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The library doors creak slightly as Tim pushes them open. He steps inside, already running over his checklist for the hour. But then his feet stall mid-step.
There, by the crime fiction shelves, is someone he’d recognize anywhere.
Tim’s breath hitches. The air in his lungs feels sharp, jagged, like it doesn’t belong. He takes an automatic step back, his grip tightening on the straps of his backpack until the seams are embedded into his palm.
Blonde hair catches the light filtering through the windows, his head tilted as he flips through a paperback. The leather jacket, the casual way he leans against the shelf, like he doesn’t have a care in the world—it sends a pang through Tim’s chest, something he doesn’t have time to name.
For weeks, he’d been telling himself he’d reach out. He’d write a text, maybe even make a call, but every time, the guilt would creep in and tie his hands. After what had happened, what he’d let happen, and then everything with Steph and his dad… it felt easier to disappear. To let the silence stretch on.
Tim hovers near the doorway, half-hidden behind the frame. His mind spins, words and excuses fighting to form. Every instinct screams at him to leave before he’s noticed, but his feet won’t move.
The silence hangs in the library, and for a brief, desperate moment, Tim thinks maybe—just maybe—he won’t look up. But then he does.
His eyes lock onto Tim’s. Wide. Surprised.
“Tim?”
The sound of his name hits like a punch to the gut.
Tim’s throat bobs, but no words come. His fingers flex around the backpack straps, knuckles white.
His heart pounds, not with fear, but with something heavier, messier, curling in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix the weeks of silence, the space he let grow between them.
All he knows is that standing here, caught in his gaze, is infinitely harder than running away.
Shit.
The silence between them presses in, thick as fog, so dense that even a batarang might struggle to cut through it. The library feels like it’s holding its breath, empty except for the two of them, and the hum of the computers and the faint whoosh of air from the vents seem miles away. Outside, the hallway falls still after the bell rings for 7th period.
“Bernard…” Tim barely hears himself say it, the name slipping from his lips before he has a chance to stop it.
Bernard sets his book down with a soft thud, the quiet sound swallowed by the heavy air. His sneakers make no noise as he moves closer, his steps light but deliberate. When he stops a few feet away, his gaze is fixed on Tim, unreadable at first, then something sharper—an edge that makes Tim feel like he’s being pulled under.
“Tim,” Bernard says, his voice almost a breath. But it holds weight, like a stone dropped in a still pond, sending ripples Tim can’t ignore. “It’s been months.”
Tim’s throat tightens, a lump catching in his chest. “Yeah, um… hi.” His gaze flickers to the side, avoiding Bernard’s.
“‘Yeah, hi?’” Bernard’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp but with a thread of disbelief. “Wow. Stellar opening, Tim. Were you saving that one for the last few months, or did it just come to you now?”
Tim winces, his fingers tightening around his backpack straps like they could hold him together. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to what?” Bernard’s words are quick, not unkind, but biting. “Leave me hanging? Or leave me on read so long I started thinking I hallucinated our entire friendship?”
The question hits harder than Tim expects, the weight of it making his chest ache. His voice cracks when he answers. “I couldn’t, okay? I couldn’t talk to you. Not after…” His words falter, the weight of the past few months pressing down on him, too much to put into words.
Bernard’s expression shifts—surprise, then understanding. His eyes soften, but something still lingers in his gaze, something Tim can’t quite place.
“Not after Darla,” Bernard finishes quietly.
Tim nods, his hands feeling too heavy at his sides. He drops his eyes to the floor, trying to find the words that won’t come. “I didn’t know what to say,” he mutters, voice barely a whisper. “I still don’t.”
Bernard lets out a short, bitter laugh. He runs a hand through his messy blond hair, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the weight of the moment. “Guess that makes two of us.” His smile flickers, but it’s gone too quickly. “But hey, at least I got to practice my stand-up routine texting a brick wall.”
Tim’s lips twitch despite himself. “That bad?”
“Oh, the worst,” Bernard says, his voice light, but there’s a sharpness behind it, like he’s trying to hide something. “Turns out ghosting isn’t a great audience. Zero applause, lots of awkward silences.”
Tim exhales, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He lets out a soft, reluctant chuckle. Even in the mess of it all, Bernard can still make him laugh.
But then Bernard’s smile fades, his expression turning serious again. He exhales slowly, crossing his arms. The air between them grows thicker. “But seriously, Tim. You didn’t have to leave me out to dry. You could’ve said something. Anything.”
Tim feels the weight of his words in the pit of his stomach, tight and heavy. “I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” he says, voice shaking slightly. He shakes his head, a futile attempt to shake the numbness off. “I just… I didn’t know how to face you. Not after everything. Darla, and Steph, and then my dad…”
“Wait. Steph?” Bernard’s brow furrows, the confusion flashing in his eyes. “Your girlfriend? What happened?”
Tim’s hands grip his backpack straps so tightly, the leather creaks under the pressure. He exhales shakily, as if the weight of everything he hasn’t said is too much to hold. “It happened a few weeks after Darla… because of the whole gang mess. But, yeah. She died too.”
For a long moment, Bernard just stares at him, his face unreadable. Then, he lets out a low, humorless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes wide in disbelief. “Okay, you officially win the ‘most tragic backstory’ contest. Seriously, what the hell, Tim? You’ve been dealing with all that—alone?”
Tim doesn’t answer. His throat is too tight, the words lost in the jagged breaths he can’t quite control.
Bernard shakes his head, but the movement feels more like surrender than frustration. "You're an idiot," he mutters, his voice carrying a hollow amusement. The edges of his lips curl upward in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "At this rate, Batman’s gonna have some competition."
Tim’s breath catches in surprise, and a laugh spills out before he can stop it. "What? Batman?"
Bernard leans back in his chair, grinning wide now, that familiar spark of playfulness lighting up his face. "Oh, you know. Classic comic book trope. The main character loses everything before becoming the superhero they’re meant to be." He smirks and Tim quirks an eyebrow. "I wonder what your name would be. Maybe you’ll get bitten by mutant rats in the Narrows and call yourself The Amazing Rat Man," he adds with a dramatic flourish, his fingers cutting through the air like he's holding an invisible cape.
Tim snorts, the old rhythm settling back into place like slipping into a favorite hoodie. "There aren’t any mutant rats in Gotham."
Bernard’s grin turns conspiratorial. "That’s just what they want you to think." He leans forward a little, lowering his voice, eyes twinkling. "When we’re ruled by vermin overlords, don’t come crying to me. I’ll just say I told you so."
Tim lets out a full laugh this time, the sound more real than he expects, lighter than it’s been in weeks. Bernard has always had that effect on him—like he could lift the heaviest moments without even trying.
For a brief, fleeting moment, it feels like everything is back to how it used to be. Like the last few months never happened. Like Darla could walk in any second, rolling her eyes at them and complaining that they’re being funny without her.. The thought hits Tim like a wave, and the air between them shifts, the warmth leaving too quickly. Bernard’s smile fades slightly, and Tim can see it—he’s thinking about it too
Bernard’s eyes soften, and for a split second, Tim can see the weight of it in him too. Then, Bernard’s voice drops, becoming more serious. “Hey, Tim… about Darla.” He hesitates, the usual banter gone, replaced by something raw, something vulnerable. “You don’t have to go through that by yourself, you know. Darla was my best friend too.”
Tim stiffens at her name, a familiar pang of guilt and loss twisting deep in his chest. His fingers curl into the straps of his backpack, white-knuckling the fabric as if holding on might anchor him. The silence grows thick again, the words stuck in his throat.
“She was… my fault, Bern…” Tim whispers, the words tearing at him as they leave his mouth. He can’t look at Bernard. His eyes are locked on the floor, but it doesn’t stop the sting behind his eyes. “I was there . I should’ve… done something. Done more .”
The air between them is still. Bernard steps closer, his movements slow, deliberate. His voice, when it comes, is steady, but there’s a firmness to it—like he’s grounding Tim in something solid. “Tim, listen to me. You didn’t make that happen. None of it’s on you.” He shakes his head, a quiet, resolute gesture. “You can’t carry that. It’s not your responsibility.”
Tim opens his mouth, but the words feel like stones in his throat, heavy and jagged. He looks up at Bernard, seeking something—anything that might pull him out of this storm inside. “I should’ve—” His voice cracks, and the words get lost. He shakes his head. “I didn’t even try to stop it,” he mutters, eyes dropping again.
Bernard’s gaze holds steady, meeting Tim’s with an intensity that makes him feel seen, really seen, for the first time in a while. His voice changes, lightening the moment, but not dismissing it. “You really think that if you’d been there, the whole gang war would’ve just ended? Like they’d see you and be like, ‘Oh no, Tim’s here, everyone stop!’” Bernard stands up and strikes a mock pose, arms wide, like he's halting traffic.
Tim blinks, caught off guard, and despite himself, a small laugh escapes him. "It’s not that easy."
“No,” Bernard agrees, his tone shifting, softer now, the humor tapering into something gentler. “But it’s not your fault either. You couldn’t have fixed it. You didn’t have that kind of control.”
Tim exhales shakily, the air leaving his lungs in a rush, as if it’s been trapped inside him for far too long. His eyes lower to the floor, the weight of everything he’s been carrying sinking into his bones. “I just—I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to face you. Or anyone. Not after everything.”
Bernard’s face softens, the edges of his features relaxing with an empathy that almost cracks Tim open. He steps closer, his voice quieter now, but still there, a steady presence. "Okay, that’s a lot, man.” He pauses, giving Tim space to breathe. Then, he tries to lighten it again,“But seriously, you’re not alone. I’m not the best at ‘feeling things’—as you can tell from my lack of serious advice—but I’m here. And I’m not gonna just let you shut everyone out.”
Tim’s chest tightens, a knot forming deep inside him. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words come out softer than he intends. “I didn’t want to,” he says quietly. “I just… can’t deal with it anymore.”
Bernard meets Tim’s gaze, his eyes steady, a quiet determination softening the edges of his usual teasing. “I get it. But, come on, man. We’ve been friends too long for you to just disappear like that. Promise me you won’t do that again?”
Tim shifts, uncomfortable, his fingers picking at the seam of his backpack strap. The weight of the promise presses down on him, like a hand on his chest. He opens his mouth but doesn’t find the words.
Bernard, sensing the hesitation, leans back slightly and a mischievous grin returns to his face. “Look, I’m not saying I’ll bust down your door for a dramatic rescue mission...” He pauses, then winks. “But I will. So don’t make me do it.”
Tim’s lips twitch, and despite himself, a small smile cracks through. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” Bernard says, his tone dropping into something serious again, eyes locking on Tim’s with unspoken conviction. “But I’d bring snacks, so it wouldn’t be totally terrible. Seriously, Tim, I’m not letting you do this alone. You’ll show up tomorrow, and I’ll drag you if I have to.”
Tim groans, but there’s a shift in him—like the heaviness in his chest has lightened just a little. The idea of facing school doesn’t seem as impossible with Bernard behind him. “Fine. But no snacks. I’m not dealing with your weird organic granola bars.”
Bernard grins, the spark of humor never far behind. “No promises. But hey, you show up, and I’ll make sure you’re well-stocked. You deserve it after that tragic backstory of yours.”
Tim laughs, a sound that’s more genuine than he expects, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. ‘Most tragic backstory’ award goes to me. I’ll show up.”
Bernard straightens, saluting him with exaggerated precision, the grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s the spirit! No more ghosting, okay? We’re in this together. Got it?”
Tim grins back, his shoulders feeling a little less tight. “Sir, yes sir.”
“Good. Now I just need to explain why you’ve been skipping class. How do you feel about alien abduction?”
Tim’s laugh is softer this time, warmer, surprising him as it escapes. For the first time in months, the sound feels real. As Bernard steps back toward the shelves, Tim feels something in his chest—something light and familiar, the kind of warmth that only comes when Bernard’s around. When Bernard turns back toward him, haloed in the golden light streaming through the windows, Tim almost feels like himself again.
“Tim, you’ve got to see this book,” Bernard beckons, his voice full of excitement.
Tim grins, the weight in his chest dissipating just a little more, and walks toward him. Maybe Bernard was onto something after all.