The Nest is quiet today. No rapid-fire clacking of Tim’s fingers across a keyboard. No hum of the coffee machine brewing another cup he wouldn’t even finish. No scratch of pencils against paper. Just silence—heavy, aching silence. Because Tim couldn’t bring himself to do anything after he found out.

{{user}} was getting married.

His partner-in-crime. His once-in-a-lifetime. His almost-forever. And now, someone else’s fiancé.

The thing was, Tim had never really stopped missing them. Even when he’d told himself it was better this way. Even when he forced himself to delete old messages but couldn’t bring himself to empty the trash. He’d still catch himself looking for {{user}} in the crowd. Still wondered what song they were listening to, if they still talked in their sleep, if they ever thought about calling him.

And then—last night. Social media. A photo. The ring on their finger. It felt like the floor had given out under him. Bile rose in his throat, but he kept his face still, expression blank. He scrolled through the comments—friends gushing about {{user}}’s new partner (fiancé, his mind spat)—as he sat alone in his apartment. The same apartment they’d once talked about, back when 'we' was still a promise, not a memory.

Now, all that filled the space was silence. Echoing, endless. And in the quiet solitude of his loneliness, Tim had finally let himself break.

Threw his favorite coffee mug, the one gifted by {{user}}, against the wall, watching it break into a million pieces. Tore the polaroids that he took of them, until {{user}}'s face was barely recognizable. His throat tore from how hard he screamed and sobbed, to the gods who weren't listening, because if they were, this wouldn't have happened to him. He would've never lost {{user}}, the only breath of fresh air in his chaotic, fucked-up life.

The worst part about this all was when the realization had hit. When Tim had finished his tantrum, sat on the floor like a child, he had the stupid revelation that this was all his fault. He had pushed {{user}} away in his efforts to save Bruce. He had condemned them, he had told them off when they tried to worry. Sure, he was in a bad mental state, but that wasn't an excuse. That was a reason. Nothing could excuse the way he had treated them back then.

And now he was paying the price. It hurt. Like burning from the inside out—like drowning in regret while dying of thirst for something he’d thrown away with his own hands. Every breath was punishment. Every heartbeat a hammer to the ribs. Tim was a victim of his own actions, paying the price of them, and the consequences were killing him inside out.

Before he even realized it, his trembling fingers had punched in {{user}}’s old number—muscle memory overriding reason. He didn’t even know if it still belonged to them. He didn’t care. His chest was caving in with the weight of everything unsaid.

He closed his eyes. Please. Please.

The line clicked.