Page 177 of Joker

Because it’s true. Because that’s exactly what I’ve done. Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But done it anyway.

I take a step toward him.

He takes one back.

And that hurts worse than everything else.

Because Joker doesn’t back away from anything. Not fear. Not violence. Not pain. And he’s stepping back from me. Because I made him.

“Please,” I whisper. My voice sounds wrecked.

He looks wrecked too, just in a quieter, more dangerous way. Not violent-dangerous.

Emotionally.

Like if I push one inch harder, I’ll hit something I won’t know how to fix.

“I know you’re trying to keep me safe,” I say, words tumbling now because I have to get them out before this gets any worse. “I know that. I do. I just—”

I press a hand to my chest like maybe I can physically hold still whatever is clawing around inside me. “My body doesn’t always know the difference yet.”

There.

There’s the truth. The ugly, painful, humiliating truth of it.

Joker goes still again. Not closed off this time. Listening.

I force myself to keep going even though my throat feels like it’s closing. “When everyone’s watching me all the time, when I can’t go anywhere alone, when every move I make gets tracked and redirected and checked…” I swallow hard. “I know why you’re doing it. I know it’s not the same. But sometimes my body doesn’t. Sometimes it just…” My voice breaks. “Remembers.”

That lands differently.

I can see it. Not because it fixes what I said. It doesn’t. But because now he can at least see the shape of the wound I threw at him with.

And maybe that matters.

Maybe not enough. Still something. For a second, neither of us says anything.

The room feels wrecked. Like the fight itself is still hanging in the air, sharp and ugly and unfinished.

Then Joker drags a hand down his face and looks at the floor. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough enough to sound scraped raw. “I don’t know how to keep you alive without making you feel trapped.”

That one breaks me clean in half. Because there it is. The impossible thing underneath all of this. The reason we’re even standing here bleeding into each other in the first place.

He is trying to keep me alive.

And I am trying not to drown in what that safety costs my nervous system.

Neither of us is wrong. And somehow we still hurt each other anyway.

I wipe angrily at my face and take another step toward him, slower this time, careful like I’m approaching something injured. Maybe I am. Maybe we both are.

“You are not him,” I say, voice shaking but sure. “You have never been him.”

His jaw tightens.

I keep going. “I know that. Even when I’m scared. Even when my body’s freaking out. Even when I say stupid, unfair shit because I feel like I can’t breathe.” My throat tightens hard enough it hurts. “I know the difference.”

He finally looks at me again. And God, the hurt is still there. Not as sharp. Still there.