Chapter Text
“This feeling will pass,” Luz whispered, the words trembling off her lips like a lie she wanted to believe.
She sat in her dimly lit room at the Owl House, a box cutter clutched tightly in her hand. The candlelight flickered weakly, shadows crawling across the floor like restless thoughts. She didn’t even know what she was waiting for. Maybe a reason. Maybe courage. Maybe something that could make her feel real again.
She wasn’t alone. Amity lay sleeping across the room, her breathing soft and steady. Stringbean was curled up near Luz’s pillow, her tiny warmth pressing against the blanket. King snored gently in his “sleep cocoon” by the corner. Amity had been staying here ever since her home was destroyed when the Boiling Isles came alive — since everything fell apart.
Luz had faced death before. She’d fought monsters, gods, even fate itself. But this quiet — this stillness — felt heavier than any battle. Ever since becoming part Titan, her body hadn’t felt like her own. Her emotions twisted and flickered like bad magic. Some days she felt too much, others nothing at all.
And the nothing scared her most.
The hurt wasn’t what she wanted — it was the control. The reminder that she still could choose something, that she could still feel something that was hers.
Tears began to blur her vision. She swallowed hard, trying not to make a sound, gripping the box cutter tighter. A tremor ran through her arm. The first tear fell, then another, and soon her breathing hitched into quiet sobs.
She dropped back against her bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath her.
Something moved.
Luz blinked through her tears and saw Stringbean watching her, eyes full of concern. The little palisman tilted her head, studying Luz with silent understanding before climbing onto her chest, curling close like she could sense the storm inside her.
Luz froze, shame flooding her. She rolled her sleeve down to cover her arm — the arm already lined with old scars, fading scabs, and a few fresh, angry cuts. The sight made her chest ache. She pressed her sleeve down hard, as if she could erase what was there by hiding it.
Her other hand trembled as she tried to shift the box cutter out of sight, but Stringbean’s gaze followed the movement. Her eyes flicked toward the nightstand, where Luz had set the blade earlier, and lingered there — understanding, worried, silent.
“I’m fine,” Luz whispered, voice shaking. “Really, I’m fine.”
She wasn’t.
She stroked Stringbean’s back, the motion automatic and desperate. Tears kept spilling silently as the room seemed to close in around her. She wanted to feel something else — warmth, peace, anything but this.
After a long moment, Stringbean slipped off the bed and padded quietly toward Amity’s side. Luz’s stomach twisted. “No… Stringbean, please don’t.”
But it was too late.
Amity stirred, blinking groggily, her violet eyes catching the soft light. “Stringbean?” she murmured — then her gaze lifted and froze on Luz. The box cutter sat plain on the nightstand, catching the candlelight in a sharp gleam.
Her confusion melted into fear. “Luz… why do you have that out?” she whispered. Her voice cracked, half-asleep but trembling. “What were you going to do with it?”
Luz’s throat locked up. “Oh—nothing,” she said too fast, the word splintering.
Amity’s brow furrowed. “That didn’t sound like nothing.” She sat up fully now, eyes flicking between Luz and the blade. “Please don’t lie to me.”
Luz looked away, tears rising again. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please, Amity. Not now.”
Amity hesitated for only a second before standing and crossing the room. The mattress dipped as she sat down beside Luz, quiet but firm. Luz’s body shook; she didn’t look up.
Amity reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek. “You don’t have to talk,” she said softly. “Just don’t face it alone.”
That was all it took. Luz’s composure broke apart, her shoulders trembling as she choked back sobs. “I just wanted to feel something,” she managed to say between breaths. “I didn’t want to— I just— I can’t stop it sometimes.”
Amity didn’t flinch. She pulled Luz into her arms, holding her tightly as Luz broke down completely, sobbing into her shoulder. “It’s okay,” Amity murmured through her own tears. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re not alone anymore.”
Stringbean climbed back up onto the bed, curling beside them both, wrapping her tail gently around Luz’s wrist — as if to remind her that she was still tethered, still here, still loved.
The room was silent again, but this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full — of breathing, warmth, and the quiet sound of a heartbeat that wasn’t hers alone.
The box cutter still sat on the nightstand — untouched, faintly glinting in the low light — but it no longer looked like an escape. Just a reminder of what she had almost lost, and what she still had left.
The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the curtains. Luz blinked awake, her face buried in Amity’s shoulder, her fingers still tangled in her girlfriend’s sleeve. Stringbean was curled at their feet, eyes closed, breathing slow.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Luz didn’t wake up afraid.
Amity stirred beside her and looked down, giving her a sleepy smile that carried all the gentleness in the world.
Luz hesitated — then whispered, voice small but steady, “I think I’m ready to talk now.”
Amity brushed her hair back, tears glimmering faintly in her eyes. “Okay,” she said softly. “Then I’m ready to listen.”
And for the first time, Luz truly believed the feeling might pass — not because she had to face it alone, but because she didn’t anymore.