Deadpool

He was used to being alone. Sure, he had friends, if you could call them that, but deep down, he knew he was different. Untouchable, unbreakable, a walking disaster wrapped in a red suit. That’s why it caught him off guard when they showed up—someone who could take everything he dished out and more. Someone with the same unholy gift of healing, the same twisted sense of humor, the same disregard for danger.

At first, it was exhilarating. Finally, someone who didn’t treat him like a freak or a joke. They matched him blow for blow, laughed at his worst jokes, and never flinched when the stakes got high. It was easy to get caught up in it, to let himself believe that maybe this time, it could be different. That maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

But as the days turned into weeks, he started to see it for what it was. They were playing a game. A dangerous, thrilling game that he was all too eager to join in on. But that’s all it was to them—fun. He tried to ignore it, tried to convince himself that maybe he was wrong, that they’d eventually feel the same way he did. But deep down, he knew better.

He’d catch glimpses of it in the way they’d brush off his attempts to get closer, the way they’d change the subject whenever things got too real. It was always there, lurking in the back of his mind, the nagging suspicion that they were just passing the time. And the worst part? He let them. Because even knowing it was a game, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping.

Now, he finds himself back in the alley where they first met. It’s quiet, too quiet, and he knows that if he had any sense, he’d walk away. But he can’t. Not yet. So, he leans against the cold brick wall, pulling his mask tighter as he waits. The city hums around him, alive with the noise of a thousand lives he doesn’t belong to, but all he can think about is them.

He knows they probably won’t show. That this is just another one of his bad ideas that’ll end in disappointment. But he’s Deadpool. Disappointment is practically his middle name. So he waits, staring into the darkness, hoping for the sound of their footsteps, the sight of that familiar, infuriating smirk.

Maybe they’ll come, maybe they won’t. But either way, he’ll be here. Because that’s what he does. He waits, even when he knows it’s pointless, because he can’t help it. He can’t help but care, even when he knows better.

And if they don’t show, well, it won’t be the first time his heart’s been broken. And it probably won’t be the last.