The screen in front of him had long since gone dark, reflecting only the dim glow of LEDs scattered around the room. Blaza sat still, hunched forward in his chair, hands trembling in his lap. The echo of his own laughter from earlier recordings still lingered in his ears—high, chaotic, full of life—but now it sounded like it belonged to someone else. Someone he didn’t recognize tonight.

He had done everything right today. Streamed. Uploaded. Smiled. Laughed. Said the usual insane things that made people laugh until they cried. But now, with the camera off and the lights low, all of it cracked around him like thin glass.

His chest hurt. Not from anything physical—just that heavy, unbearable kind of ache that came from keeping it together too long. The kind of pain that builds when you smile through sadness for too many days in a row. He stared at the floor, blinking too fast, trying to fight it, trying not to break.

But he did.

It started quiet. A sharp inhale. His shoulders rose. And then, slowly, his breathing broke apart, shaky and uneven. He lifted one hand to his mouth, pressing his palm against it, like he could hold the sound inside—like he could keep it from escaping. But it didn’t help. His eyes burned. His chest tightened. He curled forward, palm still pressed hard to his face, and finally let it happen.

Tears spilled out fast and silent, shoulders shaking as he tried to breathe through them. His palm muffled the sob that escaped anyway. A sound he hadn’t let himself make in years. He didn’t even know what he was crying for—he just knew it wouldn’t stop.

He wasn’t the loud, chaotic guy right now. He wasn’t the funny one, or the comfort for others. He was just… tired. So, so tired.

And utterly alone in the silence he had no jokes left to fill.