Melanie always wore her smile like armor—bright, bold, and impenetrable. To the world, she was the girl who could light up a room with her jokes, the friend who stood by your side no matter what. But beneath that surface, memories lingered, shadows that clung to her even in the light.

She remembered the first time she realized she was different. Not because of her powers, but because of how people treated her. She was eight when it started—when her best friend, Lisa, turned away after discovering Melanie's secret abilities. It wasn't fear that drove Lisa away but jealousy. Melanie learned then that even the ones closest to her could leave, and that was a pain she buried deep. She told herself it didn't matter, that she was better off without someone who couldn't accept her. But the ache stayed.

Then there were the fights at home. She loved her family, but sometimes love wasn't enough. There were arguments about control, about using her powers responsibly. Her parents' fear of exposure was a constant weight pressing down on her. Melanie wanted to be herself, to show the world what she could do, but every step forward felt like walking a tightrope over disappointment. The walls of her home became both a shelter and a prison, and every mistake she made felt like another brick sealing her in.

And then, there was the day she lost control. She tried to save someone—a little boy about to be hit by a car—but her powers flared too wildly. She saved him, but the accident left a trail of damage behind. It was the first time Melanie truly feared herself. She remembered the look in her mother's eyes, not of anger, but of sorrow. It wasn't about what Melanie did—it was about what could've happened. That moment haunted her, a reminder that no matter how good her intentions were, she could still be dangerous.

But that was then.

Now, things were worse.

Season 2 started like a storm. Melanie wasn't just struggling with bad memories—she was drowning in them. Her powers were changing, evolving in ways she didn't understand. They were stronger, wilder, harder to control. She tried to act like nothing was wrong, laughing off every misfire, every flicker of energy that sparked from her fingertips when she got too emotional. But it was getting harder to pretend.

And it wasn't just her powers. It was the isolation. Her friends were pulling away, tired of the unpredictability that came with being close to her. Even the Thundermans, who were like her second family, started looking at her with caution. She caught Phoebe's worried glances, heard Max's offhand jokes that weren't quite jokes. They weren't scared of her, not exactly. But they were wary, and that was worse.

Then came the accident. Another moment of good intentions gone wrong. Melanie had tried to help stop a robbery, but her powers lashed out violently, causing more harm than good. The fallout was brutal—news headlines questioning the safety of superheroes, whispers of registering powered individuals. Melanie's name wasn't public, but it didn't matter. She felt the weight of every word, every glare from strangers who sensed something was off.

And that's when she realized it wasn't just her powers that were dangerous. It was her emotions. The anger she tried to hide, the fear she buried, the sadness that gnawed at her when no one was watching. Every emotion made her powers surge unpredictably. Every failure convinced her she was one step closer to losing control for good.

Melanie started pulling away, shutting people out. She stopped laughing as much. She stopped reaching out. She told herself it was safer this way. If she was alone, no one could get hurt.

But the loneliness was suffocating.

And the darkness inside her? It was growing.

Melanie tried.

She tried to smile, to laugh, to be the girl everyone remembered—the girl she used to be. She tried to pretend that the shadows didn't creep closer every night, that the weight of her memories didn't drag her down with every step. She tried to tell herself that the world wasn't as cold and sharp as it felt. But it was hard to pretend when the darkness inside her felt more real than the light outside.

She wanted to be happy. She wanted to believe that there was still a place for her in the world, that she wasn't just a mistake wrapped in a person's skin. But every time she reached for a happy memory, a darker one took its place. Moments of laughter were overwritten by echoes of yelling, of doors slamming, of her mother's cold eyes and her father's disappointment. They liked her once. Loved her, even. Or maybe that was just another lie she told herself to survive.

Because now? Now they were gone.

Melanie's parents didn't come to visit anymore. They didn't check in. They didn't call. They didn't care. She remembered the last conversation she'd had with her mother—how her voice had been sharp and final, how her words had cut deeper than any blade.
"You're dangerous, Melanie. You've always been dangerous. You're not the daughter we raised."

And that was it.

They didn't say goodbye. They didn't say they'd miss her. They just... left.

They handed her off to the Thundermans like she was someone else's problem. A charity case. A responsibility.

Melanie used to believe that family meant unconditional love. That no matter how bad things got, no matter how hard things became, you fought for each other. You stayed. But that belief shattered the day her parents turned their backs. That was when she learned that love could be conditional. That sometimes, the people who were supposed to love you the most could be the first to leave.

And she hated herself for still hoping they would come back. For still wishing that one day they'd show up and take her in their arms and tell her they were wrong. That they missed her. That they were proud of her.

But they wouldn't. And she knew it.

So she stopped hoping.

She told herself she didn't need them. She told herself she was better off alone. Safer. Easier.

But it wasn't true.

Because even with the Thundermans—these people who took her in, who tried to care for her—Melanie still felt like a shadow at the edge of their lives. She was always there, but never quite part of them. She saw it in Phoebe's cautious glances, in Max's sarcastic jokes that weren't really jokes. She saw it in Barb's kind smiles that didn't reach her eyes, in Hank's hesitations. No one said it, but she felt it. She wasn't really family. She wasn't really theirs.

And maybe she never would be.

She knew they tried. She knew they wanted her to be okay. But trying wasn't the same as belonging. It wasn't the same as love.

So Melanie learned to be alone.

She became quiet. Observant. She let the others talk and laugh and argue around her, but she didn't step in. She didn't speak up. She didn't remind them that she was there. Because if they forgot about her, maybe it would hurt less when they left too.

She stayed up late at night, lying awake in the dark, the weight of silence pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket. She thought about her powers, about how they flared when her emotions grew too heavy. About how dangerous she could be. She thought about her parents, about every word they'd said, every look they'd given. About how they were probably relieved that she wasn't their responsibility anymore.

And she thought about who she was becoming.

Because every day, it felt like she was losing pieces of herself. Little by little. The happy, hopeful parts were fading, worn down by loneliness and grief. Replaced by anger, by fear, by numbness.

Sometimes she wondered if there would be anything left of her when it was over.

Sometimes she wasn't sure she cared.

But there were still moments—small, fleeting moments—when someone would say something kind, when someone would laugh, when someone would reach out to her without hesitation. And for a second, it would feel like it wasn't all hopeless. Like maybe there was still a chance for her.

But those moments were brief. And they didn't come often.

Melanie didn't know who she was anymore.

She wasn't the daughter her parents wanted.

She was just... alone.

And maybe that's all she would ever be.

Melanie wanted to be happy. She wanted to believe that she could be fine, that the weight pressing down on her chest wasn't suffocating her. She wanted to believe that she could laugh and smile and mean it. That the darkness wasn't winning.

But it was a lie.

And she was so tired of lying.

Still, she tried. Every day, she forced herself to pretend. She forced herself to laugh when the jokes didn't feel funny, to smile when the emptiness inside her felt like it was swallowing her whole. She told herself she was fine, that it wasn't as bad as it seemed. That she was strong enough to handle it.

But it wasn't true.

And Max knew it.

Max always knew.

He was the only one who ever really saw her—not the mask she wore, not the fake smiles or half-hearted jokes. He saw the cracks. The shadows. The way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking. The way she flinched when someone got too close.

He noticed the silence. The moments when her voice would falter, when her eyes would flicker with something heavy and broken, and she'd cover it with sarcasm or a sharp laugh.

And he didn't buy it. Not for a second.

But Melanie didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to explain. She didn't want to admit how deeply it hurt, how alone she felt, how scared she was of losing control. Of losing herself.

So she pushed him away.

Every time Max tried to reach out, she'd shove him back. Not physically, but with words, with distance, with silence. She didn't mean to—she didn't want to hurt him. But letting him close meant letting him see how far she'd already fallen. It meant admitting that she wasn't fine, that she wasn't okay, that she wasn't strong.

And she couldn't do that.

Because if Max saw her like that—weak, broken—maybe he'd leave too. Just like her parents did.

So she pushed.

But she also held on.

It was confusing and messy, and it tore her apart, but Max was the one person she didn't want to lose. He was the one person she trusted, even when she didn't want to. Even when she felt like she didn't deserve it.

And sometimes, late at night when it felt like the walls were closing in, when the darkness inside her felt too heavy to bear, she'd find herself seeking him out.

Not for comfort. Not for words. Just... to be near someone who cared.

Max never said anything when she showed up at his door in the middle of the night. He never asked why. He never pushed. He just let her sit there, silent and guarded, while they stared at the wall or listened to the quiet hum of the night.

It was enough.

It wasn't everything. But it was enough.

Until it wasn't.

Because eventually, Melanie would remember who she was—what she was. Dangerous. Broken. Alone. And then she'd leave. She'd pull away before Max could get too close, before he could see the parts of her that she hated.

And Max would let her. Because he knew better than to force her.

But he never stopped waiting. Never stopped watching. Never stopped hoping that one day, she'd trust him enough to stay.

Melanie hated herself for wanting that. For needing it.

But some nights, when the fear was too strong and the memories too sharp, she stayed just a little longer.

There were moments when she thought she was okay. When she convinced herself that she could handle it. When she stood in the kitchen with the Thundermans, laughing at one of Billy's ridiculous jokes or watching Nora bicker with Max. When she let herself believe, just for a second, that she belonged.

But those moments didn't last.

Because every time she started to feel safe, the memories would come. The harsh words from her parents. The way they'd looked at her like she was a stranger. The way they left her behind without a second glance.

"You're dangerous, Melanie."
"You're not the daughter we raised."

And it would come crashing back, the weight of abandonment, of fear, of loneliness. It would crush her, suffocate her, remind her that she didn't belong anywhere. Not with her parents. Not with the Thundermans. Not even with Max.

So she'd retreat. Pull into herself. Hide behind sarcasm and smiles that didn't reach her eyes. She'd tell herself it was easier this way. Safer.

But Max saw through it.

And one night, he finally said it.

"I know you're not okay, Melanie."

She froze, her back stiffening as she stared at the floor.

"I'm fine," she lied. The words came automatically, but they felt heavy, hollow.

"You're not," Max said quietly. Not angry. Not accusing. Just... there. Solid. Unmovable. "And it's okay if you're not."

But it wasn't okay.

It wasn't okay that she still missed her parents, even though they abandoned her. It wasn't okay that she still felt like a stranger in the Thundermans' house. That she hated herself for being weak, for being afraid, for wanting someone to care.

She wanted to scream. To cry. To run.

But she didn't.

Instead, she just stood there, trapped in silence.

Max didn't push. He didn't tell her to talk. He didn't ask for more.

He just sat there, waiting.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything.

Because it meant he wasn't going to leave. Not yet. Not even when she tried to push him away.

And part of her hated him for that.

But a bigger part of her was so, so grateful.

The battle inside Melanie was constant, exhausting. A war between wanting to be saved and believing she wasn't worth saving. Between reaching out and pulling away.

And every day, it got harder to choose the light.

Harder to believe it was even there.

But Max kept showing up. Kept waiting.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to pull her back.

One day.

The thing about darkness was that it didn't just stay inside.

It leaked.

It crept into the corners of her mind, into her bones, and into her powers. And no matter how tightly Melanie tried to hold it in, to keep it locked away, it always found a way out.

It started small. A spark here, a flare there. Little things. She could control it—at least, that's what she told herself. But it wasn't enough. The longer she held it in, the more it pushed back. The more it demanded to be seen.

And one night, it broke.

It started like any other night. Melanie was in her room, sitting by the window, staring out at the quiet street. She wasn't thinking about anything in particular, but the memories were there anyway—always there. Her mother's sharp words. Her father's cold eyes. The door closing behind them. The silence that followed.

She pressed her fingers against the glass, trying to ground herself, but her hands trembled. She felt the heat beneath her skin, a dangerous hum building in her fingertips. She took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out slowly.

Control it. Keep it down.

But it wasn't enough.

The door creaked open. Max stood there, leaning against the frame, arms crossed but his eyes soft. Watching. Always watching.

"You okay?" His voice was low, careful.

Melanie forced a smile. "I'm fine."

It was automatic now. Muscle memory. A lie she lived in.

Max didn't believe it. He never did. But he didn't push. Not yet.

"Okay," he said, but his gaze didn't leave her. "Just... checking."

And for a moment, she wished he would push. Wished he'd demand answers, force her to say the words she couldn't. Because maybe then, the pressure would ease. Maybe it wouldn't feel so heavy.

But Max didn't push. And Melanie didn't speak.

And that was when it happened.

It was a small sound at first. A low crack, like ice breaking. The glass beneath her fingertips splintered, a spiderweb of fractures spreading out.

Melanie yanked her hand back, heart pounding. "It's nothing," she said quickly, too quickly. "It's fine. I'm fine."

But Max's eyes dropped to her hand, saw the faint glow of energy still sparking beneath her skin. He stepped into the room, careful, slow.

"Melanie—"

"I said I'm fine!" The words snapped out of her before she could stop them, sharp and jagged.

And that was the moment everything broke.

The light exploded from her, uncontrolled and violent. It shot across the room, searing through the air, smashing into the wall with a crack of energy that echoed like thunder. The lamp shattered. The walls trembled.

Melanie's heart froze. Her breath caught.

Max didn't move. He didn't flinch.

But his eyes—those steady, knowing eyes—were full of something she couldn't stand to see.

Not fear. Not shock.

Worry.

And worse.

Understanding.

Melanie's hands trembled as she pulled them close to her chest. "I—I didn't mean—" Her voice broke, shaking. "I didn't mean to."

But it was too late.

The damage was done.

She could still feel the energy crackling beneath her skin, wild and angry, begging to be released. Her powers fed on her emotions, and lately, that was all she seemed to have left. Anger. Hurt. Fear.

Darkness.

She waited for Max to say something. To tell her she was dangerous. Broken. A mistake.

Just like her parents did.

But he didn't.

He stepped closer. Slow. Careful. Like approaching an injured animal.

"You don't have to be afraid," he said softly. "Not with me."

But she was afraid. Afraid of herself. Afraid of what she could do. Afraid that if she let Max get too close, he'd get hurt.

And she couldn't stand that.

So she stepped back. Shook her head. "You should be afraid," she whispered. Her voice trembled, sharp with fear and pain. "I don't know how to stop it. I can't—"

"You can," Max said, his voice steady, calm. He took another step forward. "You just don't trust yourself."

And she didn't. How could she?

She couldn't trust her own powers, her own mind, her own heart. She couldn't trust herself to stay in control, to keep people safe. That was why her parents left. That was why they gave her away.

And that was why Max needed to leave, too.

Before she hurt him.

"Get out," she said, her voice low, breaking.

Max stopped. "Melanie—"

"I said get out." The words tore out of her, harsh and raw. The glow in her hands flared again, bright and angry.

But Max didn't move.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because it meant he wasn't giving up. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't going to walk away, even when she wanted him to.

And that terrified her.

Because if he stayed, she might start to believe she wasn't alone. She might start to believe she deserved it.

And if he left—if he left after—

She