The Cassandra Complex:
A psychological phenomenon in which an individuals accurate prediction of a crisis is ignored or dismissed
Or, in which;
the Umbrella Academy children are far too young to know what life has planned for them -- except for th...
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The Umbrella Academy children are just thirteen, and it is the first time they have dared to venture to Griddys Doughnuts since Five had gone.
They are one man down, surrounded by sugary napkins and empty plates smeared with jam and cream and sprinkles. It is too late for them to be out alone, but they have eachother, despite the lack of one that overshadows them in the quiet of the diner.
Johanna's body aches, bones weighed down with fatigue of their training and infinitely more, but she can't stop staring at the empty space in the booth; the booth that used to feel so cramped, elbows no longer bashing and shoes knocking shins now a thing of the past.
(She liked the past. Though harsh, it was still kinder.)
They're talking amongst themselves quietly, not wanting to face the fact they have to go back to the academy at some point.
At midnight the diner will close, and they will all make the journey home to a place that no longer feels like one.
Klaus fidgets, and has done all night. Now it is amped up by the sugar in his system, acting on the artificial high pulsing through his blood.
His knee bounces rapidly, and Johanna can feel it as he suddenly asks her if she thinks their brother is dead.
The words are like a stab through the chest, right into her racing heart.
She shakes her head, resting her chin on his arm looking up at him.
She knows why he is asking, why sleep has been difficult for him, able to hear his nervous pacing through the shared wall between their two rooms.
Her voice is soft, so the others don't take any notice. "You won't see him," she whispers, eyes glowing under the florescent lighting. "Don't worry."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because he's just lost," she murmurs. "He'll be back."
"Lost?"
She hums with a little nod, eyes glittering with stars. "In time." She says, as though it isn't a strange sentence, but as easy as discussing the weather.
"When do you think he'll be back?"
She grows wistful, vacant, sad. Her eyes lower to the table.
"Later, I suppose."
"Later? That's a little vague." Diego scoffs from the other side of her twin, attracting the attention of the others. "Might as well just say you don't know."
She frowns, going quiet, picking at Klauses sleeve where there are frays of thread sticking out.
"I hate to say it, but Diego's right," Allison pipes up, folding her arms. "Its been six months, Joey."
"So?" She asks with a frown.
Luther exchanges a pitiful glance with Allison. He is hesitant to speak for once, but the words flit between the two who have always been too close.
