Chapter Text
Being a college student in this city, and especially at this university, could be a blessing or a curse. If you stood out or had enough money to avoid the bullying, you were privileged. If not, well... you were stuck with those who had to fight for anything decent.
That was Roxanne’s situation. Ever since she was little, she had been a dreamer. She loved making friends and, above all, being there for others. But when she had no choice but to enroll in the university where she studied art, something inside her shifted from optimism to a feeling of "I want to graduate as soon as possible."
Still, it wasn’t all bad. She had friends, a decent GPA, and a habit of spending her days holed up with books, video games, or sleeping in late, always accompanied by her kitten. She had learned to find comfort in the little things—simple routines that didn't demand too much of her.
She lived in a... decent place. The rent was cheap, the apartment wasn't falling apart, and to her surprise, most of the neighbors were friendly. It wasn't the best neighborhood in Gotham, but it wasn't the worst either, and that was saying a lot.
The nights were usually quiet. Too quiet, even. She was used to the distant sounds of the city, the occasional siren, and shadows moving between buildings. In Gotham, learning to ignore certain things was almost a survival instinct.
The young woman's routine was simple, almost mechanical. Her mornings started early, even when she didn't have classes. She would wake up to the insistent blare of her alarm, fix a quick bite, and head out with her headphones on, disappearing into Gotham's gray streets like just another face in the crowd. At the university, she spent hours surrounded by paint-stained canvases, notebooks full of sketches, and professors who spoke about art as if the world weren't crumbling outside.
When she got home, exhaustion would take over. She usually stopped by a discount store, bought the essentials, and returned to her apartment before dark. She loved the feeling of closing the door behind her, kicking off her shoes, and dropping her backpack in any random corner. It was her little refuge—messy, but safe.
She split her afternoons between homework, drawings she never finished, and long pauses staring at the ceiling, accompanied by the soft purring of her cat. Sometimes she read until her eyes burned; other times, she simply let time pass without doing much at all.
The days were all too similar. That afternoon, she had decided to go down to the building’s laundry room. The complex was old—one of those that had seen better days—but functional. On the first floor, next to the parking area, was the small communal laundry room: a narrow space with pale walls and several machines lined up, vibrating nonstop.
The girl carried a basket full of clothes pressed against her hip as she headed down the stairs. She wore comfortable clothes, though they were oversized, as usual. Reaching the bottom, she set the basket on one of the tables and began sorting the laundry with automatic movements.
The constant hum of the washers filled the air. The smell of detergent was strong and familiar. She stuffed the clothes into one of the machines, added soap, and slammed the lid shut. Then, she leaned against the wall and let out a long sigh, glancing at her phone without much interest.
It wasn’t long before someone else came down to the laundry room. An older woman with curly hair and a floral robe appeared, dragging a bag of laundry almost as big as she was. She gave Roxanne a friendly smile as soon as she saw her and, without further ado, struck up a conversation as if they had known each other forever.
The young woman greeted her back out of pure convenience, of course; the woman was the landlord’s wife, and they had already forgiven her two months of back rent. The conversation was pleasant: the weather, how expensive everything was, how noisy some nights had become lately, how loud her husband snored—the usual, nothing out of the ordinary.
It was in the middle of one of these chats that the laundry room door opened again.
And then, she saw him.
The young man who lived upstairs walked in with a black bag over his shoulder, a serious expression, and a relaxed posture, as if the world didn't weigh on him that much. He wore a dark T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his brow was slightly furrowed, focused on his task.
The young woman lost her train of thought. Not in a dramatic way, of course. There were no gasps or exaggerated stares. Just that tiny mental short-circuit that happened every time he appeared in her field of vision.
Ah. There he was.
His name was Jason. Or at least, he was her "crush." Her impossible love. The guy who lived exactly one floor above her and who, without knowing it, had stolen her heart in the most absurd way possible.
Because no, it hadn't been anything romantic or out of a movie. It had been her cat’s fault.
That day, the little feline had escaped the apartment as if its life mission were to explore Gotham unsupervised. Panicked, she followed it downstairs, only to see the animal bolt toward the street. And before she could scream, cry, or faint, someone had scooped it off the ground with surprising speed.
The guy from the upstairs apartment.
With the cat in his arms, one eyebrow raised, and a slightly confused expression—as if he didn't understand why he was now holding the life of a furry, screeching creature.
"I think this belongs to you," he said, handing over the feline like a lost object.
On the verge of tears, she managed a "thank you" between sobs, hugging her cat tightly... only to realize, seconds later, that he was covered in cat hair. So much hair.
"I'm sorry," she added, embarrassed, with tears still in her eyes, looking like a pufferfish about to burst.
"It’s fine," he replied, looking down at his hair-covered shirt and ignoring the girl who was staring at him as if he were Superman himself. "I think I'll survive."
And that was it. Nothing more. No promises, no exchanged numbers, no romantic ending. Just an act of kindness, a traumatized cat, and a sacrificed T-shirt.
And yet, since that day, every time she saw him entering or leaving the building, something in her chest felt... different.
Now, in the laundry room, she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he placed his bag in one of the machines, completely oblivious to the small emotional upheaval he caused simply by existing. The neighbor continued talking by her side, not noticing that the young woman's attention had drifted.
She just looked at him for another moment with a mix of resignation and affection. Yes. He was definitely still a lost cause.
It was then that the woman finally noticed the newcomer.
"Jason, how are you, son?" she greeted him naturally, waving her hand. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it? Thanks for helping me change that lightbulb yesterday. I was about to climb onto a chair myself; who knows if I would've fallen? You saved me a trip to the hospital."
The young man looked up, surprised for only a second, before nodding politely.
"Hello, ma'am," he replied, placing his bag into a machine. "It was nothing, really."
Nothing more. Two simple sentences, said effortlessly, without any pretense. And yet, Roxanne felt a tingle of excitement in her chest that was completely unfair.
Jason? So that was his name.
She repeated it mentally, as if to memorize it better. Jason. It sounded far too good for someone she already liked for no reason. And to top it off, he wasn't just handsome and quiet... he also helped neighbors with simple things like changing lightbulbs.
It was ridiculous. The whole package, she thought. The idiot wasn't just cute; he was a good guy too.
As the woman kept talking—thanking him again and commenting on how hard it was to get things done at her age—the man simply listened patiently, responding with polite monosyllables. He didn't seem uncomfortable, just... calm. As if that kind of behavior was normal for him.
The young woman watched the scene from the corner of her eye, trying not to be too obvious. So his name was Jason. And he was kind, too. Excellent. This definitely wasn't helping her get over him.
Roxanne exhaled softly and decided to turn her attention back to her laundry, but at that exact moment... her eyes met his.
It wasn't intentional. It wasn't planned. It just happened.
For a second that felt longer than it should have, she stared at him without blinking, her mind a complete blank and her heart pounding in her chest as if she’d made a terrible mistake. And before she could think clearly, her hand lifted on its own.
A small wave. Hesitant. Almost shy.
As soon as she realized what she’d done, panic surged through her. Great, perfect. Now you look like a weirdo, you idiot.
She didn't know if he remembered her, or if he even recognized her as more than "the girl from the building." Maybe he hadn't even thought of her existence after the cat incident. And there she was, waving as if they were old friends.
She was about to jerk her hand down, pretending the whole thing had been a strange muscle spasm, when he responded.
It was brief. Nothing exaggerated. Jason also raised his hand, returning the wave with a short nod and a calm expression. He didn't quite smile, but the gesture was kind—genuine in its own way.
As if he recognized her. As if he didn't mind at all.
Roxanne’s chest gave a small, treacherous tug. She lowered her hand carefully, trying to hide how her pulse was racing. The neighbor kept talking, completely oblivious to the brief exchange that had just taken place.
Jason went back to what he was doing, taking clothes out of his bag as if nothing had happened. And yet, for her, it had been everything.
The washer cycle finished shortly after, marking the end of that little distraction. The young woman took her clothes out, put them in the dryer, and after checking that everything was in order, returned to the apartment with the basket propped on her hip.
The walk up the stairs was silent. Only the echo of her own steps and a slight tiredness accompanied her. Upon arriving, she dropped the basket near the door and kicked off her shoes without much care for order.
The apartment welcomed her as always: quiet, with light streaming through the window and her cat waiting for her, curled up on the sofa as if nothing important had happened in the world.
"Hey, Whiskers," she murmured, leaning over to pet its head.
The feline responded with a lazy meow, stretching briefly before settling back down. She smiled without realizing it. And as she folded her clothes with slow movements, her mind inevitably drifted back to the laundry room.
To Jason.
He hadn't done anything extraordinary. A brief wave, a kind gesture. And yet, the way he had spoken to the neighbor, the patience with which he had listened to her, lingered in her mind. He seemed kinder than his appearance suggested.
To her, he was still a complete mystery. She didn't know what he did for a living, what he liked, or even if he had a partner. She only knew small fragments: that he helped his neighbors, that he rescued lost cats, and that he had a serene gaze, even when he wasn't smiling.
Then she thought of his face. The scars, clearly visible, marked his skin without apology. To many, perhaps, they were intimidating. To her... they seemed like a part of him, something that told stories she didn't know, but that didn't diminish him at all.
He was handsome. In an unconventional way, perhaps, but handsome nonetheless.
His dark hair fell carelessly, with that white streak in the front that always caught her eye. So much so that she couldn't help but chuckle at the thought that crossed her mind.
"Yeah... he even looks like you, Whiskers," she whispered, looking at her cat—black as night, with a white patch right on its head.
Both possessed that same apparent calm. Serene, silent, as if observing the world from a distance. They didn't need to demand attention to be noticed.
The cat yawned, completely unaware of the comparison, and settled onto the bed with all the dignity its size allowed. She smiled to herself, shaking her head to push those thoughts away before a silly laugh escaped her.
He was just her neighbor. A kind mystery. Nothing more.
And yet, she couldn't help but feel that warmth in her chest every time she thought of him.