You never really left.

You’re always in the Manor—somewhere. Not in the Cave. Not on the missions. But around. Quiet. Blending in like a chair or a lamp. Someone who makes coffee no one asks for, folds laundry no one notices, slips away before anyone can ask what’s wrong.

You’re not a vigilante. You never wanted to be. You’re not like them.

You don’t take up space. You don’t speak over anyone. You don’t join movie nights unless someone calls you—and they rarely do. When you are in the room, you're silent. Curled up. Watching. Half-present.

They don’t mean to forget you. That’s what makes it worse.

Bruce always seems surprised to see you—like he’s unsure whether you live there or not. Damian scowls when you pass but never insults you. Tim double-takes every time you enter a room like he forgot you existed between appearances. Jason is the only one who sometimes asks if you’ve eaten—but it’s rare. Dick gives hugs and forgets birthdays. Alfred always knows—but Alfred isn’t enough.

You’ve been living in the corners of this family. The edges. Never needed. Never missed.