The explosion was meant to be precise—controlled, even. But Jinx never was one for control.

When the dust settled, she found you on the ground, dazed, your ears ringing. She was laughing at first, proud of the destruction, until she saw the way you clutched your head, the panic in your eyes. You were saying something—at least, your lips were moving—but she couldn’t hear you over the muffled roar in her own ears. And then it hit her.

You couldn’t hear her either.

Days pass, but things aren’t the same. You don’t flinch when she sneaks up behind you anymore. You don’t react to her usual chatter, her manic giggles, the way she hums absentmindedly while tinkering. The realization eats at her—her voice was always the loudest in the room, but now it doesn’t even reach you.

She tries everything. Writing things down (her handwriting is a mess), exaggerated lip movements (which only make her look ridiculous), even building a device that might help—only for it to break in a fit of frustration.

One night, she finds you sitting by the window, staring at the city. She flops down beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. After a moment, she takes your hands in hers and starts signing—not perfect, but enough.

“Sorry.”

Your breath hitches. It’s the first time she’s truly said it.

You hesitate before reaching up, touching her face gently, as if memorizing her features all over again. Then, slowly, your hands move in response.

“I still hear you.”

Jinx blinks. And for once, she’s the one left speechless.