This one is a bit darker and does have mentions of suicide and depression, PLEASE DON'T READ IF THESE TOPICS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE

"If I wasn't the Arrow, you'd still be my salvation."

It'd been a shitty year to say the least. His parents were gone as were his best friends, dead and buried.

The strong and powerful mother who'd smile at him indulgently and pat his head, scorning him for not taking things seriously. His strong willed father who'd sneak him alcohol, and let him get away with murder. Laurel, the woman he thought he loved,but learned from her that he couldn't love at all. Tommy, his brother for all intensive purposes, who was his partner in crime forged through a life of mischief and joint mishandlings.

All of them were suffocated and crushed by miles of rubble.

His sister was alive, she had run to the east coast, cloaking herself protectively in anonymity and licking her wounds as far from Starling as she could. Running to a place where the phantom happiness of memories didn't haunt her or muddy her home with tragedy.

He had left it too, a home that was an apparition of happier times and tangible emptiness. It didn't matter if he learned to shoot a gun in the backyard with his father, or that he and Tommy shared their first beers at the end of the dock. All that mattered was that they were gone.

So he was entirely alone now, his only company grief and guilt. Then came the acid, docile PTA moms turned rabid, moral men with guns threatening him. The grisly details were unearthed about the disaster and it's connection to his family, and he was the center of every family's and misfortune. Bricks flew through his window and threats were scribbled messily between paper margins, despite his ignorance of the planned disaster.

Those angry people didn't know he was drowning as much as they were, that he'd lost as much as they did. They didn't know that every story of a lost husband, a missing child, or a family now homeless tore at the very fabric of his being. He drowned quietly, letting the long line of avenging friends and family of the dead keep his head beneath the water's surface.

He saw a therapist three times a week, sinking into the worn leather loveseat feeling like an exhibit in a museum. He never spoke to Dr. Steele, the man with soulful eyes, and ears that had heard the world's troubles. Oliver couldn't find it within himself to complain to the man, but he listened to him if he spoke. He listened when he told him to find a routine, create a schedule, to let his body go on autopilot as he sorted himself out. So he did.

'One more day' he told himself as his childhood home was set on fire. One more day, when their graves were defaced. One more day, when a bomb ripped through his parent's company. Always one more day.

It was a phrase his therapist told him to repeat whenever he wanted to give up. That he would be able to give up tomorrow, if he got through today. But when it came to the next day, he'd repeat the phrase again. So, his life had been reduced to the nonchalant half hearted promise of people who claimed their diet's would start tomorrow. said one day he won't have to remind himself to live, that it'll come as natural as breathing.

It's been 408 days, and there's no end in sight. told him, live to remember the people you lost, to honor them. Doctor Steele told him to move on.

But everyone else always said to cling to the memories, but it wasn't the same as a hand on his head, a clap on the shoulder, or a hug. There was no tangibility, he wanted something that would endure the subtle cracking of time. It's said the more you recall a memory, the more it is distorted in your brain, that every wistful remembrance taints the integrity of it, adding layers of unintentional embellishment. He found himself thinking of his family relentlessly during the day and in his fitful sleep. So where did that leave all of them? Was his mother really warm despite her stony exterior? Was Tommy really as carefree as he remembered him?

Even the sanctity of his memories had been taken from him.

He wonders why he even does it anymore. Why he drags himself to work, feeds himself, and functions. Why he slides on the flirtatious and happy mask of Oliver Queen, when in actuality he's empty, devoid of all the things he used to be, all that was worthy of occupying a place on earth. For atonement? Or does the same selfishness linger in his body?

His routine is constant and inflexible, he lays in his bed in his apartment, the lights off and blinds drawn so the room is dark. He'll stare at the ceiling until he falls into restless sleep, the TV blaring and his ipod playing an endless loop of music. He loathed the silence, that's when the loneliness was the loudest.

He's so deep in his own despair he can't remember the last time something made him feel good. Food tastes like sawdust, alcohol too ineffective, and sleep too sparing. He was so far removed from the kid who stumbled through the city like he had owned it, thinking who the hell he was. Back when women were for fun and release, when he didn't feel like he could barely get out of bed, when he was happy. He used to be horribly selfish, an awful quality that he shouldn't miss, but he does. Because at least then, he cared about something even if it was only himself. It was a sad metamorphosis, but it's what happens when your parents turn out to be monsters, and your friends get killed.

Now, Oliver Queen cared about nothing and no one, not even himself.

On this particular night, snow was coming down in soft waves and the air had a stinging bite that had reddened his nose and ears. He stumbled into the warm retro diner past his usual time, trudging through the snow had significantly slowed him. His gaze flitted around the diner, and he relaxed as he saw a familiar blonde ponytail bobbing enthusiastically. She was sitting on an old stool at the counter swiveling back and forth, in her usual domain that was brightened simply by her presence.

The first time he came to this diner was months ago, he planned on getting some coffee, leaving a tip of whatever cash he had in his wallet, and not waking up the next day. He had decided that after months of living in hell, that this night would be the end of it, he was at peace with the decision. His fingers tapped impatiently at the counter, eager to get home and into oblivion when he heard the most warm laugh he's ever heard, one so full bodied it begged for a companion. He froze where he stood, the perpetual emptiness inside him easing while the laugh echoed around the dive. His head snapped to locate the sound, a laugh that had made him feel something other than sick, for the first time in over year. The sound had come from a petite blonde woman, whose head was tossed back as she laughed richly.

She was beautiful in a classic way, long blonde hair curled gently. Big blue eyes he'd kill to glance his way, but most attractively a palpable warmth in her smile. She sat amongst the homeless men who begged their way to a free coffee, and angry old men waiting on bran muffins; but seemed determined to make the person next to her smile. The old Oliver would have zeroed in on her the second he walked in, but now, he was so absorbed in a thick cloud of sorrow.

He moved instinctively into a booth, facing away from the woman to not arouse suspicion. Suddenly, he wasn't in such a rush to meet his maker in one form or another. He didn't know why, but he needed the woman in that moment, so he sat, praying her warmth would roll into his body and everything would be fixed. It didn't and everything wasn't. But he listened to the woman speak and laugh for two hours before she tipped the waitress generously and bounced into the night. A woman he didn't know, that should have meant nothing to him, was the reason he went home, laid in bed, and was alive the next morning.

Night after night he came back, standing at the edge of a precipice of darkness every night, but feeling drawn towards the sun. Night after night she didn't disappoint, she'd come in, order a couple cups of coffee and make pleasant conversation with whoever was around her, extending his life one more day. Always one more day.

Those days turned into weeks, then months. He was still depressed and felt worthless, but he didn't sit with a pistol in his hand anymore, working for the courage to pull the trigger on himself.

Oliver learned a lot about her through his shameless eavesdropping from the safety of his booth; just far enough to maintain anonymity and close enough to catch her words, and watch her reflection in the glass. She was whip smart, unbelievably smart really. Despite her intelligence she was a great conversationalist, never making the person feel like they were of lower mental status. She had the propensity to babble uncontrollably, the most endearing thing he'd ever heard or seen. Every other sentence being drawn out and losing topic or filled with accidental double entendres that made his lips twitch as she frantically tried to correct herself.

She was considerate, passionate and soft, she was the embodiment of happiness, so it was fitting that her name was Felicity. That was two months ago, she'd unknowingly become the brightness of his life. His reminder that "one more day" wouldn't be so bad.

He never spoke to her, never made eye contact, because then the bubble would burst and something would go wrong. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost this stranger too.

Tonight he scooted into his regular booth, his pants snagging on the ripped upholstery that had seen better days. Within seconds, the nice older lady that always waited on him had a cup of coffee in front of him and a menu. His stiff fingers pressed against the cup, softening from the heat. He took a sip from the stained white cup and reveled in the warmth that spread in his body.

The coffee was bitter, not the indulgent roast he'd grown up on, but this coffee had the distinct taste of nostalgia. A taste that had a history behind it, and refused to change through the years, it was one of two reasons he came back everyday. He was taking heed of his therapist's suggestion to enjoy the little things. This place, and the woman in it, made him feel pretty close to warm and safe.

He glanced in the glass window and watched as her arms moved animatedly as she spoke to the man next to her. He was huge, in the sense that he could probably snap his neck like a pencil. He recognized the man, as he sat with Felicity often, laughing at her jokes and talking like family would. Oliver admits to being jealous of them, the ease of their relationship, the man being so close to such radiance.

" I know it sounds crazy, but there's still beauty in it." Her voice drifted over, he relaxed into the sound.

"Take war for example. It's animalistic, there are casualties and innocents are slaughtered. But there's something beautiful in war, that people believe enough in their mission to sacrifice themselves for it. That takes a special type of faith and strength." She continued.

"I've been to war, three tours in Afghanistan, and let me tell you, there's nothing but darkness." The man she called 'Digg' replied.

"You met your wife there Digg. Lyla would be pissed if you didn't say she was your light at least." The woman snorted.

The man Digg chuckled at her and shook his head.

"I guess you're right. What about yours?"

"I don't have a wife Digg." She answered.

Oliver's lips twitched into a broken sort of smile.

"No, your war. Everyone has a war, a story. Five years of friendship and you never talk about yours." He prodded gently.

"My war?" Her soft voice asked.

He nodded.

"It's nerf compared to yours and we both know it." She folded into herself uncomfortably.

"Humor me."

He watched as her glass reflection shrugged and looked into her coffee cup, her hands wrapping around it.

"Who I am I guess. I know, it sounds very Judy Bloom. I know I've never really talked about my family." She rolls her eyes.

"All I ever have been is smart and poor. Poor with money, poorer with family, and so smart I'd always find trouble. I grew up in a tasteful trailer home in Vegas. My mom worked on the strip as a waitress, my father was her boyfriend, he was trying to start his own software company. My mom got pregnant and he bolted, came back a month later begging her to forgive him. Neither of them wanted me, but by the time she'd gotten the stones to get an abortion it was past the legal time." Her voice steady and smooth.

Oliver knew he should stop, that he was invading this woman's privacy ten fold, but he couldn't do it, he wanted to know everything about her.

"After my mom had me, she stayed as indifferent as before. But my Dad loved me, he was my everything. I guess when I was born, all the doubts about fatherhood didn't matter. He'd take me on walks and read computer manuals to me. He didn't make me feel like an anomaly because I was smart, he told me to be proud of it. He was my best friend." She shifts a bit, her fingers skimming up her nose and pinching its bridge.

"My dad left us when I was six, no goodbye or explanation, nothing. It was just my mom and I after that, and whatever scum boyfriend she brought home. Things went down from there, she lost her job and scrambled to find a new one. She still claims to this day that she was a cocktail waitress, but she'd come home with glitter stuck to her skin, smelling like hell, and she'd pay for our boxed ramen dinners with only singles." She said chuckling in spite of herself.

"We were the definition of white trash. Goodwill clothes, scraps for dinner most nights ,and overdue bills stacked on the counter. I was too smart for public school, and too poor for the opportunities given to me elsewhere. My mom thought I was odd, and refused to let me play with my computers in the house or read. I reminded her too much of my dad, so I was just easier to ignore. I was so scared of people leaving me I barely spoke, not letting myself get close enough to anyone so they couldn't leave. " She continued.

"But I knew I wanted to be more than just some girl who let herself be a victim of her circumstances. I dragged myself out from that trailer and worked my ass off in school, I kind of sort of illegally counted cards in the casinos to pay for my tuition at MIT. I stood up and walked out for the first time in my life, instead of waiting to be abandoned. I haven't looked back since. It's nothing to compare to war." She sipped from her coffee, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"But I learned I'm stronger than I thought, and that no matter if everything is working against you, you'll get there if you put your head down and move on. Because life always is working against you; it's always popping your tires, always taking the people you love away from you, and filling up your plate. But If you can't find one bright thing in your day, one reason to do it all, what's the point?" She finished, prodding the impenetrable shield inside himself.

"Wow." The man responded thoughtfully.

"Had I known we'd get this deep I would have spiked my milkshake first." She says good naturedly.

"You're even more amazing than I thought Felicity."

"I found my light, 's everywhere, you just need to care enough to find it." She responded

She rose from her chair hugging the man goodbye and making promises of meeting next week.

She approaches a waitress, whispering to her and passing her a small paper. She nodded and smiled, pulling on her purple pea coat and buttoning it up, flipping the scarf over her neck.

She opened the door of the shop, the freezing air whooshing behind her, leaving sooner than he wished. He watched after her as he always did, but a voice interrupted him tonight.

"Hey hon?" A waitress said, he looked away from where she was walking and met the curious eyes of the woman.

"Yes?" He responded.

"The girl who just left wanted me to bring you this." She set down a steaming cup of coffee on it's small plate and a square of paper wedged beneath it. He looked after Felicity, who bounced across the snowy street, blonde hair shining in the street lights. He fingered the small square of paper and unfolded it carefully. Three words were written delicately on the paper.

Find your light.

He smiled and slid it into his pocket, he already had.