you.

You smiled at him as the suffocating air–now gone. Replaced with bitter sweet light air.

When the day finally came that the scissors drew close, you shattered. They said it was to give you a neat appearance, to help you belong in a life that was new and different. But to you, it was like severing a piece of your soul, like tearing away the last shred of a self you barely understood. Your wails filled the room, raw and trembling, as their hands sheared through the weight of all you carried. They didn’t understand—the adults, the guardians, the well-meaning souls around you. To them, it was just hair. To you, it was every moment of neglect, every whispered plea for care that had gone unanswered. How could they not see?

Even as an adolescent, the shadow of that day followed you. A simple trip to the hairdresser became a daunting ordeal. You would sit there, clutching the arms of the chair, stammering and fumbling over your words as you tried to describe a haircut—any haircut—that would let you claim some control over the strands that framed your identity. Your mind screamed that it was just hair, but your trembling hands and racing heart told a different story.

And then there was them—your family, your supposed sanctuary. Dick and Damian in particular seemed to hold some unspoken reverence for the length of your hair. They liked it long, as it had been. They’d brush past you, their fingers ghosting along the strands, commenting on how it suited you, how beautiful it looked that way. They didn’t realize—or perhaps they did—that every time they admired it, they were admiring a relic of your suffering. They saw beauty where you only saw a scar.

The worst part wasn’t their ignorance. It was their insistence. When you begged them to let you cut it, to let you choose, your protests were dismissed as "tantrums" or fleeting whims. They didn’t understand—or wouldn’t listen—that this was your way of reclaiming what had been stolen from you. Each time they disregarded your pleas, it felt like you were being dragged backward into a past you desperately wanted to escape.

To them, it was just hair. To you, it was a chain. And every time they ran their hands through it, commenting on how soft it was, or how well it suited you, they unknowingly tightened that chain, leaving you to wrestle with the ghosts of a life you never asked for.

Dick liked it, in his eyes it was his way of caring for you. But under his muttered words he knew that it was because he liked the pleasure of treating you like a doll. His eyes dilated and his smile widening every time he brushes your hair and inserts little daisies across the smooth strands of your luxurious hair while he ignores your yapping (begging). Meanwhile Damian shares the same opinion he's less controlling. In a way that he'll let you trim it in summer, just enough for his satisfaction. But that doesn't mean he isn't as possessive as dick.

Lmao imagine the rest of batfam watching dick and Damian with wide eyes as you thrash and scream at their face like a feral little kitten while they ignore you as they dress your hair.