Too quiet.

Kai sat cross legged on his bed, notebook open but blank. The pen felt heavy in his hand, heavier than it ever had before. He had tried humming earlier, just a little gentle scales, soft notes. His throat had protested violently, sharp pain shooting down to his chest, and he had stopped immediately.

Ren had come in a few minutes later, hovering awkwardly.

“You okay?” Ren asked, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets.

“I’m fine,” Kai muttered, though his voice cracked slightly. He pressed a hand against his throat, feeling the scar’s subtle burn.

Ren didn’t push. He just sat on the edge of the bed, silently offering company. “You know… you don’t have to do this alone. Even if you can’t sing.”

Kai looked up, surprised at how easily those words settled in his chest. For so long, he had carried the fear and the secret alone, shielding it from everyone else. Hearing someone acknowledge it without judgment made it almost… lighter.

“I know,” he said softly. “It’s just… hard to remember that sometimes.”

Ren nodded. “Yeah. But you’re not running anymore. That counts.”

The rest of the day passed slowly. Kai followed the program given to him by the vocal therapist: breathing exercises, gentle humming (when his throat allowed), and vocal cord massages.

He learned to listen to the quiet moments, noticing how his body felt, how each inhale traveled to his lungs, how the tension in his shoulders shifted when he relaxed.

By nightfall, he sat again on the balcony, watching the city below. His hands rested on the railing. The stars were dim behind the neon lights, but the air felt… calm.

For the first time in weeks, he didn’t try to force a sound. He didn’t try to sing.

He simply… breathed.

And that was enough.