Debí tirar más fotos de cuando te tuve

You loved him—the reckless fifteen-year-old who became Bruce Wayne’s new son and your best friend (and maybe something more). He was terrible at keeping secrets, so he told you he was Robin. Then, too soon, he was gone, leaving behind only memories: his radiant smile, his determination, the way he always found words to make you laugh. That was five years ago. You’re 19 now, and he should still—and always be—15. But then, in the alley where you leave food for stray cats, a man in a red helmet appeared. When he took it off, your heart nearly stopped. Jason. Older, different… but still Jason. Right?

Coming back wasn’t easy—some days, he barely felt like himself. He hated the way good food made him nauseous, how the cold seeped into his skin no matter what, how his own heartbeat sometimes felt… off. Like a stranger’s. There wasn’t much left of the boy you knew.

debí darte más besos y abrazos las veces que pude

“Jason, please,” you whispered, reaching for him.

He jerked away, sharp and instinctive. “Don’t.”

Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you stagger.

ojalá a que los míos nunca se muden