That night, sleep refused to come.

Kai slipped out onto the dorm balcony, hoodie pulled tight around him. The city stretched endlessly below, lights blinking like distant stars. Somewhere out there, millions of people lived their lives without thinking about their voices at all.

Kai envied them.

He sat down, pulling his phone from his pocket.

He hesitated.

Then typed a single word.

Echo.

The results flooded his screen instantly.

Old thumbnails. Reuploads. Reaction videos with exaggerated expressions frozen mid-shock. Comments filled with hearts, tears, memories.

“This song got me through my worst year.”

“I don’t care who you are. Your voice mattered.”

“Come back.”

Kai’s chest tightened.

He clicked a clip.

His old voice poured through the speakers smooth, emotional, untouched by pain. It sounded like someone else entirely. Someone who hadn’t learned how fragile a dream could be.

He turned the volume down and tried to hum along.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

No rasp. No crack.

Just air.

Panic rose sharply, his breathing quickening. He pressed his fingers against his throat as if he could physically coax the sound back into existence.

Behind him, the balcony door creaked.

“Kai?”

He jumped slightly, turning to see Ren standing there in socks and a hoodie, hair sticking out in every direction.

“Oh—sorry,” Ren said. “Didn’t know anyone was out here.”

Kai shook his head. “It’s fine.”

Ren hesitated, then stepped closer, sitting beside him. They watched the city in silence for a long moment.

“You know,” Ren said quietly, “back when I failed my second audition… I couldn’t sing for weeks. Not physically—just mentally. Felt like my voice didn’t belong to me anymore.”

Kai swallowed.

Ren smiled faintly. “But it came back. Slowly. Not the same but better.”

Kai nodded, unable to speak.

“Just… don’t disappear on us, okay?” Ren added. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just stay.”

Kai clenched his jaw.

Staying was harder than leaving.

To be continued...