Chapter Text
She was impressed with herself. Only slightly. She was not sure how she was capable, but she had managed to herd Fern away from all the hub bub. She could finally breath. There was no one around to judge her anymore, so now she could focus all of her attention on him and him only.
"I don't think there's any point in this, you know" A voice grumbled behind her.
“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But sometimes it helps to say it out loud, you know? Even if you’re just figuring it out as you go.” she gestured toward a nearby table in a secluded room, a small oasis of calm tucked away. “Want to sit for a minute? No pressure.”
He hesitated, his grip on her hand tightening. He glanced at her, then at the table, as if weighing his options. Finally, he nodded, his movements stiff and reluctant.
As they sat down, she waited for the man to speak, letting the silence settle like dew on grass.
They've been in here for a good while. She'd say even 20 minutes of still silence. She couldn't nervously twist her shirt for much longer though, leading to her clicking her tongue and finally looking in his direction.
"So..," she began, folding her hands in front of her, "what’s really going on? Why do you feel like you have to compare yourself to Finn?"
Fern exhaled shakily, deflating even more onto the hard surface of the table. "Because... he’s everything I’m not. I’m just... the other Finn. Fern. The one people forget." The way he said it, she could almost see the pout on his face.
She nodded slowly, giving Fern time to continue. She was surprised he'd opened up so easily. Maybe, if she didn't move, he would continue talking.
"And it’s not about looks anyway," Fern added, though his voice was cracking. His rant was about to absolutely snowball, though the topic was a bit more slippery for her to grasp.
"He’s stronger, more talented. More *heroic*. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with me, why I can’t measure up, but—"
She interrupted gently. "Fern, do you realize how harshly you’re judging yourself? How much you’re ignoring your own worth because you’re too busy standing in Finn’s shadow?"
Fern paused, his voice wavering. "But it’s true. Everyone sees it."
"Maybe they don’t," she assured softly. "Maybe you’re the one holding the flashlight, making that shadow look bigger than it is. What if you stopped comparing and started focusing on being you?" She looked around before picking up the book that she laid near her feet and placed it on the table. Then with a single fingertip slid it over to him.
Fern stared at the book, shoulders still weak, but his hands had stopped clawing at his head. One shaky hand crept forward, almost by instinct, fingertips brushing against the dented cover.
"You want to be Finn? You want them to see you as him?" she asked, voice gentler now, a note of sadness bleeding into it. "Then be Fern. Be so Fern that they don't get to look away. Make them understand."
"They don't see me," Fern whispered, his voice crumbling like ash in the wind. "They... they look at me and they don't even see me. I'm just some... mistake. Some... thing walking around in his skin. And no matter what I do, it’s like..."
He choked, fists pressed to his temples.
"I’m never gonna be enough. I’m never gonna be real."
His lip trembled, anger curdling into something closer to grief. His eyes, still wet, darted up to her face — suspicious, desperate.
For a second, she couldn’t breathe.
The weight of his words hit her like a slow but hefty blow, like something large yet splintered burying itself whilst spanning her ribs. His desperation wasn’t loud anymore — it was heavy. Heavy enough to crush the air between them.
Slowly, deliberately, she stood up, rounding the table before kneeling to his level.
"You are real," she whispered, steady even though her voice wanted to shake. "I see you."
She didn’t reach for him. Not yet. She stayed close enough that he could feel her presence, but not so close he’d feel trapped. Her hands rested openly on her knees — an offering, not a demand.
"You’re not some mistake," she continued, keeping her voice low, like speaking any louder might shatter him. "You're not him. You're not supposed to be. You're you. Fern. And that... that matters."
She hesitated, heart thudding painfully against her ribs, but forced herself to go on.
"And maybe they don’t see it yet. Maybe they’re blind, or scared, or stuck in their own grief. But that doesn't mean you’re invisible. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you’re worthless."
Her gaze softened, a bright gentleness burning behind her eyes.
"You're enough. Even if they don’t know it yet.
She let the silence stretch, not rushing to fill it, letting the words sink into whatever battered place inside him might still be listening.
"You need to find out who you really are" she said finally.
There was a long, broken silence.
Finally, Fern’s fingers closed around the book, clumsy and trembling. He pulled it to his chest like a shield.
"I don't know how," he whispered, the words thin and cracking.
"You don’t have to know today," she said, standing up slowly and offering her hand to him. "But you can start. And... maybe I can help."
For a moment, Fern just stared at the hand like it was a foreign object, a trick waiting to snap shut. But then, with painful hesitance, he lifted his own hand and placed it in hers.
It wasn’t a strong grip. It wasn’t confident. But it was enough.