It's been two years.
I'm seven now. Almost eight.
Life hasn't changed much, not really. I've gotten better at pretending, though. Pretending I care about what the other kids are saying. Pretending I'm interested in toys I don't need. Pretending I'm normal.
But I'm not. Not even close.
Most days start the same.
I wake up early—too early for a kid my age, apparently. I do a few stretches beside my bed, nothing crazy, just things I know will keep my body sharp. A few squats, some balance work, push-ups when I'm feeling extra restless. Then I head to the kitchen. Breakfast is usually simple, but I cook. Real cooking. Eggs just the right texture, toast golden, not burnt. My mom calls it a miracle. My dad thinks I'm just playing around. But they both eat what I make.
Every morning, like clockwork, they ask: "Anything new happen at school yesterday?"
I look at them, deadpan. Then sigh.
And the performance begins. I fake a shrug. I mumble something generic—"It was fine," or "We played kickball." Then I nod along as they talk about their own days. Like I'm just another kid. Like I don't know more than I should.
My days are mostly spent alone now. School is dull, repetitive. Everything they try to teach me feels like review—even when I've never technically learned it in this life. It's like the answers are already burned into my brain, waiting. I ace tests without trying. I breeze through reading assignments while the others stumble over vowels.
People notice. Teachers, classmates, even my parents. They call me gifted. Advanced. Bright.
I hate it.
I don't want to be seen. I don't want attention. I just want quiet.
So, after school, I run.
Not away—from them. From the noise. From the eyes. From the small talk and forced smiles.
There's a forest not far from the edge of our town. Dense and quiet. Alive in a way the suburbs never are. Birds call overhead. Wind cuts through the trees. The earth is soft beneath my feet, the smell of moss and pine a comfort. Here, I can breathe.
And I owe that, surprisingly, to the Wheel.
Funny, right? I used to curse the damn thing. But now, I have to admit—Oliver Queen's physical boost is the only reason I can live out here like I do.
I move through the undergrowth with ease. Balance comes naturally. My steps are light, precise. I can climb trees in seconds. I know how to stay warm without layering up. I know how to listen. Really listen. Every rustle, every crack of a twig, it all means something.
If I wanted to, I could survive out here. No problem.
And I tested that once.
Stayed too long. Way past dark. I didn't mean to—it was just one of those days where everything felt too heavy, and the woods felt like the only place that made sense. By the time I came back, it was nearly midnight.
The police were already parked outside our house.
I learned my lesson. Not that staying out was dangerous. No. I'd be fine.
But my parents were terrified.
They thought I got lost. Or taken. Or worse. Mom cried. Dad didn't say much—just hugged me tighter than usual.
So now, I keep track of time. I always come back before dark.
Even if I don't want to.
Back home, I say the right things. I play the part. I smile. I nod. But the forest stays in the back of my mind, tugging at me like a secret I don't want to share.
As for the Wheel…
It hasn't been helpful since.
The past two spins? Trash.
One gave me a pair of socks. Literal socks. Worn-out, mismatched, and labeled as being from "some guy in a background shot of Brooklyn Nine-Nine." The other? A keychain shaped like a taco that jingled every time I moved. No abilities. No skills. Just noise.
It felt like the Wheel was mocking me. Or maybe balancing things out. Who knows?
But despite that, I couldn't hate it—not completely. Because thanks to one spin, I had this freedom. This little slice of wild peace where no one could touch me. No one could expect anything from me.
I built a small spot deep in the woods. Hidden behind thick brush. A clearing just wide enough for a blanket and a stack of books. Sometimes, I'd bring snacks. Sometimes, I'd bring nothing but myself.
I listened to the forest.
I watched the clouds drift above the trees.
And sometimes, when it was really quiet, I thought about the other life.
Not just the memories—those were constant—but the feelings. The weight of a whole life lost. The routines. The dull, gray nothing of it all. But also the people. The good moments. The simple things.
This life was more colorful. More intense. Sharper in every way.
But that didn't mean it was easier.
I still didn't understand why I was here. Why the Wheel picked me. Why the void-thing sent me. Was this all a game? A test? A punishment?
Sometimes I wondered if I'd ever see anyone from the old life again. Or if they were just... gone.
Sometimes, when the wind blew just right and the trees creaked above me, I could almost pretend someone was answering.
But they never did.
So I stayed quiet.
And the forest stayed quiet with me.
That was enough. For now.