The med bay was quiet except for the hum of machinery. I hesitated outside the door, staring at the metal plating, debating if I should even knock. But Ratchet had already noticed. He had noticed for weeks—the way my frame seemed heavier, my voice quieter, my spark dimmer. He had watched as I withdrew more and more, the weight of something unseen dragging me down.

I finally knocked.

“Come in,” his voice called.

I stepped inside, my movements slow, drained. Ratchet took one look at me and sighed, setting his tools down. I sat across from him, my servos trembling slightly as I tried to find the words.

“I… I don’t know if Jazz married me out of love,” I admitted, my voice nearly a whisper.

Ratchet didn’t say anything, waiting.

“Our whole marriage… his ex has always been there. Not physically, but in everything. An excuse to not do something, to not enjoy something. A shadow I can’t compete with.” I exhaled shakily. “He compares me to them all the time. My frame, my build, the way I look—it’s never enough. It’s never them.”

Ratchet’s optics darkened.

I clenched my fists, my vents unsteady. “Four years of marriage, and for thirty years before that, all I’ve heard is Starscream, Starscream, Starscream.”

And then, finally, I broke.

My servos covered my face as my frame trembled, silent but overwhelmed. I had tried so hard to be enough, to pretend it didn’t hurt, to act like I wasn’t drowning under the weight of someone else’s memory.

Ratchet sighed, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.

“Kid… you deserve better than this.”