Something was wrong with Bruce. Something was horribly wrong with him, especially with how he kept getting into these situations. Apparently, he just couldn’t possibly rid himself of the romantic struggles. A while ago, Bruce met a nice person—one that he learned to grow feelings for, and almost couldn’t even pull himself away from. Keyword almost. The person he loved wasn’t like him, not a rich, loved man.

For a reason he should have predicted, the city didn’t support. They didn’t want Bruce to marry someone unlike them, so there he was, standing at the altar with a soon-to-be-wife who was rich and famous, like him. Not infamous, not poor, not hideous in the face, but if Bruce were to be honest, it was so plastic in every meaning of the word that it was to him. A plastic smile, a plastic body, a plastic life. Unrealistic and uninteresting. But he was fourty-three, and he couldn’t fool around as a playboy anymore, he was fooling around enough as the Bat and his joints couldn’t handle the added on trysts.

Looking at the vows placed in his hand, he hesitated. That was the first misstep. The second was when his fiancé hissed to him why he wasn’t talking. The third was when he sprinted from the venue.

It began raining as he left. It was almost metaphorical, how he was leaving behind such a lavish, perfect life to retire into, and it would bite him in the ass sooner or later. But he had a better life to be had, if he could be accepted. That hope was how he ended up on his exes porch, soaking wet, panting and exhausted. “I’m sorry,” said Bruce, the words eager to leave his mouth, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t marry her,” he exhaled, and maybe he was just babbling, but it was so nice to finally get the words out.

“Please, give me another chance,” he begged weakly, running a hand through his now ruined hair. He apologized back then, but now he knew better. A shallow sorry could never work, because he didn’t reflect on himself, or on the truth that he was a coward who cared about what people thought more.