You shove it down, smooth it over, and try to push through the rest of the day with that same forced steadiness you always do. But the universe isn't just unkind today, it's downright spiteful. The bus is late, and when it finally arrives, it's so packed the driver barely glances at you before shutting the doors in your face.

You wait for the next one, shivering as the wind picks up, slicing through your jacket like it's nothing. When it comes, the only available seat is damp—why, you don't know, and you don't want to.

So you stay standing, crushed between a drunk who reeks of cheap whiskey and a woman who glares at you like you personally ruined her life. You try to ignore the occasional, too close brushes against your ass, chalking it up to the crowded space, but every stop, every slight jostle, makes your stomach twist tighter with unease. The bus ride feels endless. By the time your stop comes, your skin is crawling, and the air outside feels suffocatingly thick, the city pressing in on you from all sides.

Then, just as you're almost home, a car speeds through a pothole, sending a filthy, cold wave of street water straight up your legs. You're soaked. Freezing. Teeth clenched so hard your jaw aches.

And as if the universe is actively laughing at you, your bag suddenly feels lighter when you grab your keys. You check, and yep, your wallet is gone. Either you dropped it, or someone swiped it in the mess of the commute, but either way, you're officially screwed.

Then, just to twist the knife a little deeper, the elevator in your building is out of order. Again. Because of course it is. So you drag yourself up five flights of stairs, legs burning, breath coming in short, frustrated huffs, each step making the day feel heavier, pressing down on you until it feels like your body might give out entirely.

By the time you finally make it upstairs, you're exhausted. Dick isn't there, but you already knew he wouldn't be—he mentioned yesterday that he had to meet Bruce today.

That's fine. It's fine. You're fine.

Except the apartment is too quiet, too still, and for some reason, the silence makes everything worse. You toss your bag down and scrub a hand over your face, exhaling slowly as you make a plan.

A shower. A meal. Maybe then you'll feel human again.

Your phone rings before you can even move. You don't want to look. You already know who it is.

But you do, and when you see your mom's name on the screen, you hesitate, staring at it like it might burn you. You could ignore it. You should ignore it.

But that little, nagging voice—the one that says it's better to just deal with it, to get it over with, to be the bigger person—wins out, and you answer.

The first thing out of her mouth is a sigh. Disappointed. Irritated. Like she's already exhausted by you, and you haven't even spoken yet.

"You never call," she says. "I have to be the one to reach out. Again."

You grip the phone tighter. "I've been busy."

"Too busy for your own mother?" she tsks. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You always have been selfish like that."

The words hit harder than they should, and you swallow against the sudden sting in your throat. "I'm not—"

"Don't start," she cuts in. "I don't have time for your excuses. I just called to remind you that your cousin is getting married next month, and it would be nice if you could, for once in your life, show up looking presentable. You embarrassed me last time."

That last part is what does it. Something in you cracks, just a little. A hairline fracture along something you've spent years reinforcing.

"Right," you say, voice clipped, because if you say anything else, it's going to shake.

She keeps talking—about how you don't visit, about how you've always been difficult, about how she doesn't understand why you can't just be normal, about how she can't stand Dick—but you stop listening.

You tune out halfway through, staring blankly at the wall as her voice drones on, sharp and cutting. Your fingers dig into your palm, nails pressing into skin. You shouldn't let this get to you. You don't let this get to you.

You've trained yourself not to, but by the time she hangs up, you feel hollowed out. Stretched thin. Like there's nothing left inside you except the sheer force of will keeping you upright.

And when you put your phone down, your hand is shaking. You swallow hard, try to breathe through it. You won't snap. You don't snap. That's not who you are. You've held it together through worse.

You sigh, shaking your head as if you can physically dislodge the thoughts swirling inside it. Your whole body feels heavy, weighted down with something you can't name, and all you want is to shut it all out. To turn your brain off, even if it's just for a little while.

You toe off your shoes, letting them drop carelessly by the door before shrugging your jacket and dragging yourself to the bathroom. The mirror catches your reflection as you pass, but you don't stop. You don't want to see yourself. You don't want to acknowledge the exhaustion painted into your face, the tension in your jaw, the dullness in your eyes.

The water is warm when you step under the spray. Hot enough to sting a little, to prickle against your skin, but you don't adjust it. You let it wash over you, standing there with your head bowed, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. It should help.

It doesn't.

You're warmer, sure, but your mind starts to drift. Funny, really, how you always put others first. How you bend over backward for people who wouldn't do the same for you. How you let yourself become a doormat, over and over, because it's easier that way. Because it keeps the peace. Because if you don't, people leave, and isn't that worse?

Life has never been kind to you. Not as a child. Not as a teenager. Not now.

You were born into Gotham's cruelty, into its teeth and its grime and its cold, uncaring hands. You learned early on that you had to be strong or you'd break. That if you wanted to survive, you had to swallow down the hurt, the anger, the exhaustion, and keep moving.

So you did.

And you kept doing it, even when things got worse. Even when life knocked you down again and again, taking pieces of you each time, until you weren't sure what was even left. You haven't cried since you were a teenager.

Not since that one time, when you were younger, when everything had finally piled too high, and it all came crashing down. You'd sobbed until your chest ached, until your body shook with it, until you could barely breathe. And someone had found you—your mother, maybe, or some authority figure who was supposed to care, you don't remember—and their response had been disgust.

"You're making a scene."

"Enough already."

"You're being dramatic."

So you stopped. Because they were right, weren't they? Crying didn't change anything. It didn't fix anything. It didn't make you feel better, it only made you feel exposed, raw, like an open wound waiting to be picked apart.

Are people who cry weak? No. Of course not. But you? You've always been the exception.

It's okay. You're fine. Stop worrying. If you don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist, right?

So instead, you focus on other people. Because they matter more. Because if you make sure they're okay, you don't have to think about the fact that you're not.

And with him came the rest. His friends, who are now yours. People who hype you up, who care about you, who make you laugh, who make you happy. You never thought you'd have that either.

You sigh and think about Dick, about the life you've built together, the only good thing you've ever truly achieved. It's solid, unshakable in a way nothing else in your life has ever been. A foundation you never thought you'd have, something stable and warm and safe. A love that isn't conditional, isn't a burden, isn't something you have to work yourself to the bone to earn.

A real support system, people who look out for you just because they want to, not because they have to. It still feels foreign sometimes, like something you don't quite know how to accept.

You should be able to swallow it down like you always do.

But that's what should matter, right? Not a shitty day. Not your mother's words digging into your skin like hooks, pulling at every old wound you've tried to ignore. Not the exhaustion coiling tight in your chest, suffocating and sharp.

You tell yourself that as you rinse the soap from your skin, as you turn off the water and step out. The steam clings to the air, swirling in the dim glow of the bathroom light, wrapping around you like a weight. You grab a towel, drying off with slow, heavy movements, trying to shake off the feeling.

It doesn't work.

Your hands move on autopilot, tugging open a drawer, reaching for something comfortable. Something soft, warm. You grab one of Dick's shirts, slipping it over your head, and for a second, the scent of him surrounds you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn't. Your throat feels tight, your limbs sluggish, like the day is pressing down on you, sinking into your bones. You know you should eat something—at least something small—but the thought of moving, of going into the kitchen, of putting in the effort, feels impossible.

Instead, you drift into the bedroom.

The sheets are cool against your skin as you drop onto the bed, but you barely register it. You don't bother with the lights, don't bother pulling the blankets over yourself. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, mind blank but buzzing all at once.

Dick rushes home, his heart pounding harder with every unanswered call, every text that sits on "delivered" without a response. You always answer, even if it's just a quick I'm busy or a little voice note letting him know you'll text back later. But tonight? Nothing. Radio silence.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Long enough for the room to grow darker, for the quiet to settle too deep, for the heaviness in your chest to spread until it's all you can feel.

He tells himself not to panic, that maybe you just fell asleep, but the unease sits heavy in his gut, twisting tight as he takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he reaches the door, he's bracing for the worst.

Then he steps inside. Darkness. No lights, no TV humming in the background, no movement. The apartment is eerily still, and for a split second, his heart stops.

But then he flicks on the hallway light and spots your shoes by the door. Your bag. Your jacket draped over the back of the chair. A slow exhale leaves his chest. You're home. You're safe.

Dick flips the switch to the bedside lamp, flooding the room with soft, golden light, but you don't even blink.

Still, the unease doesn't leave him. He moves through the apartment, searching for you, until he reaches the bedroom. And there you are, lying on your back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like you're not really there. Like you've detached from the world completely.

Kicking off his shoes, he moves toward you, plopping onto the bed next to you. "Hey," he says, nudging your arm. "Hi, baby."

You hum. That's it. A noncommittal sound, barely even an acknowledgement.

His brows furrow. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

It's flat. Distant. A response you could've given on autopilot. And maybe you are.

He tilts his head, watching you, waiting for something—anything—but you don't say more. Still, he tries to tease you out of it, offering that easy, boyish grin as he leans in closer.

"Damn, you just gonna lie there and ignore your very hot, very charming boyfriend?" he smirks, nudging your arm again. "Cold blooded, sweet girl."

You don't bite. You don't roll your eyes or shove him playfully, don't give him any of your usual sass. Just another quiet, monosyllabic, "Mhmm."

It's not even a real response. That's when he knows. You're here, but you're not here.

His smirk fades, replaced by something softer, something more concerned. He knows you. Knows how sometimes, when things are bad, you retreat into yourself. How you lock yourself away like you don't want to be seen like this, like you don't want him to see you like this, and it breaks his damn heart.

You shake your head, barely. "Nothing. I'm fine."

He shifts closer, pressing his palm against your stomach, rubbing slow, careful circles over your shirt. "Talk to me, my love."

His voice is quieter, gentler. "What's going on?"

Liar. He watches you for a moment, eyes softening as his hand doesn't stop moving, fingertips tracing patterns against your stomach. You're locked up tight, but he's not going anywhere.

He knows how sometimes you shut down like this. How you build walls so high even he has trouble climbing them. How you think you have to be the strong one, that you're not allowed to break.

But you don't have to do that with him, and he's not going to let you.

Still, Dick doesn't say anything for a few minutes. Just watches you in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, his brows furrowed, his lips slightly parted like he's trying to figure out the right thing to say. But you don't say anything either.

So after a few more beats of silence, he exhales softly and murmurs, "Talk to me, baby. Please."

You try. You really do.

You part your lips, searching for the words, for anything that can explain the weight in your chest, the exhaustion pulling at your bones, the way today was just one long, merciless reminder that life has never been kind to you.

But nothing comes out.

Because how do you even say it? How do you explain that you've spent years swallowing pain, forcing yourself to stand tall no matter how much life tried to knock you down? That you've built yourself out of resilience and stubbornness, that you've convinced yourself over and over that you can take it, because what other choice do you have?

So instead of speaking, you shake your head. You turn away like you always do, curling inward, trying to make yourself smaller, except Dick doesn't let you.

His hand finds your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye. His grip isn't firm, isn't insistent, it's just there, gentle and grounding, like a tether keeping you from slipping any further into yourself.

"Hey," he murmurs, leaning closer. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?"

You swallow hard, but it feels like there's something lodged in your throat.

That—that is what does it.

"I don't care how ugly it feels, how messy it is. You don't have to filter it, you don't have to make it easy for me to hear. Just—just let me in, baby."

His thumb sweeps up, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I love you. You don't have to hold everything on your own. I want to carry it with you. Please, let me in."

Maybe it's Dick's voice, the way it softens with concern, real and there when you've spent the whole day feeling invisible. Maybe it's how he touches you, gentle but present, like he's anchoring you when you feel like you're floating away.

But something inside you shatters. It starts with a sharp inhale, shaky and uneven, and then your face crumples. The sob rips out of you before you can stop it, raw and broken, years of grief and exhaustion bubbling up all at once.

And Dick doesn't hesitate. He's there, arms wrapping around you the second you break. He pulls you into him, into his warmth, his comfort, lets you press your face into his chest as the dam bursts.

And you cling to him. The sobs wrack through you, deep and shuddering, the kind that shake your entire body, like they're trying to claw their way out of your chest. You bury yourself in him, fingers twisted tight in his shirt, holding on like he's the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

And maybe he is.

Your chest aches with it, like something sharp is wedged beneath your ribs, pressing down with every heaving breath. Your shoulders tremble, your whole body trembling, and it breaks Dick's heart to see you like this—vulnerable and shattered—but he's here. Holding you together.

His arms tighten around you, strong and steady, one hand smoothing up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair. He's warm, grounding, his scent wrapping around you tighter than his embrace—clean soap and something inherently him, something that's always meant home.

"I'm here, my love," he murmurs into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple. "I've got you. Let it out."

A hiccuping sob tears out of you, your breath catching on the weight of it all, and you stutter through the words, barely getting them out.

And you do let it out. For every time you swallowed your pain and forced yourself to stand tall. For every moment you pretended it didn't hurt. For every single time someone told you to be strong and you did, even when it felt impossible.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I know. Let it out, it's okay."

"I—I h-hate everything."

Your fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. "I hate t-today."

And you do. It pours out of you like a flood, years of buried hurt and exhaustion spilling over all at once, and he holds you through all of it. His hands never stop moving, never stop touching, a constant, grounding presence. His palm moves over your back, his fingers brushing along your arm, his lips pressing against your temple, murmuring soft reassurances between every shaky breath.

And he doesn't tell you to stop. He doesn't tell you to breathe, doesn't try to talk you down, doesn't try to fix it, because he knows. Knows you just need this. Knows this isn't something that can be solved with a few soft spoken words.

So he just holds you. Lets you break, lets you cry until your body sags against him, exhausted, your breath still coming in uneven gasps, but the weight inside you slowly, slowly beginning to lift.

You sniffle, breath still hitching as you tilt your head up to look at him. Your eyes are red and puffy, lashes damp, tear tracks streaked down your flushed cheeks.

You feel wrecked, raw, stripped down to nothing but emotion, and you swallow thickly before whispering, "I'm s-sorry."

"Baby," he murmurs, voice so tender it makes your chest ache. "There's no need to be sorry."

His reaction is instant. His big, gentle hand cups your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing away some of the lingering tears. His expression softens, brows knitting together in that familiar look of concern, like the very idea of you apologizing for this physically hurts him.

You shake your head, another sob catching in your throat, your whole body still trembling from the weight of everything crashing down at once. "B-but I—"

"Listen to me, please," he interrupts, voice firm but gentle, like he needs you to hear this. His thumb traces soothing circles against your skin, anchoring you, grounding you. "There's nothing wrong with crying. There's nothing wrong with feeling like crap sometimes. Shit happens, but it doesn't mean you have to bottle it up until it breaks you."

Your lips tremble, eyes still shining with unshed tears.

"You're not weak for being vulnerable," he continues, voice steady, unwavering. "You're human. And there's only so much you can take and bury before it snaps."

You stare at him, wide eyed, like you're not sure if you should believe him. Like no one has ever told you this before.

His grip on you tightens, pulling you closer, until your foreheads nearly touch. His blue eyes stay locked onto yours, filled with nothing but love, nothing but understanding.

"I don't love you less because you show emotion," he says, voice softer, but no less sure. "I don't think you're weak. I think you're strong as hell for carrying so much on your own. But, baby, you don't have to."

He brushes another tear away, his touch so gentle, so intentional, like he's trying to soothe every hurt you've ever buried inside yourself.

"You have me," he murmurs. "You'll always have me."

And something about the way he says it—so honest, so real—makes your breath hitch, another wave of emotion swelling in your chest. Because you believe him. You believe him with your whole heart.

You sniffle, fingers still curled weakly into his shirt, as he presses a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead. His hands don't leave you—one stays cradling your cheek, his thumb brushing slow, steady strokes beneath your damp lashes, while the other holds firm at your back, keeping you here, anchoring you against him.

Then, softly, he asks, "Do you wanna talk about what happened today?"

His voice is careful, quiet. Not pushing, just offering. And you hesitate, swallowing past the lump in your throat, because... where do you even start? And would it even matter? Would saying it all out loud change anything?

Your breath shudders. You think about shaking your head, about brushing it off, like always. But before you can spiral, his arm tightens around your waist, a steady, grounding squeeze that pulls you back before you get lost in your head again.

"If you don't wanna talk, that's okay, my love," he reassures you. "You can take your time. I just don't want you to carry it alone."

God, that alone almost makes you start crying again. Because when has anyone ever said that to you?

Your throat feels tight as you shake your head, voice barely above a whisper when you murmur, "Not yet."

He doesn't hesitate. Just nods, like that's perfectly fine, like there's no rush, no expectation. And then he shifts, moving just enough to pull you in properly, his arms wrapping around you, guiding your head against his chest. You go easily, pressing into him, into the slow rise and fall of his breath, the steady thrum of his heart.

And for the first time all day, you breathe.

He holds you like he has no intention of letting go. Like it's the only thing he wants to do. And maybe it is, because he strokes your back in slow, soothing circles, presses a kiss to the top of your head every so often, murmuring little things between breaths.

"I've got you, my love. I'm right here."

"It's okay. Just breathe."

"I love you. I love you so much."

And it helps. It doesn't fix everything, doesn't erase the weight of the day, but it makes it bearable. Makes it lighter. Because his voice is steady, warm, and his arms are strong around you, and for once, you let yourself lean on him instead of trying to carry it all alone.

Your breathing slows. Your heartbeat evens out against his.

After a while, he shifts just slightly, just enough to glance down at you, voice gentle when he asks, "You wanna stay like this for a while? Or is there something else I can do for you?"

It takes you a second to answer. Not because you don't know, but because it feels like so long since someone's asked you that and meant it. Like really meant it.

And when you finally do murmur, "I'm... kinda hungry," you feel sheepish about it.

But Dick just smiles, presses another soft kiss into your hair, like that's the easiest thing in the world to fix. "Yeah?" he hums. "What do you want to eat, sweet girl?"

You shrug a little, because you don't know, not really. You're just... hungry. And maybe a little drained. And maybe just overwhelmed by the simple fact that he cares enough to ask.

But Dick doesn't push. Just tips his head slightly, considering, before he says, "What if I get us some ramen, baby?" he mpauses, tilting his head so he can catch your eyes, even in the dim light of the bedroom. "It's comforting, and you like it. But if you want something else, just say it and it's yours."

The way he says it, so matter of fact, like it's not even a question, like your needs are just as important as anything else, makes your throat feel tight all over again.

But you swallow past it and shake your head, voice small but certain when you murmur, "No. Ramen sounds good."

His smile softens. "Yeah?"

You nod.

And he doesn't make you move. Doesn't untangle himself from you, doesn't try to pry your arms away from where they're still clinging to him. He just shifts enough to grab his phone from his pocket, orders your usual beside his without a second thought, then sets it down again and pulls you right back in.

You exhale. Sink into him a little more, his warmth, his scent, his steady presence. And when you inhale again, it feels easier. Lighter.

The sound of the doorbell barely registers, but Dick shifts against you, murmuring, "That'll be our food, baby."

You don't want to move. You just started feeling okay again, cocooned in his arms, warmth pressed against warmth, steady heartbeat anchoring you like a lifeline. But he coaxes you up, not far, just enough to let him stand, just enough for him to pull you along with him.

"Come on, sweet girl," he murmurs, leading you into the living room. He sits you down on the couch, grabs your favorite fuzzy blanket from where it's draped over the back, and tucks it around your shoulders with such care it makes your chest ache. "Stay here, okay? I'll get it."

You nod. Just barely. And he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your hair before stepping away to answer the door.

You hear the quiet murmur of thanks as he takes the bags, the shuffling of his wallet, the door clicking shut again. Then he's back, setting the food down on the coffee table, unbagging it, portioning things out before handing you your bowl and chopsticks.

"Here you go, my love," he says, sitting beside you. "Eat."

You glance down at the ramen, warm and fragrant in your hands. You don't even realize how long you hesitate until Dick nudges your knee with his.

You sigh through your nose but take a bite, and the moment the warmth hits your tongue, you realize just how hungry you really are. How empty your stomach has felt all day.

"C'mon," he says softly. "You gotta eat, baby."

Dick watches you, smiling faintly as he takes a bite of his own. But between every few bites, his eyes flick toward your bowl, making sure you're still eating. And when he catches you pausing again, staring into space, he taps his chopsticks against your bowl with a little clink and raises an eyebrow at you.

"Eat," he says again, teasing this time.

And you do, because he's here, because it's warm, because—despite everything—this is the safest you've felt all day.

After dinner, you don't move much. You curl into Dick's side, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, fingers lazily trailing up and down your spine. The TV is on, some random show playing in the background, but neither of you are really watching it. It's just there, filling the quiet spaces.

And at some point, you tilt your head slightly, press your cheek against his shirt, and let it out. The words come slowly at first, a little hesitant, like you're still deciding if you should, but Dick doesn't rush you. Just listens.

You tell him how you slept too much this morning, which threw everything off. How the coffee machine broke before you could even get a sip. How you didn't have time for breakfast, how you stepped straight into a puddle as soon as you walked outside, how the traffic was hell, how you were late to work.

And work itself? Awful. Demanding. A million things to do, not enough time to do them. And then your lunch got mixed up with someone else's, so you had to go the whole day on nothing but stress and frustration.

And then the bus was late. And the driver ignored you. And you had to wait for the next, which was full and uncomfortable. And when you were almost home, a car sped through a pothole and splashed cold, filthy water on your legs. And then, your wallet.

Your voice is a little rough as you tell him that someone must have lifted it because when you went to grab it, it was gone. No cash, no cards, nothing.

And then... your mom called.

Dick stiffens beneath you. Because that—that—explains so much.

He's always known how much she weighs on you. How nothing is ever enough for her. How no matter what you do, how hard you try, it never seems to make her happy. How you keep reaching for something you'll never grasp, keep hoping for things to change even though you know they won't.

And it makes him angry because how the fuck could she not see it? How could she not see how much you try, how much you give, how much you love? How could she not see how amazing you are?

The words taper off into a sigh, soft and tired, like the weight of the day has finally settled into your bones. And Dick... he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes against your back as he processes everything you've just said.

How could she not treasure you? But he doesn't say any of that. Not when you're still curled into him, voice soft and tired and frayed around the edges. He just holds you a little tighter and keeps listening.

Then, he exhales. Steadies his voice. Keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, because this isn't about him. It's about you.

"She's wrong," he murmurs. "She always has been."

You shift against him slightly, but he doesn't let you pull away. Just holds you close, presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're enough," he says. "You always have been."

His voice is firm, but it's soft, too. Not an argument, not a debate, just a fact. A truth he needs you to understand.

You close your eyes, pressing closer, breathing him in like you need it, like it's the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You try so hard, baby. You give so much, and I know she'll never see it the way she should, but I do."

His fingers brush up, tangle lightly in your hair, thumb sweeping gentle over your temple. "I see you. And I love you so fucking much. Just as you are. You don't have to prove anything to me."

"And I wish she could see it," he murmurs. "I wish she could love you the way you deserve, but if she won't—" he exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That's her loss."

A pause. Then, "You are everything to me."

And God, he means it. Every word. Every syllable.

He can feel it in the way you exhale, the way your body melts against his, how the tension finally starts to ebb away. And then you shift, just enough to tilt your head, to glance up at him through red rimmed eyes and damp lashes, and you whisper, voice still rough with emotion.

"I love you so much, baby."

His chest aches. A slow, easy smile tugs at his lips as he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I love you too, sweet girl."

You sigh at that, soft and warm, nuzzling back into his chest as he wraps his arms around you again.

A quiet beat. Then he murmurs, "Better?"

You let the weight of everything pull you down, taking what little autonomy you had away. Spiraling, you thought about all the disappointment that you had caused, the people you’d lost, the things you could’ve been, the mistake you’d made, the overwhelming grief of everything you’d ever done. It all crashed into you like a broken dam, and you found yourself drowning in the blink of an eye. 

You were so sorry. For everything. You wished you could fix it or be a better person or something. But you couldn’t change it, no matter what you did. Tears started to stream out of your eyes, and as it all hit you, you started to hyperventilate. The small sobs turned into frantic gasps for air as you became more and more trapped. Suddenly, a shadow of a figure stood over you on the bed. You hoped it was death, coming to take you away from your suffering, but all it did was sit you up so you didn’t choke on your own snot. You brought your face to your knees, avoiding looking at him. 

Catching your breath, you managed to force out words, “Go away Spencer.”

“No.” You felt your weight shift as he sat on the bed. “You need someone here.”

“You don’t deserve to suffer along with me. Go home.”

“Your therapist said it’s better to have someone with you when you get like this, I’m not leaving.”

You lifted your head briefly to glare at him, then turned onto your side to hide your crying. The hollow ache was only growing, consuming your every thought. You didn’t want him to see you this way.

He interrupted your thoughts quietly. “Do you want to sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want me to sleep with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want water?”

“Please stop asking me questions.” It came out harsher than you intended, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take it back. “I don’t want anything.”

“Okay.” Spencer’s voice came out in a whisper. “I’m going to go work in the living room, please let me know if you do.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

You didn’t answer. 

—-----------

You didn’t know how long it had been since you’d forced Spencer out of your room. You had been staring at the wall for the majority of the day, spiraling and attempting to cover the sound of your crying with your blanket. Finally, your body screamed for water, so you made your concrete bones get out of bed. 

You snuck past Spencer, who had fallen asleep on the couch somewhere in the middle of editing a games video and filled a glass of water from the kitchen sink. You drank one, then refilled it to take it to your room. Halfway there, your body decided that since you’d had water, it was time to go back to your tomb of existential dread and stopped you dead in your tracks. Going back to bed was too much work. You set your water glass down on the side table and laid on the carpet in front of your couch. It was as good of a place as any.

The ceiling here was more interesting than the one in your room. The fading light of the day mixed with the raindrops on your windowpanes created streaks of warmth that were brighter than anything you had seen all day. It was almost calming. Almost.

Spencer stirred, blearily blinking as he noticed you on the floor. “You moved.”

“Got water. Gave up halfway through.”

“Can I join?”

“Sure.” He dragged the blanket he had been tucked under over to you, covering the two of you before fully laying down. The sunlight, the blanket, and his presence lightened the burden a little. “I’m sorry for being mean earlier.”

“It’s okay, you were overwhelmed.”

“Still, you just wanted to help.”

“No offense, but I don’t know if you wanted to be helped.”

“Not particularly.” 

The two of you spent a while in silence, you thinking and Spencer falling into a dreamy half slumber, before you spoke again. 

“Sometimes I just want to disappear.” Spencer hummed, prompting you to continue. “Like if I laid on the forest floor, the moss could grow over me like a blanket and I’d become part of the Earth.”

“I’d miss you.”

You sighed shakily. “I’m tired, Spence. Tired of living like this.” 

He squeezed your hand under the blanket. “I know honey. I just wish there was more I could do.” 

“I think I’m broken. Irreparable. You shouldn’t have to fix me. I don’t know if I’m fixable. All I do is drag you down.”

“Hey, listen to me. You are not broken.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you, continuing. “You are you. I would not have you any other way, and that includes the messy and bad days. I just want you to feel better, and that means being here with you, no fixing involved.” 

You took a moment before responding. “What if I never get better?”

“I’ll still be here.”

“You deserve someone who isn’t like this. Someone who won’t snap at you or stare at the ceiling for an entire day.”

“I only want you and I’m choosing you, even on days like today, because I love you more than anything in the world.”

That made your thoughts still. “Okay.”

“Okay.” 

“I love you too.” 

He squeezed your hand again, then got up. “I’m hungry, so I’m going to make grilled cheese.” 

Your stomach finally grumbled, alerting you for the first time that day. “Can I have one too please?”

“Of course, extra cheese, just how you like it.”