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Pov Michelangelo
Michelangelo sat on the edge of his bed, his hands limp in his lap, his eyes staring blankly at a crack in the wall that didn’t really exist. The soft hum of the lair's ventilation system faded into white noise as his mind drifted, lost in the familiar fog of dissociation. It had become his uninvited companion — one that crept in quietly, took his hand, and pulled him into a space where time no longer existed and feelings were muted.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t ask for it. But it had become a survival mechanism — a way to endure the bruises that weren’t always visible. A way to stay afloat when being the butt of every joke or the target of a brother's misplaced anger became too much to bear.
In a twisted way, Mikey blamed himself. Not because he deserved it, but because he convinced himself he did. Somewhere along the way, he decided that being the punching bag was his role — the glue that held them together. Like if his brothers could agree on one thing, it was that Mikey was the one to pick on. It gave them a common thread, a shared rhythm. And as dysfunctional as it was, it kept the family from splintering under the weight of grief, stress, and years of trauma.
To anyone else, it would sound absurd — heartbreaking, even. Family isn’t supposed to work like that. But Mikey had long stopped thinking like “anyone else.” To him, this warped balance was normal. Familiar. Safe, even, in a painful kind of way.
So he kept the act going. He’d clown around, provoke them, poke the bear until someone snapped — and then swallow the sting like bitter medicine. He told himself that seeing his brothers laugh — even if it was at his expense — made it worth it.
But not today.
Today, the cracks were showing.
The dissociation was getting worse. He was losing more time. Sometimes he’d blink and hours would be gone. He was getting sloppy, and he knew it. The last thing he needed was for his brothers to notice. They couldn’t worry about him. He wasn’t allowed to be the one who needed help. He was the happy one. The heart of the team. If he fell apart, what would happen to them?
So he built a mask — bright orange, goofy, and impenetrable. Every smile was rehearsed. Every joke, a carefully timed distraction. If it slipped, even for a moment, he had excuses ready. “Didn’t sleep.” “Too much pizza.” “Zoned out.” Never anything real. Never anything raw.
But the mask was growing heavier. Some days it felt welded to his face, and others, it cracked so easily he feared it would shatter entirely.
He didn’t remember falling into a dissociative spell again, but when he blinked and looked at the clock, it was already past 8. An hour behind. Panic flickered in his chest, but he smothered it. Time to move. Time to function.
He dragged himself up, each step to the kitchen feeling like wading through molasses. He hadn’t slept again. Insomnia had become another unwelcome constant. The nights were long and restless, his mind a storm of worst-case scenarios and imagined arguments. But none of that mattered now.
His brothers needed breakfast.
Even if he didn’t want to eat, even if he could barely stand, they needed him to show up. That’s what he was good for, right?
Cooking used to be a passion — an art. He’d throw together dishes with flair and creativity, laughing and humming as he worked. Now it was just muscle memory. His hands moved on their own, chopping, frying, plating, while his mind floated somewhere far away.
Being useful. That word haunted him. If he couldn’t be smart like Donnie, disciplined like Leo, or strong like Raph, at least he could feed them. At least he could be the caretaker. The background character. The support role.
When breakfast was done, he delivered it with quiet efficiency.
Donnie’s plate went by the lab door — no knocking, no disruptions. Donnie hated that. Mikey knew his rules. Knew them all too well.
Leo’s meal went to the dojo, placed gently beside him while he meditated. Mikey didn’t say a word. He didn’t want to disturb the peace Leo worked so hard to maintain.
Raph’s was the hardest. He was barely ever around anymore. Missions were the only time Mikey saw him, and even then, Raph barely said more than what was necessary. He left the plate by the door. If Raph wanted it, he’d find it.
No one came to the kitchen to eat with him anymore. Not since Master Splinter’s death.
That silence — that empty table — cut deeper than any words ever could.
He returned to his room and collapsed back onto the bed, his stomach knotting at the smell of food. He couldn’t eat. Not now. Not when every bite felt like it might choke him. Dinner was the only meal he still forced down — mostly because Leo sometimes joined him. Leo, who still tried to keep some sense of unity, even if the cracks were starting to show in him too.
At least then, Mikey wasn’t alone.
Now, though, he was. Completely. The walls of his room felt like they were closing in, trapping him with his thoughts. He lay there for hours, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling like a ghost in his own body. He wanted to move. To do something. Anything. But it was like his limbs were shackled to the mattress by invisible chains made of exhaustion and hopelessness.
He loathed himself for it.
He couldn’t even look at his reflection anymore. The person in the mirror wasn’t Mikey. Not the real Mikey. Not the one everyone thought they knew. It was just some hollow, distorted version — a reminder of everything he wasn’t.
‘What kind of person can’t even stand themselves?’ he wondered. Was this normal? Or was it just another one of his broken quirks?
He had no answers. And no one to ask.
He stared at the ceiling, his heart aching with the familiar longing: Maybe someone will notice today. Maybe someone will ask.
But no one came.
They never did.
He was alone. And that truth — that cold, cruel truth — broke his heart a little more each time it surfaced.
Eventually, he sighed and forced himself to sit up. It was nearly dinner. He couldn’t let Leo eat alone. He couldn’t let his mask slip now. Not tonight.
So, he pulled it back on — that big, sunny smile — and left his room like everything was okay.
Even if it wasn’t.
Michelangelo walked toward the kitchen, the soles of his feet brushing the cool floor as he kept his movements light. Not because he was trying to be stealthy — that would require intention. This was just habit now. Years of being overlooked had taught him how to move like a ghost.
His smile was already forming before he turned the corner. Just in case someone was there. Just in case someone looked.
But the kitchen was empty.
Of course it was.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. A mix of relief and disappointment. Part of him wanted to be alone. The other part wanted anything but.
The clock read 6:09. Dinner time. Right on schedule. He opened the fridge, pulled out what he needed, and got to work. Nothing fancy — Leo liked simple meals, and Mikey didn’t have the energy to be creative anyway. He boiled noodles, stirred sauce, grated cheese. Everything was automatic. The only real sound was the quiet bubbling of the pot and the occasional scrape of metal on metal.
His thoughts wandered again, as they always did during the quiet.
He used to fill this space with music. With jokes. With humming and dancing and bad impressions. Anything to fill the silence. Now… he wasn’t sure why he didn’t bother. Maybe because the silence felt more honest. Like it was finally matching the way he felt inside.
He finished the pasta and plated two servings. One for him. One for Leo.
He hesitated before calling out. His voice always sounded too loud in the empty lair, and even now, he second-guessed whether Leo would even show up. But still, he tried.
“Dinner’s ready!” he called, forcing cheer into his voice. It echoed faintly down the corridor, bouncing off stone and metal. No immediate answer came, but that was okay. Leo was always a few minutes late — finishing his meditation, or cleaning his swords, or doing something responsible and leader-y.
Mikey sat at the table, spinning his fork between his fingers while he waited. He didn’t touch the food. Not yet. He kept his posture relaxed, casual, like nothing was wrong.
A few minutes passed. Five. Maybe seven. Then soft footsteps approached.
Leo walked in, calm and composed like always. His face gave nothing away, but Mikey could tell — there was something heavy in his brother’s eyes. Not sadness exactly… but a weight. They all carried it now.
“Smells good,” Leo said, sitting down across from him.
Mikey grinned. “You know me. Culinary genius at your service.”
Leo gave a small smile, then dug in. The clink of fork against plate filled the space between them.
Mikey stared at his food. Still not hungry. But he forced himself to take a bite. It was warm. Tasted fine. That was good enough.
“How was training?” he asked, trying to sound interested. Normal. Not like he’d spent all day in bed dissociating from reality.
Leo shrugged. “Same as always. Raph didn’t show up again.”
“Oh,” Mikey said, pretending he didn’t already know that. “He’s probably out blowing off steam. That guy’s like a volcano — needs to erupt every once in a while or he’ll go kaboom.”
Leo didn’t laugh. Not even a smirk. He just nodded and kept eating.
Mikey glanced down at his plate again, suddenly feeling queasy. He pushed the food around with his fork.
They ate in near silence. Normally, that would’ve driven Mikey nuts. He was the noise in the group, the filler, the glue. But lately… even silence felt exhausting.
“I miss Splinter,” Leo said suddenly, his voice quiet. Almost like he was admitting something shameful.
Mikey’s heart clenched. He nodded slowly. “Yeah… me too.”
There was a long pause. Mikey kept his face neutral. He wanted to say more — so much more. He wanted to spill everything, to admit how broken he felt, how lost. How he still sometimes looked toward the dojo expecting to see their father standing there with his cane, ready to guide them with quiet wisdom and steady hands.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t burden Leo. Leo was already carrying so much. Too much.
So instead, Mikey forced another smile and said, “Hey, remember when Splinter caught us trying to build that pizza catapult? Man, he was not impressed.”
Leo blinked. Then, to Mikey’s surprise, he actually chuckled. “We almost broke Donnie’s face with a flying calzone.”
Mikey grinned wider, even though it hurt. Even though every part of him wanted to drop the act and scream that he wasn’t okay.
They talked a little more after that — small things, memories, surface-level banter. Leo stayed for fifteen minutes. Twenty, maybe. Then he stood up, grabbed his plate, and nodded.
“Thanks for dinner.”
“Anytime, bro,” Mikey said, waving lazily.
As soon as Leo’s footsteps faded away, the grin slid off Mikey’s face. He sat there a moment longer, staring at his half-eaten meal.
The room felt colder now.
He got up, cleared the plates, washed them quickly, mechanically. Then he walked back to his room, footsteps slower this time.
The mask cracked a little more as he stepped inside and closed the door.
Alone again.
And somehow, that one small moment of connection — that fleeting dinner — made the loneliness feel even worse now. Like getting a taste of something he’d been starving for, only to have it yanked away again.
He curled up under his blanket and stared at the wall.
He wanted to believe things would get better. That his brothers would see him. Really see him. But deep down, he didn’t know if he believed that anymore.
And tonight, that hurt more than anything else.
Pov Leonardo
The silence in the dojo was comforting, but not calming.
Leonardo sat cross-legged on the mat, eyes closed, breathing even. The air was cool, still. The scent of incense from earlier lingered faintly, a trick he'd picked up from Splinter to ground himself. But lately, even meditation felt like a performance — a habit he did because he was supposed to. Because a leader needed to be focused. Balanced. Unshakable.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking into the dim light.
He wasn’t any of those things.
Since Master Splinter’s death, Leo had done everything he could to hold the team together. Training schedules. Patrol rotations. Daily check-ins. He doubled down on structure because it was all he had left to offer. But the tighter he tried to hold them, the more they drifted.
Raph barely spoke to him anymore. Donnie was buried in his lab, working on projects Leo couldn’t even begin to understand. And Mikey…
Mikey was still smiling.
That should’ve been reassuring. Familiar. But lately, Leo wasn’t sure if he trusted that smile.
It was too perfect. Too constant. Even for Mikey.
He sensed it, like a thread being pulled too tight. A tension beneath the surface. Something small and quiet and deeply wrong.
And Leo hated that he couldn’t name it. That he couldn’t fix it.
A voice called from the kitchen, breaking the silence.
“Dinner’s ready!”
Leo closed his eyes again, took a slow breath, and stood. His legs ached slightly from sitting too long. He stretched his shoulders and made his way to the kitchen.
Leo nodded, offering a faint smile. “Smells good.”
Mikey was already seated when he arrived, a steaming plate set across from his own. “You know me,” Mikey said brightly, “culinary genius at your service.”
He sat and took a bite. It was good. Simple. Comforting, even. But what stood out more was how still Mikey was being. His brother — usually a whirlwind of motion — sat rigid in his seat, food untouched.
“Are you not hungry?” Leo asked, casually.
Mikey waved a hand. “Just pacing myself.”
Leo didn’t press. But he noticed the way Mikey’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
They ate mostly in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy, either. Leo couldn’t help but feel the space between them — not physical, but emotional. A strange kind of distance that hadn’t been there before.
Without thinking, Leo spoke.
“I miss Splinter.”
It came out low, almost a whisper. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not without warning.
But Mikey didn’t flinch.
“Yeah… me too,” he said. And for the briefest moment, the mask slipped. Leo saw it — a flicker of something raw in his little brother’s face. A shadow in his eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by a chuckle and a joke about flying calzones.
Leo tried to laugh. He really did. Mikey always made it easy. But the laugh felt hollow, like it echoed around something empty inside him.
Still, he played along. Because that’s what they both did now — they played their parts. Leo, the stoic leader. Mikey, the happy-go-lucky little brother.
They talked about old pranks, bad pizza experiments, random nonsense. It was good, for a moment. Familiar. But Leo kept watching Mikey from the corner of his eye. He noticed the way Mikey pushed food around without eating much. The way he leaned into the light-hearted banter just a little too hard. The way his smile flickered every time Leo looked away.
And then it hit him — Mikey wasn’t trying to cheer Leo up.
He was trying to hide .
Leo didn’t say anything. Not then. He didn’t know how.
After dinner, he thanked Mikey, cleaned up his plate, and headed to his room.
But he didn’t meditate again.
He didn’t train. He didn’t read.
He just stood there, staring at his katana on the wall, wondering when everything had gotten so complicated. Wondering why he hadn’t seen it sooner.
Mikey was hurting.
He didn’t know how much, or why. But it was there. Hiding behind smiles and laughter and breakfast routines.
And the worst part?
Leo realized — Mikey had been hiding it alone .
The next morning, Leo stood outside Mikey’s door.
He’d been standing there for almost five minutes.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. Donnie’s lab door was closed as usual, low electronic hums leaking beneath it. Raph’s door was shut too, likely empty — again. The only thing Leo heard was the soft, steady sound of his own breath.
He hesitated, then knocked. Lightly.
“Mikey?”
No answer.
He knocked again, a little louder this time.
Still nothing.
“I’m coming in,” he said, giving a few more seconds before slowly pushing open the door.
Mikey was in bed, lying on his stomach, hoodie pulled over his head like a shell within a shell. Leo’s heart sank. It wasn’t just a lazy day — this looked like a place someone hid in.
“Mikey,” he said softly, stepping inside.
The lump under the blanket shifted slightly.
“I’m fine, bro,” came the muffled reply. “Just tired.”
Leo didn’t buy it. Not anymore.
“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”
Mikey let out a small laugh, but it didn’t have any real humor behind it. “What can I say? Night owl vibes.”
Leo sat down on the edge of the bed. Carefully. “You missed breakfast.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
Leo looked down at the floor, trying to find the right words. He didn’t want to push too hard. Didn’t want to make Mikey retreat further. But he also couldn’t pretend anymore.
“Mikey… talk to me. Please. Something’s going on. I can see it.”
Another pause.
Then: “No offense, but you’re seeing things.”
Leo didn’t move. He just sat there, quiet and still, like he thought silence might coax something real out of the air between them.
Mikey’s fingers curled into the blanket, tightening until the fabric bunched in his hands.
“You don’t have to be here, I know you’re probably busy with you’re lider stuff you do. So you can go now, I’m really fine” Mikey said but Leo didn’t buy that one bit.
“I know you don’t wanna do this, but please you can talk to me” He tried again.
After another minute of silence Mikey got up with his big smile and he yawned.
“Sorry bro, just feeling really tired but I’m okay really. Just stayed up most of the night because new comic of my favorite series just dropped.”
Leo looked at him for a good second and then sighed.
“It’s fine if you don’t wanna talk to me, just talk to either Raph or Donnie. Just please, let someone help...” Said Leo, got up and left the room.
As he left, he didn’t see Mikey stunned face that slowly morphed into despair. Or that he started crying.
Pov Donatello
The door hissed open as Leo stepped in. Donnie was hunched over a tablet, two screens glowing beside him, and a small welding drone hovering over some broken tech on the table. The lab smelled like solder and coffee.
Donnie didn’t look up. “Whatever it is, make it fast. I’m trying to calibrate—”
“It’s Mikey.”
That got his attention. Donnie blinked, turning his head slowly. “What about him?”
Leo crossed his arms, uncomfortable. “He’s not okay.”
Donnie tilted his head. “What makes you say that?”
“I just talked to him. He’s hiding it, but… he’s not eating, barely sleeping. He’s isolating himself, Don. He hasn’t even made a new drawings in, like, a month.”
Donnie’s face twitched — something between concern and doubt. “That’s not… totally unusual. Mikey’s moods can be up and down. He gets distracted. Remember last spring when he binged that soap opera and didn’t come out of his room for three days?”
“This is different.”
Leo’s voice was quiet, but firm.
Donnie sat back slowly. The drone powered down with a soft whir.
“You think it’s serious?”
Leo nodded. “I tried to talk to him. He brushed me off so hard it makes me wonder how long has this been going on… but he’s not fine, Donnie. He’s pretending.”
Donnie looked down at his desk. Then, slowly, back up.
“…How long do you think it’s been like this?”
“I don’t know,” Leo admitted, guilt tightening his throat. “Too long.”
The silence between them was thick now. Heavy.
Donnie finally stood, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes weren’t analytical anymore. They were scared.
“What do we do?”
Leo looked toward the hallway, toward Mikey’s room — toward the sadness hiding under that bright orange mask.
“We don’t leave him alone,” Leo said.
“But also, we don’t crowd him. He will shut us out even more otherwise. He has to realize we’re here for him” He quickly added.
...hands, fingers slightly trembling though he didn’t know why. He wasn’t good at this — the emotional stuff. Not like Mikey was. Not like Leo tried to be. He was the logic guy, the tech guy. The one who solved problems with equations and wires, not conversations and comfort.
But Mikey wasn’t a problem to fix.
He was their little brother.
Donnie leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. “I’ve been so busy… I didn’t even notice.”
Leo didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The silence said enough.
Donnie’s eyes flicked to one of the monitors, where a photo of all four of them was frozen mid-laugh — an old video still from a prank Mikey had pulled on Raph years ago. Mikey’s face was pure joy in that frame. Real. Effortless.
It didn’t match the Mikey Leo just described. It didn’t even match the Mikey Donnie had brushed past in the kitchen a few days ago, when he barely spared a glance and just mumbled “thanks” over a cup of coffee.
“I can’t help him,” Donnie said quietly. “He won’t let me.”
Leo took a step closer. “You’re the one he used to go to. When we were younger.”
Donnie flinched at that, just barely. “Yeah. When we were younger. Before I turned into someone who only speaks binary and sarcasm.”
“You’re not—”
“I am , Leo. You don’t see it because you don’t want to. You think I’m still that guy who made Mikey laugh with dumb robot jokes and let him hang around my lab even when he broke stuff. But I’m not. I stopped being that person a long time ago.”
“I can’t talk to him,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Every time I try, he looks at me like I’m going to snap. Like I’m a threat.”
Leo’s brows furrowed. “Have you snapped at him?”
Donnie looked up slowly. “What do you think?”
The silence stretched again, thick with guilt neither of them voiced.
“I thought I was helping,” Donnie muttered. “When I pushed him to be more responsible. When I told him to stop acting like a kid. I thought I was helping him grow. Mature. But maybe all I did was show him that I didn’t want him the way he is.”
“You didn’t mean it like that,” Leo said quietly.
“No,” Donnie agreed. “But that doesn’t matter. Because he heard it like that.”
He stood then, pushing the stool back with a scrape of metal on tile. His hands shook slightly as he reached for a tool, only to drop it into a bin with more force than necessary.
“I’ve always been better at fixing machines than people,” he said, his voice breaking a little around the edges. “Because machines don’t look at you like you ruined them. They just stop working.”
Leo opened his mouth, but Donnie cut him off with a bitter smile.
“And you know the worst part? He still makes me breakfast. Every single day. Like clockwork. Even when he barely eats. Even when I don’t say thank you. He still shows up.”
His voice cracked on the last word. He turned away so Leo wouldn’t see.
“I don’t deserve that.”
Leo didn’t speak again. Maybe because he didn’t know how to disagree.
Pov Raphael
Raph stood in the hallway just beyond the corner of Mikey’s room, his arms crossed and jaw clenched so tight it ached. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but when he rounded the corner and heard Leo’s voice, quiet and concerned, something stopped him. Maybe it was the way he said Mikey’s name. Or maybe it was the raw edge in his tone — the kind Leo only got when he was close to cracking.
So Raph had stayed.
And listened.
He hadn’t heard Mikey say much — not anything real, anyway — but he didn’t need words to know. He felt it. In the too-long pauses. The thin excuses. The way Mikey’s voice folded in on itself like he was trying to disappear. It was a sound Raph knew too damn well — the kind of quiet that screamed louder than any punch he’d ever thrown.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. It didn’t.
For a long time, Mikey had just… taken it.
The teasing, the yelling, the dismissals. The fights where Raph's anger found its easiest target — always the brother who smiled through it, bounced back like it didn’t faze him.
Except it did .
Raph could see that now.
Mikey had always been sunshine — wild, loud, and impossible to ignore. But lately? He was quieter. Edges dulled. He still cracked jokes, still played the fool, but there was something hollow behind it. Like laughter without air. A performance no one paid enough attention to critique.
And Raph hated himself for not noticing sooner.
He pushed off the wall and walked. He didn’t know where he was going — maybe nowhere. Maybe he just needed to move . His chest felt too tight, like guilt had taken up residence where his lungs should be.
Why hadn’t he noticed? Why hadn’t he asked?
Because it was easier to let Mikey be the glue. Easier to let him keep everyone together while the rest of them drifted into their own little corners of grief.
Because Raph had been so wrapped up in his own mess, he didn’t even see his little brother breaking under the weight of it all.
He didn’t deserve Mikey.
None of them did.
Raph didn’t sleep that night. He lay on the couch in the common room, staring at the flickering TV screen with the volume off, letting the static light wash over him.
Every so often, he thought about getting up — going to Mikey’s room. Saying something. Anything . But every time he got close, the words caught in his throat like barbed wire. He wasn’t good at this. At talking. At apologizing. At feeling .
But Mikey deserved better.
So just before dawn, he got up.
He didn’t knock. He just opened the door gently, stepping into the dim room. Mikey hadn’t moved. Still curled in on himself, blanket tucked tight like armor. Raph stood there for a long moment, hands balled into fists at his sides.
Then he sat on the floor.
Didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to force it. He just sat — back against the wall, arms resting on bent knees — and let the silence settle.
If Mikey noticed, he didn’t say.
But Raph stayed.
An hour passed. Maybe more. The only sound was the slow hum of the lair and the soft, uneven breaths of the turtle on the bed.
The air was still.
Raph didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, only that the ache in his back had spread down through his legs and into his bones. He hadn’t moved since he sat, barely breathed loud enough to notice. Just watched the shape of his little brother under the blanket — small, too small — rise and fall with each breath.
Mikey hadn’t stirred.
Not in the way that said he was asleep, anyway. No soft snores. No twitch of a dream. Just the kind of stillness that screamed awake . Awake, and holding it in.
Raph stayed.
He didn't try to say anything. Wouldn't have known where to start if he did. Words felt too sharp for this moment — like anything spoken would shatter the fragile quiet between them. So he let the silence sit. Let it press against him like weight. It didn’t matter if it hurt. He deserved that.
Outside the door, the world shifted through hours he couldn’t name. Somewhere behind him, the lair hummed its usual tune — low, mechanical, alive in its own tired way. The flicker of distant lights blinked down the hall. Once or twice, Raph caught himself drifting. Then jerked himself awake again. He didn’t come here to rest.
He came to see .
And though Mikey never turned over, never made a sound, Raph felt it in his gut — that his brother knew. Knew who sat there. Knew why. Knew he wasn’t alone, even if nothing changed.
At one point, Mikey’s hand shifted beneath the blanket. Just a fraction. Just enough to pull it higher around his shoulders like armor. Raph didn’t move. Just let his eyes rest there a while, tracking the quiet tremor of breath beneath the fabric.
Time passed like fog.
Eventually, the morning came, he caught himself looking at the edge of Mikey’s shelf — half-covered comics, a cracked lava lamp, a photo stuck in the corner with frayed tape. Raph didn’t look at it too long. He didn’t need to.
Slowly, Raph stood.
His joints protested, but he kept his steps careful. Quiet. Just before he reached the door, he turned back once.
Mikey hadn’t moved. Still curled up. Still facing the wall.
But Raph paused anyway.
For a second. Maybe two.
Then he left.
He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t need to.
Because Mikey was awake.
And Mikey knew.
Pov Michelangelo
Ever since that night, Mikey had started to look forward to bedtime — not for sleep, but for the comfort that came with it. It wasn’t about rest; it was about presence. About Raph showing up, either dragging in a futon and crashing on the floor or, more often now, lying beside him in the bed. He never asked permission. Never said why. He just showed up, like gravity pulling the sun down every night — steady, expected, and wordless.
Mikey never said anything either. He just made sure to leave space.
It was a small change, but one that gave Mikey something to hold onto. In the daytime, everything felt like static in his head, too loud and too fast. But at night, with Raph's quiet breathing beside him, the chaos dulled to a manageable hum.
He noticed the way Leo had started watching him more closely too — a careful, quiet sort of scrutiny, like he was trying to see through fog. Donnie, the most private of them all, had begun making appearances at both breakfast and dinner. That was rare. Too rare. It unsettled him.
It was like they were all circling him gently, as if he were a wounded animal they didn’t want to spook.
The thought made Mikey’s stomach twist.
Did they see through the facade?
It was the only explanation that made sense for their sudden hovering. And yet… if they knew, really knew, wouldn’t they have said something by now? Wouldn’t Leo have pulled him aside? Wouldn’t Donnie have tried to fix him like he fixes everything else?
Only Raph had come close — but even he hadn’t asked anything. He just showed up, sat on the floor or the edge of the bed, and stayed. That was it. No questions. No expectations.
Still, it meant Mikey had to try even harder. To smile wider. Laugh louder. Eat like he wasn’t forcing every bite. And gods, that was the hardest part — pretending to be hungry when his stomach was in knots, when food tasted like cardboard and guilt. When pretending made him feel sick, or worse, like a liar.
But it was too late to stop now. He was in too deep. If he broke character now, if he let them see the cracked shell underneath — then what? What if they realized he was too broken to fix?
Sometimes, in the middle of it all, he thought about telling them. About dropping the mask and just... letting go. But every time the urge crept up, it was snuffed out by the same voice in his head.
You can’t burden them. They’ve got their own grief. You’re supposed to be the sunshine, the glue, the comic relief. Not another problem.
And so he shoved it down. Again. Like always.
One night, the weight of it all nearly crushed him. His chest ached, his hands shook, and all he wanted — more than anything — was to cry. To scream. To punch the walls until the pain made sense again.
Instead, he laid there in the dark, fists clenched, eyes open until sleep dragged him under.
He woke hours later to a hand stroking his head.
Gentle. Familiar. Foreign.
His breath caught.
It felt like being twelve again. Like the nights he’d sneak into Leo’s room after nightmares and fall asleep to that same rhythmic motion. A touch that said, you’re safe.
But he had to be dreaming. Leo didn’t do this anymore. Leo couldn’t be here — he was probably meditating or training, always somewhere unreachable.
Still, Mikey didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to risk shattering the illusion. Let me believe, he pleaded silently. Just for a little while.
And just like that, he drifted off again, lulled by the comforting lie.
When he woke again, he was being held.
Not just a hand this time — an arm draped over his middle, a chest against his back, steady and warm.
He cracked one eye open and glanced behind him.
Leo.
Leo was holding him. Like he used to. Like when they were still kids and the world hadn’t fallen apart.
Mikey’s breath hitched, and to his shock, a smile crept onto his lips. A real one. The kind he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.
He wanted to cry again — not from sadness, but from sheer relief. He’d forgotten what real joy felt like. What hope felt like.
For a long while, he didn’t move. He was afraid that even the slightest shift would make the moment disappear like a dream slipping through his fingers.
Leo stirred a little, and Mikey tensed. But instead of pulling away, Leo’s arm tightened, instinctively, like even in sleep, he knew Mikey needed to be held tighter.
And that was all it took.
The dam broke.
Silent tears streamed down Mikey’s face. The kind that hurt. The kind that had been sitting behind his eyes for weeks, waiting for permission to fall.
He tried to be quiet, but Leo was a light sleeper.
Mikey felt the hand on his head again — slow, steady. Wiping away tears. No words. Just presence.
That made him cry harder.
He didn’t want Leo to see him like this, broken and vulnerable. But he couldn’t stop.
And Leo didn’t leave.
He didn’t say much. Just stayed. Held him. Let him fall apart.
Eventually, the sobs quieted. His body ached from the release, his throat raw, but there was a strange calm settling in his chest.
Then came the voice. Barely above a whisper.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Mikey didn’t answer. He couldn’t . His throat locked up again.
Leo didn’t push.
“I’m not gonna force you,” he said after a moment. “I just want you to know I’m here. We all are. Raph. Donnie. Me.”
Mikey hummed faintly.
“Until you forget about it...” he muttered.
Leo pulled back just enough to look at him.
“What do you mean?” His voice sharpened. “We’re not gonna forget about you. We care about you. Don’t you know that?”
Mikey gave a tiny shrug. “I guess…”
“Mikey.” Leo’s voice was low, pleading. “We won’t ever forget about you. You matter. You always will.”
Mikey didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t want to — but because he didn’t believe it. Not yet. Not fully. And that doubt? That silence?
It said more than any words ever could.
And Leo felt it.
Over the next few weeks, things didn’t magically get better. Mikey didn’t open up overnight. He didn’t transform back into the carefree little brother everyone expected.
But there were cracks in the armor now. Small ones. Enough for light to get in.
His brothers didn’t push. They didn’t pry. They listened. They stayed.
Some nights, Raph would still crash in his room, and Mikey would actually ask him to stay.
Donnie started sharing little pieces of his own stress, which somehow made it easier for Mikey to share his.
Leo... Leo made it a point to check in. Quietly. Casually. But always there.
They even tried cooking for him, which was sweet but not worth the damage in the kitchen.
After two months, Mikey found himself talking. Really talking. Not everything — not yet. But some things.
Enough.
And slowly, the crushing weight in his chest began to lift.
There were still hard days. Still nights when he stared at the ceiling and wondered if things would ever truly be okay again.
But now, there was something else, too. Something fragile but real.
Hope.
He hadn’t felt that in a long time.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to start again.
Because family isn’t about pretending. It’s not about hiding the worst parts of yourself. It’s about showing up. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
And Mikey was starting to believe that maybe — just maybe — he didn’t have to carry it all alone anymore
It took about 2 months for Mikey to finally open up a bit. It had taken a lot of time and effort but his brothers were able to learn some stuff about what he’s been through and feelings.
It’s not all of it, just some for now and that’s enough. His brothers don’t press, they stay listen and offer comfort.
Mikey can confidently say now that this brought all of them closer then ever before and even tho he’s still hurting now, he feels now something that he never thought he would feel again. Hope. And it feels good to have it back. They may not be perfect, and a lot of stuff is still left unsaid, but he has hope that it’ll get better, because that’s what family’s for.