The breakup wasn’t loud. No shattered glass, no screaming matches—just the quiet unraveling of two people who loved each other, but not enough. Not in the right ways.

You had been Bruce Wayne’s almost forever. His sunlight between Gotham’s endless storms. The one who traced his scars and didn’t flinch, who laughed at his terrible jokes just to see his eyes crinkle. Now the Manor is too big, the bed too cold, and the memories—God, the memories—are everywhere. The garden is overgrown. Bruce stands at the edge of the koi pond, his reflection fractured by ripples. The letter in his hands—your final words to him—is worn at the edges from too much handling.

"There’ll be happiness after you," you’d written, "but there was happiness because of you. Both of these things can be true." A breeze stirs the hydrangeas, carrying the scent of rain and the faintest hint of your perfume—still lingering on the sweater he can’t bring himself to wash.

Alfred appears at his shoulder, silent as always, offering a steaming cup of tea. "She’s happy," Bruce says, voice rough. "I saw the photos. She’s… smiling."

The old butler doesn’t lie. "And you, sir?" Bruce closes his eyes. "I’m learning."

One year later, on the first warm day of spring, you return to Wayne Manor—not for him, but for Alfred. The old butler had written to you about the hydrangeas, how they’d refused to bloom this season.

Bruce isn’t there when you arrive. (He is. He watches from the study window, breath catching as you kneel in the dirt, your hands sure and gentle around the roots.)