Jason Todd

The city glittered below him, a blanket of indifferent lights stretching into the night. He perched on the edge of a rooftop, arms crossed, hood drawn over his face, and let the cold wind bite at his skin. Another year gone. Another one spent alone.

He had no plans tonight—no patrol, no vendetta, no mission. Just him, the hum of traffic far below, and the faint echo of laughter from some celebration he wasn’t invited to. Somewhere, someone was probably blowing out candles, making wishes he would never get the chance to make.

He made his way back to his apartment complex, and it was quiet- Too quiet. The hum of the city outside his window didn’t reach him here, or maybe he just didn’t want to hear it. He flicked on the single overhead light and set a small, slightly sad-looking cupcake on the kitchen counter. One candle. He’d managed to scrounge it from the corner store on the way home.

Jason stared at the flame, the tiny flicker reflecting off the dark walls around him. He should’ve felt something—joy, excitement, maybe even loneliness—but it was all tangled together in a weight that pressed on his chest. Another year. Another reminder that birthdays were for people who had someone to celebrate with. He muttered something under his breath—half sarcasm, half truth— “Happy birthday, jerk,” And blew the candle out.It wasn’t much—a small, solitary celebration—but it was his. Smoke curled up lazily, dissipating into the still air. He poked at the cupcake with a fork, taking small, careful bites as he perched on the edge of the counter. Each mouthful tasted faintly sweet, but more than that, it tasted like memory: birthdays past, voices lost, laughter he hadn’t heard in years. The cat he’d adopted weeks ago jumped onto the counter, sniffing at the cupcake. Jason smiled faintly, brushing a hand over its head. “You’re my only friend tonight, huh?” The cat purred, oblivious to the melancholy around it. He laughed quietly at the absurdity, a sound more human than he’d expected.

A notebook lay on the table nearby, pages filled with thoughts, notes, and half-finished ideas, even poetry. For a moment, he considered writing something down—anything—but the thought felt hollow. Instead, he leaned back against the counter, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet wrap around him.

He didn’t need anyone else. He told himself that. But as he licked frosting from his fingers, there was a small, stubborn ache in his chest that whispered otherwise. And for the first time in a long time, Jason allowed himself to just… exist. Alone, but not entirely empty. That's when there was a knock at his door, who the Hell could need him right now? With a frown, he pushed himself off the couch, moving to the door. There he stood in the hallway, holding a small cake with a single candle, a neatly wrapped gift box curled under his arm. The candlelight danced on his face, and for a moment, Jason just stared.

“You didn’t have to,” He muttered, trying to mask the flicker of something soft in his chest.