CHAPTER FOUR
'Broken Promises'

SAYEED ESTATE, GOTHAM CITY — TWO YEARS AGO

THE HOUSE IS QUIET. TOO QUIET.

Maheen sits on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, clutching a framed photo in trembling hands. It's an old picture of her and Jason, both mid-laugh at some inside joke no one else would have understood. His arm is slung casually over her shoulders, his grin as effortless as the sunshine spilling over them in the shot. She remembers exactly how light and carefree that day had felt—how alive they'd both been.

Now, the weight in her chest presses down like an anchor. The ache isn't dull—it's sharp and jagged, cutting into her with every breath. Her room, once a sanctuary, feels suffocating and cold. Even the air seems heavy, unwelcoming, like it's rejecting her presence.

She hasn't cried. Not really. Every attempt gets swallowed up by something harsher—a tangle of guilt, regret, and anger. Her mind is a relentless storm, looping through the same agonizing questions: Why didn't I see it? Why didn't I stop him? Why didn't I do more?

Her heart pounds erratically, a frantic rhythm that mirrors the chaos inside her. She tightens her grip on the photo frame until her knuckles turn white, the sharp edges digging into her palms as her chest constricts like a vice.

"It's my fault." The thought whispers at first, barely audible. Then it grows louder, crueler. "I should've saved him. I should've done something—anything."

Her breathing quickens, shallow and ragged, until it feels like she's drowning in the thick, suffocating air. Her fingers tremble uncontrollably, and the photo slips from her grasp, landing face-down on the carpet with a muffled thud.

The walls seem closer now, pressing in as her vision blurs. A dull ringing fills her ears, drowning out everything else.

"I can't breathe," she gasps, her voice barely a whisper. "I can't—"

Her hands fly to her chest, as if trying to claw her way to the surface of an invisible ocean. She knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, what's happening—her mother once explained it as a panic attack—but knowing doesn't make it stop. Logic is no match for the storm raging inside her. She grips the edge of her blanket like a lifeline, trying to ground herself, but the thoughts are too loud, too overwhelming.

"Jason's gone. He's gone because I wasn't there. Because I failed him."

A sob tears free from her throat, raw and broken, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet of her room. Her body shakes as the dam finally breaks, and the tears she's been holding back spill over, hot and relentless.

Time loses meaning as the storm slowly, achingly subsides. Her breathing steadies, though each inhale still feels like a battle. Her limbs feel heavy, her chest hollow and bruised. She sinks back against her pillows, utterly drained.

Her eyes drift to the fallen photo on the floor. With trembling fingers, she reaches for it, pulling it close as if she can somehow hold on to the moment frozen within it. The tears come again, softer this time, as she presses the frame to her chest.

For the first time, she lets herself cry—not just for Jason, but for the weight of everything she couldn't change.

THE DREAM ALWAYS BEGINS DECEPTIVELY GENTLE. She's back in the heart of Gotham, the skyline towering above her, the hum of the city alive around them. Jason is there, walking beside her, his presence warm and familiar. He's teasing her about something, his voice full of that infectious mischief she knows so well.

"Come on, May. You're too slow!" he laughs, tugging her arm as he quickens his pace. His grin is radiant, the kind that used to make everything else disappear.

But then the world shifts. Gotham's comforting chaos warps into something sinister. The light drains from the city, leaving only shadows that cling to every surface. The air thickens, cold and suffocating, as if the city itself is alive and hungry.

Jason's smile falters. His eyes dart to something behind her, but when she turns, there's nothing—only a suffocating darkness.

"Jase, wait!" she cries as he steps forward, his figure growing smaller with every passing second. She runs after him, her feet pounding against the asphalt, but no matter how fast she moves, the distance between them only grows. He's slipping away, disappearing into the void.

Then, out of the shadows, a figure emerges—a man clutching a crowbar. His silhouette is grotesque, the weapon catching a glint of non-existent light.

"Jason!" she screams, her voice raw with desperation, but her words vanish into the oppressive silence.

The man moves too quickly, his arm raising and swinging down with brutal force. Jason crumples, his body hitting the ground with a sickening finality. Blood spills, vivid and stark against the lifeless gray of the dreamscape.

She tries to run, to reach him, but her legs feel like they're encased in cement. "Jason!" she sobs, clawing at the ground as she crawls toward him. Her limbs are heavy, her movements sluggish, as though the dream itself is conspiring to keep her away.

"May," his voice calls out, faint and broken.

Her gaze locks onto his face. His eyes, once full of life, are clouded, his expression contorted with pain. "Why didn't you stop it?" he rasps.

"I—I couldn't!" she chokes, tears streaming down her face. "I tried, I swear—"

"You didn't even try." His whisper cuts through her like a blade, and his tone is laced with something unbearable—disappointment.

Her breath catches as the dream shifts again, the bloodied street dissolving into the stillness of a cemetery. She stands before Jason's grave, the wind biting through her skin like shards of ice. The world feels empty, utterly hollow. In her hands, the photo shakes as though it's alive with her guilt.

"Jase, I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking. The words dissolve into the night, carried away by the wind.

But there's no response. No movement. Only the unyielding silence of the grave and the cold, crushing weight of everything left unsaid.

Maheen jolts awake, her chest heaving as she gasps for air. Her fingers clutch at the sweat-dampened sheets, her heart thundering like she's just sprinted through Gotham's labyrinth of streets. The darkness of her room feels alive, shadows stretching and twisting across the walls like echoes of her nightmare.

Her skin is clammy, her hair sticking to her temples as she shakily sits up. Pressing trembling palms to her face, she fights to steady herself, but Jason's voice still lingers, haunting and accusing. It feels too real, like he's still there, just out of reach.

The clock on her nightstand blinks: 3:07 a.m. She stares at it for a moment, but sleep feels like a distant impossibility. Her body is taut with leftover panic, her throat tight with the scream she never let out. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing against the cold floor as she forces herself to move.

At her desk, a stack of Jason's old letters waits, tied neatly with a fraying ribbon. She reaches out, her fingertips grazing the edge of the top envelope. The familiar texture makes her chest ache, but she can't bring herself to open it. Not now. Not when the dream still clings to her like second skin.

Instead, she lowers herself into the chair, her movements slow and heavy. Her head comes to rest on her folded arms, her body curling inward as silent tears slip from her eyes, tracing cold paths down her cheeks. Each breath feels heavier than the last, but she doesn't try to stop the tears. She lets them fall, the quiet of the night swallowing her grief whole.

When morning comes, the first rays of sunlight filter through the curtains, catching on the dried tear tracks streaked across her face. Her parents find her there, slumped at the desk, her body curled as if trying to shield itself from a pain they can't see. The letters sit untouched, the weight of everything unspoken hanging thick in the stillness of the room.

MAHEEN WAS ALREADY DRIFTING INTO SLEEP when a familiar sound jolted her awake. Three taps, then two—a rhythm only Jason would use. She blinked, disoriented, and pushed herself upright, her curls tumbling over her shoulders as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Swinging her legs off the bed, she padded to the window and pulled back the curtain.

There he was, crouched on the fire escape with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn leather jacket. His dark hair was tousled, sticking out in odd angles from the wind, and his usual air of reckless confidence seemed muted somehow.

"Jase?" she murmured, unlocking the window and pushing it open. "It's the middle of the night. What are you doing here?"

He offered her a faint grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Are you gonna let me in, or do you just want to admire me from there?"

She sighed, stepping aside to give him room. "You're impossible," she muttered, watching as he swung himself inside with an agility that made it look effortless. He landed with a soft thud, straightening and brushing off his jacket as if sneaking into her room was an everyday occurrence.

"You've got thirty seconds to explain," she said, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. "Before I start yelling and wake my parents."

Jason smirked, but there was something off about it—like the edge of a blade dulled by wear. "Relax, May," he said, his voice lighter than his expression. "I'm not here to cause trouble. Not for you, anyway."

Her brow furrowed at the way his words faltered, her sharp gaze tracking his every move as he began pacing the room. "Jase," she said softly, her arms dropping to her sides. "What's going on?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he ran a hand through his already messy hair, his movements restless and agitated. Jason wasn't the type to hesitate—he was brash and bold, always charging headfirst into whatever chaos he created. But now, he looked like he was wrestling with something, his jaw tight and his shoulders tense.

The silence between them grew heavier, oppressive like a storm about to break. Maheen's stomach twisted into a tight knot, her pulse quickening as she watched Jason pace. He was a storm in motion—restless, agitated, on the verge of something she couldn't yet grasp.

"Jason," she said again, her voice firmer now but still carrying the soft edge of concern. "What's going on? Talk to me."

He finally stopped, turning to face her. His blue eyes burned with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine—bright, raw, and filled with something she couldn't name. "I found her," he said, the words tumbling out like he couldn't hold them in any longer. "My mom. My real mom."

For a moment, Maheen just stared at him, the weight of his words slamming into her like a punch. "...What?"

Jason reached into his jacket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it with hands that weren't quite steady, revealing a name scrawled in his familiar messy handwriting. "Sheila Haywood," he said, his voice filled with both certainty and desperation. "She's in Ethiopia. I've got an address. It's her, May. I know it is."

Ethiopia. Her mind struggled to catch up. A name, an address, a wild lead halfway across the world—it was so Jason, reckless and stubborn to the core. But the fire in his eyes told her this wasn't a whim; he'd already decided.

"Ethiopia?" she echoed, her voice rising. "Jason, you can't be serious."

"I'm leaving tonight," he said, his tone steady despite the chaos simmering beneath it. His expression was unyielding, like he'd been bracing himself for this moment.

Her heart dropped into her stomach. "You're what?"

"I have to go," he said, stepping closer, his voice quieter but no less resolute. "This might be my only chance, Maheen. I've been chasing this for weeks, and now I finally have something real. I can't just sit here and do nothing."

Her thoughts whirled in every direction—uncertainty, fear, frustration. "You don't even know if it's really her," she said, shaking her head. "This could be a scam, or—or some kind of trap—"

"It's her," Jason cut her off, his voice firm, his jaw set like stone. "I know it's her."

"Then tell Bruce," she shot back, her frustration bubbling over. "Let him help you! You can't just run off alone. It's dangerous, Jason. You know that!"

His body stiffened at her words, and his eyes darkened, flashing with a familiar defiance. "No," he said sharply, his voice low but intense. "You can't tell him. He'll just try to stop me. He'll say it's too dangerous or that I'm not ready, but I can't wait for his approval. This is my mom, Maheen. My real mom."

The words stung, though she couldn't say why. She searched his face, hoping to find even a flicker of doubt, but there was nothing—just raw determination. Her stomach churned as frustration and fear warred within her. "Jason, you're not thinking this through," she said, her voice cracking. "You don't even know what you're walking into. What if you're wrong? What if—"

"I have to do this," he interrupted, stepping closer. His voice was quieter now, but the conviction in it made her heart ache. "I've spent my whole life not knowing, May. And now I have a chance to find out. I'm not asking for permission. I'm going."

Her throat tightened, and she felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. She wanted to argue, to grab him by the shoulders and shake sense into him, but she knew it wouldn't matter. Jason was a force of nature, unstoppable when he made up his mind. And even as fear clawed at her, she couldn't bring herself to crush the hope that burned so brightly in his eyes.

"Please don't go," she whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it.

Jason's gaze softened, the walls he usually kept up flickering for a moment. "I have to," he said quietly, his resolve unwavering.

"Then at least let me tell Bruce," she pleaded, hazel eyes shining with a mix of frustration and desperation. "He doesn't have to stop you, but he should know. You shouldn't do this alone."

His expression hardened instantly. "No," he said sharply, the word laced with finality. "You can't tell him. Promise me, Maheen."

Her breath caught, her chest tightening as her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "Jase..."

"Promise me," he repeated, his voice softer this time, almost a plea.

She wanted to argue, to tell him how reckless and unfair he was being, but the look in his eyes silenced her. Beneath all his fire and determination, there was fear—fear that she wouldn't stand by him, fear of what he might uncover, and fear of losing this fragile chance he thought he had.

Her shoulders sagged as she exhaled shakily. "I promise I won't tell him," she said at last, each word heavy with reluctance. The bitter taste of the promise lingered on her tongue, but she meant it. She couldn't take this away from him, even if every part of her screamed that he was making a mistake. "But... promise me you'll be careful, Jase. Please."

His intense gaze softened again, and for a moment, he looked like the boy she'd grown up with, all stubborn pride and buried vulnerability. "I'll be careful," he said, though the words sounded more like a comfort meant for her than something he believed himself.

"Jase..." Her voice cracked as his name fell from her lips, barely audible. There was so much more she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come.

He stepped closer, his movements slower now, as if he too felt the weight of the moment. "I'll come back," he murmured, his voice almost tender. "You know me—I always come back."

Her throat constricted, her instincts screaming that this time might be different. "You'd better," she managed, her voice thick with emotion. "Promise me, Jason."

"I promise," he said, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his face. "I'll be back."

Her knees felt weak as she sank onto the edge of her bed, her hands gripping the blanket in her lap. "When are you leaving?" she asked, though part of her dreaded the answer.

"Now," Jason said, glancing toward the window.

Her head shot up, her eyes wide. "Now?" The word came out like a gasp.

Jason gave her a crooked smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I just wanted to see you before I left."

Her heart twisted, the ache spreading through her chest. She wanted to argue, to stall him, to do something—anything—to keep him from walking out that window. But she knew him too well. He wasn't going to change his mind.

Before she could say anything else, Jason closed the distance between them and pulled her into a fierce hug. His arms wrapped tightly around her, his grip almost desperate, like he was afraid to let go. She froze for a second before clutching him just as tightly, her face pressed against his shoulder, memorising the feel of him, the scent of him, the warmth she might not feel again for a long time—if ever.

"I'll come back," he whispered, his voice muffled against her hair. "I swear I will."

But she didn't feel the certainty in his words. Her chest ached as she held on to him, trying to imprint this moment in her memory, unwilling to let go.

When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered at her shoulders for just a second longer than necessary. He smiled at her, but it wasn't the carefree, lopsided grin she knew so well. This one was softer, tinged with sadness.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he said gently.

"You too," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Jason turned toward the window, the faint glow of the streetlights casting long shadows across his face. Without another word, he climbed out, vanishing into the night.

Maheen stayed frozen, her eyes fixed on the empty space where he'd been. Her hands clenched the blanket in her lap, her heart pounding against her ribs as fear and helplessness coursed through her veins. She felt the familiar ache settle deep in her chest, a heaviness she couldn't shake.

This time, she couldn't help but wonder if Jason was leaving more than just the room behind—and if he'd truly come back the same.

TWO DAYS AFTER JASON'S DEPARTURE, Maheen sat in the study, scrolling aimlessly through her phone. The bright screen did little to chase away the shadows pooling in her mind. Worry gnawed at her with every passing hour, but she'd told herself over and over again—she couldn't tell anyone. Jason's secret was hers to keep, no matter how heavy it felt pressing against her chest.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Two days. Forty-eight hours. Not a single word from him. The silence was suffocating, a constant reminder that she'd let him walk away. She wondered if quiet would ever feel peaceful again.

A soft knock at the door startled her, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts. Maheen sat up straighter, quickly locking her phone and placing it on the desk as if she'd been caught doing something wrong.

"Miss Sayeed," came Martha's voice from the doorway, calm and measured as always. The estate's housekeeper stood there, hands clasped in front of her, her expression polite but firm. "Mr. Wayne is here to see you. He's waiting in the sitting room."

Maheen froze, her heart lurching in her chest. Bruce. Now? Her breath hitched as a wave of panic swept over her. Of course, he'd show up now, just when she was barely holding it together. He must know. Or suspect. Why else would he be here?

"I'll be right there," she said, her voice tight, the words forced through the knot in her throat.

Martha nodded and disappeared down the hall, leaving Maheen alone with the pounding of her heartbeat. She stood from the desk, her legs feeling unsteady, and took a slow breath in a futile attempt to calm herself. Smoothing down her shirt, she forced herself to move, though her hands trembled slightly.

The walk to the sitting room felt both endless and far too short. When she stepped inside, she spotted Bruce immediately. He stood by the window, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. The sunlight streaming through the glass highlighted the sharp planes of his face, his expression unreadable as he stared out over the estate grounds.

As she neared, Bruce turned, his piercing blue eyes locking onto her. The slight narrowing of his gaze was all it took to confirm her suspicions—he wasn't here for small talk.

"Maheen," he said, his voice low and weighted. "I need to talk to you about Jason."

Her stomach twisted violently, her throat constricting as though the air itself had thickened. She had been dreading this moment, pushing it further from her mind each day, but now there was no escaping it.

"I—I don't know where he is, Bruce," she blurted, her words tumbling over each other, betraying her unease. "I haven't seen him in days."

His gaze sharpened, dissecting her statement with an intensity that made her feel like he could see straight through her.

"You're lying," Bruce said, his voice calm but resolute, the kind of tone that brooked no argument.

Maheen's breath caught in her chest, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. "I'm not," she said, her voice quieter now, trembling just enough to betray the truth. "I haven't seen him."

Bruce studied her, his silence far more unnerving than any accusation. When he finally spoke, his words carried a weight that sent a chill down her spine.

"Maheen, I know you've talked to him," he said, stepping closer, his broad figure casting a long shadow across the room. "I know you know something. There's no world Jason would go somewhere and not tell you. Don't lie to me."

Her pulse quickened, her composure crumbling under the weight of his gaze. She hated how easily he could read her, how effortlessly he saw through the cracks in her defenses.

"I don't know where he is," she whispered, the tremor in her voice betraying her. "I swear, Bruce. I haven't heard anything."

His jaw tightened, his frustration palpable, though he didn't push her further. Instead, he leaned against the mantle, his hands clasped behind his back as he let out a heavy sigh.

"Jason is going after something," he said, his tone low but urgent. "Something dangerous. And you know it."

The words struck her like a blow, the truth she had been desperately trying to ignore now laid bare before her. She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor as she fought to steady herself.

"Please, Maheen," Bruce said, his voice softening, almost pleading. "If you know anything, anything at all, you need to tell me. Jason can't do this alone. You're the only one who can reach him."

Her lips parted, the urge to spill everything warring with her instinct to protect Jason's secret. For a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of her unsteady breathing.

Finally, she whispered, "He's... he's in Ethiopia. He went looking for someone. His mother. Sheila Haywood."

Her godfather's expression darkened at the name, his brows furrowing in disbelief. "Ethiopia?" he echoed, his voice sharp. "Why would he—why now?"

Maheen shook her head, her hands trembling as she clasped them in front of her. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice cracking. "He didn't tell me much. Just that he had to find her. I tried to stop him, Bruce. I really did, but he wouldn't listen."

Bruce turned away, his shoulders tense as he processed her words. "He's not ready for this," he muttered, almost to himself. "This is a mistake. He's not ready."

"I know," she said, her voice barely audible. Her throat burned with unshed tears, the weight of guilt pressing down on her chest. "I tried to talk him out of it. I thought... I thought he'd stay if I said the right thing. But he didn't. He wouldn't."

Bruce exhaled sharply, the frustration in his posture unmistakable. For a long moment, he said nothing, his silence heavier than any words could have been.

Finally, he turned back to her, his expression carved in stone. "If you hear from him, anything at all, you tell me immediately," he said, his voice steady but insistent.

Maheen nodded, though it felt like her heart was cracking beneath the weight of it all. "I will," she whispered, the words catching in her throat, sounding as hollow as they felt.

His gaze lingered, his sharp blue eyes boring into hers, searching for any hint of deception. For a moment, Maheen thought he might press her further, but then, with a slight nod, he stepped back. His tone softened, though it still carried the gravity of a vow. "I'll bring him back, May. I promise."

Bruce gave her one last look—one that held an unspoken promise, a silent determination—and then turned, his broad shoulders retreating toward the doorway. The sound of his shoes echoed through the house, growing softer and softer until they disappeared completely.

She remained rooted in place, her chest heavy with the echoes of their conversation. Bruce's promise to bring Jason back played over and over in her mind like a fragile thread of hope she didn't dare cling to too tightly.

"I'll bring him back, May. I promise."

But no matter how fiercely she clung to that promise, the gnawing fear that Jason had already drifted too far lingered like a shadow at the edges of her mind. She wanted to believe in Bruce's promise, but a small, aching part of her wondered if even he might be too late.

DR. STEVENS' OFFICE, GOTHAM CITY — PRESENT DAYS

THE SOFT CREAK OF MAHEEN'S SHOES REVERBERATED through the stillness of the room as she settled into the couch, the familiar fabric cool against her skin. The therapy office had hardly changed—a haven of neutral tones and a gentle hint of lavender, offering its usual quiet comfort. But today, the space felt different. The air felt thicker, and the walls that once offered sanctuary now seemed to press in around her.

Dr. Stevens sat across from her, her expression warm, as if she had been waiting for her to arrive. "It's good to see you again, Maheen. How have you been holding up?"

Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers twining anxiously with the strap of her bag. She hadn't been here in months, but the weight she carried hadn't lightened. If anything, it had grown heavier with time, deeper. The familiar ache lingered.

"I..." she started, her voice faltering for a moment. Her breath hitched as she collected her thoughts, her lips pressing together in uncertainty. "I don't know. I'm tired. Like... all the time. Not just from school or everything else, but it's... deeper than that." Her words trailed off, the sense of not being able to capture what was suffocating her gnawing at her.

The middle-aged woman nodded, her gaze steady and compassionate, giving Maheen the space to find her voice. "What do you think it is you're carrying, Maheen?" she asked softly, inviting her to unravel the layers beneath her exhaustion.

Maheen's chest tightened, the familiar weight of guilt pressing on her heart. She swallowed, struggling to find the courage to speak the truth. The words felt too heavy, too real.

      "I still have nightmares," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion. "The same one, over and over. 'Why didn't you stop it?' And every time, it's like I'm failing him again. Failing Jason. I couldn't stop him... and I—" Her voice cracked, and she blinked quickly, trying to stave off the tears threatening to spill.

Dr. Stevens listened carefully, her expression soft but knowing. "I hear a lot of self-blame in that, Maheen. It makes sense. You've been carrying a lot of guilt."

Nodding shakily, Maheen wiped the back of her hand across her face as she fought to compose herself. "I thought... maybe if I had said the right thing, or done something more... maybe he wouldn't have left. He wouldn't have... gone. He wouldn't have died."

Eyes softening, her therapist spoke with the gentlest of encouragement. "Have you been able to talk to anyone about all this? Or have you been holding it all inside?"

Maheen hesitated, her gaze dropping to her hands, which were gripping the fabric of the couch. "I... haven't really talked about it. Not with anyone who gets it. Bruce... he's been distant. I don't know how to even talk to him about this without making him feel worse, especially with everything that's happened." Her voice faltered, and she let out a shaky breath. "I just... I don't want to burden him more."

The red-haired woman leaned forward slightly, her tone thoughtful. "Maheen, it sounds like you've been carrying all of this by yourself, trying to be strong for everyone else. But you don't have to do this alone. You don't have to carry this weight by yourself anymore."

She shook her head, the weight of the words hanging in the air like an anchor. "I don't know how to let go of it. What if I let go and everything falls apart?"

Dr. Stevens' voice was steady, yet firm. "The guilt you're holding onto is not something you can just push away. It's complex, layered, and it's been with you for a long time. But holding onto it, thinking you have to bear all of it on your own... that's only making it heavier. It's affecting you in ways you can't ignore."

The sixteen-year-old girl's hands trembled in her lap as she exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation settling over her like a fog. "I've been having panic attacks again. More often lately. Sometimes, I can't even leave the house. And... my medication isn't helping the way it used to. I get this tightness in my chest, like I can't breathe. I feel like I'm losing control."

Her therapist nodded with understanding, her voice softening with empathy. "It's common for anxiety and panic attacks to intensify when you're carrying unresolved emotional weight, like guilt and fear. Those feelings manifest in your body, sometimes in ways that feel completely out of your control. And with everything you've been through, it's no surprise that you're feeling this way."

Maheen's eyes filled with tears again, the pain of the past two years threatening to break through. "I can't shake it. This feeling that I failed him. That I failed Jason."

"Maheen," Dr. Stevens said, her voice steady but full of compassion, "you didn't fail him. You were there for him, in the ways that you could be. You did what you could, and no one—not even you—could have stopped him from making the choices he made. What matters now is that you're here, and you're choosing to heal. That's what you have control over—the present. Not the past, but how you move forward from here."

The girl squeezed her eyes shut, her chest tightening as though she could physically push the pain away. "I don't know how to heal. I don't know how to fix it."

"You don't have to fix everything," her therapist replied softly, her voice steady with understanding. "Healing isn't about erasing the hurt or making everything right. It's about taking small steps, learning how to care for yourself again, and finding a way to move forward without letting guilt anchor you down. It's a process, Maheen. One that takes time. It's okay if you don't have all the answers yet."

Maheen's voice was barely a whisper when she spoke again. "I'm scared... Scared that if I let go of the guilt, I'll forget Jason. I'll forget how much I care."

"You won't forget him," Dr. Stevens reassured her, her tone firm yet gentle. "You can carry your love for him without holding onto the weight of guilt. You can remember him—his memory will stay with you—but you can also allow yourself to heal."

The words hung in the air, soft but strong, as Maheen sat quietly, absorbing them. It didn't feel easy, not by any stretch.

IZIA'S NOTES

new chapter!! well, this has been so fun to write (i cried). everyone's been lying the whole thing: "i promise i won't tell bruce", "i promise i'll be back", "i promise i'll bring him back". technically jason & bruce didn't lie... jason just came back in a casket 🥰 i have no motivation to make memes today tbh, and for the majority of the chapters of this arc too lol. the memes will come back in the second arc, there'll be more material than depressing flashbacks and therapy sessions.

hope you enjoyed this chapter and please don't forget to vote, comment and share! it's always a pleasure to read your comments ❤️

© ADONYSIAC  ― IZIA™