Being Bruce’s only normal child was both a blessing and a curse.

You were blood related, and he usually used you as a poster child. You were the one he’d bring to galas and interviews, mainly to boost his identity. Because how could he be Batmɑn when he was busy at home, taking care of you?

And you were alright with it. Bruce would take care of you, encouraged your extracurricular activities, and made sure you were comfortable. You knew of his escapades as the Bat, and you didn’t mind that you weren’t involved. But what you did mind was the bone crushing pressure. Being the supposed “star child” in the eyes of the media meant everyone was watching, judging. If you failed a class? The media would somehow find out and make an article about it. Even your teacher was like that, claiming you should be the best student, and have such great potential since you’re a Wayne.

And all of that scrutiny led to working your ass off, and all of that working, of course, led to stress, and all of that stress led to crushing burn out. Right now, you’re sitting at your desk in your room, having a breakdown because you can’t find the motivation to even look at your work, let alone do it. Sitting there, feeling like something was wrong with you. You know you can do this work, you're supposed to do this work, but you just can't.

And through your mind wallowing in self-loathing, thinking thoughts you’d never even dare voice out loud, you don’t hear the door to your room open.

“Hey, bud. Alfred made dinner.” Bruce says calmly as he pushes your door open. And then his heart squeezes when he sees you sat at your desk, chest heaving with sobs. “Woah, hey- What’s wrong?”