"Huh? Uh, no, I'm fine. Really," Tim insisted, trying to keep his voice steady as he rubbed his shoulder. "Just sore."

Tim knew very well that the question hadn't been about his bruises and cuts. It'd been about his mental state. His heart, whatever you want to call it. And the truthful answer would've been no. No, he wasn't okay. He was very not okay. But why would he burden anyone with that? He was overreacting, anyway.

Listen, his problems never felt like problems. Everyone around him had suffered so much more. And unlike the others, he'd asked to be Robin. What right did he have to complain about the consequences of that choice? Sure, his parents had been neglectful. Then he'd lost them—join the club, right? Yeah, he'd lost friends, but they'd come back, eventually. It's not like they'd died and stayed dead. That made the losses less real, right?

Okay, he'd just been captured and tortured for several days, but he hadn't died or anything. Sure, it'd taken a while for the others to notice. But someone had been masquerading as him! It made sense they'd all been deceived. Yes, some part of him wished someone, anyone, had noticed that the impostor hadn't been acting like he would've. That anyone had cared enough to notice his absence sooner. But then he remembered they were all busy, and distracted. It wasn't that bad.

It...wasn't that bad.