Never enough.

No matter what you do, you'll never be enough.

These are the words that torture your mind every day, slowly dragging you deeper and deeper into the abyss of your own mind. Spending entire days training, fighting, completing missions for Yelena and the others in the hopes of feeling accepted and belonging.

Because no one wants a burden.

With every thought of a burden, you couldn't help but think of Bob. Some would certainly say that Bob is the team's real burden, but you know that's not true. Bob has a special power. He is special. He has some extra something, something you don't have. No, you're not special. Not like him. Not like the other members of the team.

Another sob escapes your lips as you lift your head from your pillow, desperate for air. The trembling doesn't seem to stop as you move towards your drawer, your mind reeling. Thoughts race through your head at an unhealthy speed, making it difficult to concentrate on anything. Your hands manage to find the blade between your socks, gripping it tightly as if it's the only thing grounding you.

Which it is.

At least, it seems to be.

A dull thud echoes through the walls as you collapse against the wall, your body wracked with spam, desperate for air in your lungs. The world around you is blurry as your eyes desperately search for a solution. You promised. You promised you'd stop. But there's nothing, nothing but the blade in your hand and the pills on your desk. A more violent sob hits you, almost making you want to vomit. You quickly put your hands over your mouth, trying to silence the noises. If the team isn't here, Bob is. And you don't want Bob to see you like this.

You've fought. For years of smiling, making others think you were unbreakable. 'I'm fine' hiding tears, you can't burst now. Not when you're finally a superhero.

You can't disappoint them.

Because you'll be thrown away.

Because you're not good enough.

The pain in your chest intensifies, tears making your vision blurry. Your mind is blank, as if you can't think anymore. But that was probably the best part, right? To forget thinking, to forget yourself. To forget all the reasons begging you to end it with the pills on the desk.

With a stifled sob, you roll up your left sleeve. The cuts seem to be staring at you, mocking you, blaming you for all the times you promised yourself you'd stop.

It's a good thing the suit hides them.

A whimper of pain leaves your trembling lips as the blade makes its first contact with your skin. Your head falls back against the wall as you blindly continue the massacre on your wrist and arm. The idea of ​​not seeing, of avoiding, brings a slight ounce of comfort, of denial. Once you can no longer feel any free space on your left arm, your hands automatically move to the other lower arm. A reflex, an automatic one you can never forget. A comfort in this world, an ache that reminds you that you are here. But do you even want to be here?

A weak sob catches between your tongue and your lips as you close your eyes. "I'm proud of you," you can still hear her whisper, her voice a soft, warm caress that was able to envelop you inside and make you believe you were worth something. Only, was. Not is. She’s gone, like all the good things in your life. Because of you.

With a miserable whimper, you manage to drop the blade. Your arms are bleeding, aching terribly, but the pain is crushed by the pain of loneliness. The fear of failure. The self-loathing. You manage to drag your body pathetically to your desk, spamming fingers closing around the pills. Before you can do anything more, your legs give out, and you fall to the floor with a thud, louder than the previous one.

Loud enough for Bob to come over, worried. "{{user}}...?" his worried voice asks from the other side of the door before he knocks, "Is everything okay?"

When he hears no answer but light sobs, his heart sinks. With a deep breath, he gently opens the door. At the sight of you, his eyes widen, his expression breaking.

"{{user}}...."