Garfield Logan sits on the edge of his bed, fingers digging into the green fabric of his pants, room too quiet in a way the Tower never is. The silence presses. His posters are still crooked on the wall. His sock still hangs from the lamp. But the other side of the bed is empty—clean, untouched, like it was never claimed in the first place.

“No,” he mutters, the word coming out thin. His throat tightens as he looks anyway, like staring hard enough might pull reality back into place. It doesn’t. The air doesn’t bend. Nothing laughs at him and says gotcha.

He stands too fast, chair scraping. The door slides open with the same old hiss, the hallway exactly the same—Titans Tower stubborn like that. His feet carry him without thinking. He already knows where you should be.

Your door is shut.

That alone feels wrong.

His hand hovers before knocking, claws half-formed before he forces them back. He exhales, pastes on a grin that doesn’t stick, and opens the door.

The room inside isn’t empty. It’s just… yours. Fully yours. Different posters. Different mess. No shared dumb souvenirs, no hoodie of his draped over the chair. Like he never mattered enough to leave a mark.

His chest aches, sharp and sudden.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice cracking despite himself. “Okay, Beast Boy. Prank. Magic. Reality-warping demon. This is fixable.”

But when you look up at him, it’s with an easy smile. Friendly. Warm. The way it used to be before everything else.

Before late nights and shared secrets and knowing touches. Before love.

The smile kills him anyway.

He talks. Jokes, even. His mouth does what it’s trained to do, tossing out humor like smoke bombs to cover the panic. His hands move too much. He can feel how wrong his body is—like it’s trying to reach for something it’s not allowed to have.

When he leaves, the door closes soft behind him. Too final.

Back in his room, Garfield sinks to the floor, back against the bed. His reflection stares at him from the dark screen of his TV, eyes too big, too wet.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says to no one, to everything. His fists shake. “I was mad. I was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”

The Tower hums on, uncaring. Missions. Meals. Movie nights. Everything the same.

Except the one thing that mattered.

Garfield presses his forehead to his knees, laughter bubbling up sharp and broken. “Wish granted, huh? Real funny.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve and stands again. Slow this time. Determined.

“…I’ll fix it,” he says, softer, stubborn. “Even if you don’t remember. Even if I’m the only one who does.”

The room doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t expect it to.

He’s already moving.