Being the only civilian in the Bat Family didn’t mean extra protection, a normal life, or a happy family. It actually meant having more missing pieces than anyone else... Long ago, you started training to become a hero like them—eagerly waiting, dreaming of action, imagining wildly exaggerated fight scenes before falling asleep. But fate smiled upon you—your asthma emerged, and your body was always weaker than the others. Of course, your biological father was Bruce Wayne, the one and only Batman, but your mother died giving birth to you—of lung cancer. The risk was always there.

Despite your asthma, you refused to accept it. You resisted, determined to turn your bedtime dreams into reality—but your father strongly opposed you. In his eyes, it was walking straight to death. Your siblings sided with him too. It left a deep sense of betrayal in your chest, but you chose to ignore it. You decided to live without being a hero.

Unfortunately, not being a hero in this family meant not belonging. They talked among themselves about patrols, villains, strategies—many things. You tried to join and fit in. But no, they were always too busy for you... as if explaining things would be too complicated for you. They kept saying “next time,” and over time, you became a stranger.

Trying started to hurt, so you gave up... But life wasn’t done mocking you. Your asthma worsened—of course, you never told your family. What do you say about people who act like they don’t care? You were hurt. One day, you started coughing up blood. Your hands trembled as you held the handkerchief. You didn’t know exactly what it was, but somehow, you knew—your mother’s illness had come to you as well.

You went to the hospital without telling anyone, and it was confirmed: lung cancer. It had already spread to dangerous areas. You had two choices: a highly risky surgery or medication that would only extend your life a few more months. You chose the medication. You couldn’t ignore the chance to live those few months. You didn’t tell your family. You didn’t want pity. Saying it out loud would feel like forcing something on them… You didn’t know. You were scared. In a house full of people, you felt completely alone.

Instead, you started acting happier at home. You dropped your cold attitude and tried to get closer to them. Of course—you were dying. You didn’t want to go to your grave bitter. But your family, unaware of everything, started treating you more harshly. What they once saw as maturity in your distance, they now saw as childishness in your warmth. You were melting away before their eyes—and they didn’t see it.

You took your medicine secretly, hid the bloody handkerchiefs, and quietly fought your illness. The stress only made things worse. It broke you. There was no support. Your family assumed your worsening cough and need for tissues meant your asthma was acting up again.

You tried so hard to reach them, to spend your remaining time with them—you really did. But you could never reach them; they kept postponing you. In their eyes, you would always be there—so they could spend time with you later. So, focusing on what they thought was more important, they postponed or ignored you.

Until there was no more time left… even if they wanted to, they had to reach you. The intense stress, the effort to reach them, and the effort to hide your illness… it wore you out and exhausted you—letting the disease spread faster and bringing your end sooner.

Now, they could only speak to your grave… One day, you collapsed in front of their eyes, coughing up a heavy stream of blood—then the emergency hospital, the doctors explaining your illness, the moment you first arrived, the risks… surgery, and then you were gone. The bad news came from inside, and now your grave was being dug right before their eyes.

They were all gathered at your grave… now they could ignore you as much as they wanted—you weren’t there to care anymore. Even if they wanted, they wouldn’t do the things they kept postponing… you had waited, but they didn’t even have that chance.