Disclaimer: Teen Titans are not mine. The song isn't mine either. If I continue about things that aren't mine, I will be depressed.

A/N: Wrote this listening to Bad Day by Daniel Powter. The song always reminds me of fall.


Bad Day
by Author-Anon


The room is a small one and it is wider than it is long. A little way from the door, there's a modern looking glass coffee table standing proudly on its four stumpy wooden legs. It is accompanied by a cube-like chair with a short, cushioned back. A small, narrow vase of pinkish flowers stands in the middle of the table, giving a fraudulent cheerful air to the room.

On the far side of the room, there's a window that opens out and up. The trees outside are decked in red and gold, a sign of the winter that is quickly approaching. The weak sunlight streams through the window, making the room match the fall colors outside. There's a bed next to the window. It is a plain affair with a white, steel bedframe and a single size mattress. The coverlet and bed sheet are the faded pink color that are the results of too many rounds of washing.

On the bed is a girl.

She looks more like a marble statue than a human girl, but the beeping heart monitor and the IV drip testify to the contrary. The sunshine looks nice on her face, bringing a little color to her pale cheeks, a little health to her pallid, sick-looking skin. She looks like she's sleeping peacefully. Her eyes are closed, her head lolls a little to the side and her breaths are deep and even. But looks are deceiving and not everything is deserving of being labeled after what they seem to be.

Beside the middle of the bed, a little way from the machines, is boy sitting in a chair.

He's not asleep. He watches the girl, watches her face, like he's keeping vigil over her and maybe he is. He doesn't move either except to blink and breathe. It's almost as if they are imitating each other, two living statues, promised an eternity together.

In the end, he does move. Both his hands move to rest on her pale one, enveloping her hand with warmth. He whispers something. He tightens his grip on her hands.

She doesn't wake.

Somehow, it feels like there was a battle fought and a battle lost in the silent, passing minutes. There are no victors in this battle, only victims.

His eyes turn to the window.

Outside, a wind blows and the bright leaves begin to fall.


To Be Continued...