The Weight of Forgotten Things
You're late again.
Not that it matters. First period is calculus, and Mr. Henderson stopped calling on you weeks ago. He's learned that waking you up only leads to awkward silence and the uncomfortable realization that you haven't retained a single word of his lecture. It's easier for everyone if you just sleep through it.
The coffee shop on the corner of Dixon and Park is your usual stop. It's small, cramped, and the espresso tastes like burnt rubber, but it's open at six in the morning and the barista doesn't ask questions when you pay in crumpled singles and loose change.
The bell above the door chimes as you push inside. The warmth hits you immediately, a stark contrast to Gotham's bitter November air. You're still pulling your headphones down around your neck when you notice him.
He's sitting in the corner booth—the one you usually take when you're planning to skip entirely and need somewhere to kill a few hours. Dark hair. Sharp jawline. Expensive-looking coat that probably costs more than three months of your father's rent. He's staring at his laptop, but something about the way he holds himself feels... aware. Like he's paying attention to everything in the room without looking at any of it.
You've never seen him here before.
Gotham is full of strangers, though. You don't think much of it.
"The usual?" The barista—Nina, her name tag reads, though you've never actually introduced yourself—is already reaching for the smallest cup size.
"Yeah. Thanks."
You pay, pocket the receipt out of habit (your father checks them sometimes, makes sure you're not "wasting his money"), and move to the pickup counter. Your phone buzzes. You don't check it. You already know what it says.
Where are you?
Or: You better not have left.
Or: I needed those dishes done before I left for work.
The messages blur together after a while.
"Order for—" Nina pauses, glancing at the cup, then at you with a slightly apologetic smile. She never writes your name down. You never give it. "—coffee."
You take it with a quiet thank-you and turn toward the door.
That's when you feel it.
The weight of someone's attention, pressing against the space between your shoulder blades like a physical touch. You glance back instinctively, and your eyes meet his.
The stranger in the corner booth.
He's looking directly at you now. Not at his laptop. Not pretending. Just... looking.
His expression is unreadable. Not hostile, not friendly. Something else entirely. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you don't understand.
You look away first.
The bell chimes again as you push outside, and the cold hits you like a slap. You pull your jacket tighter—thin, secondhand, doing almost nothing against the wind—and start walking in the direction of school.
You don't look back.
But the feeling stays with you.
The strange, uncomfortable sense that whoever that man was, he wasn't just looking at you.
He was looking for you.
.....
You fall asleep in third period.
It's English this time, and Mrs. Delgado is reading aloud from The Great Gatsby. Her voice is soft, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. The classroom is warm. Your head feels heavy.
You tell yourself you'll just rest your eyes for a minute.
Then the dream comes.
It's dark.
You're small. Everything is too big. The walls stretch up forever, and the hallway is long, longer than it should be. Your socks make no sound against the floor as you walk.
You're looking for something.
No—someone.
"Bruce?"
Your voice is tiny. It echoes.
Somewhere ahead, there's a door. It's cracked open, and warm light spills through the gap. You hear voices inside. Low. Calm. Safe.
You reach for the handle—
"Hey. Hey."
Someone is shaking your shoulder.
You jerk awake, gasping softly, your heart pounding in your chest. The classroom swims back into focus. Mrs. Delgado is still reading. No one is looking at you except the girl sitting next to you—Casey, you think her name is.
"You okay?" she whispers. "You were like... whimpering or something."
"I'm fine," you mutter, scrubbing a hand over your face.
She doesn't look convinced, but she turns back to her book anyway.
Your hands are shaking.
It's just a dream. You've had it before. Variations of it, anyway. The big house. The long hallways. The feeling of searching for someone you can't name.
You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything.
But your chest still feels tight.
The day drags.
You sit through history, chemistry, lunch. You don't eat—your stomach feels wrong, twisty and uncertain. Your phone buzzes twice. You silence it without looking.
By the time the final bell rings, you're exhausted in a way that goes beyond sleeplessness. It's the kind of tired that lives in your bones.
You take the long way home.
It's not because you want to. It's because the longer you're gone, the less time you have to spend in that house. Your mother will be angry either way. At least this way, you get another twenty minutes of space.
You're two blocks from the apartment when you see him again.
The man from the coffee shop.
He's standing across the street, half-hidden in the shadow of a building. Same coat. Same posture. And he's watching you.
Your stomach drops.
For a moment, you just stand there, frozen on the sidewalk. People brush past you, annoyed, but you barely notice. Your heart is pounding again, but this time it's not from a dream.
He doesn't move. Doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.
He just... watches.
You turn and walk faster.
By the time you reach your building and glance back over your shoulder, he's gone.
That night, you can't sleep.
You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of your father's television through the thin walls. Your mother went to bed an hour ago. The bruise on your arm from this morning still aches.
You should be used to this by now.
But tonight, your mind won't settle.
You keep thinking about the man in the coffee shop. The way he looked at you. The way he was there again, hours later, watching from across the street.
You don't know why, but it didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like recognition.
Like he knew you.
And that, somehow, is worse.
You close your eyes and try to sleep.
The dream comes again.
"Bruce?"
The door is open now. You step inside.
There's a piano in the corner. Someone is playing it—a woman with kind eyes and gentle hands. She's smiling at someone beside her.
A man. Tall. Warm.
They're both looking at you.
"Come here, sweetheart," the woman says.
You run to her. She lifts you onto the bench beside her, and you feel safe. So safe.
Then the music stops.
The room goes dark.
And someone is screaming.
You wake up crying.
You don't know why.
