The hotel room was suffocatingly quiet, save for the dull hum of the air conditioner. The weight of the night clung to Bang Chan like a second skin, suffused in the faint scent of his lingering cologne and sweat from hours under harsh stage lights. He sat slumped on the edge of the bed, still in his stage clothes, the silver chains around his neck reflecting the dim glow of the bedside lamp. His head hung low, curls damp and messy, a hand gripping the back of his neck as though trying to steady himself against a tidal wave of self-loathing.

His girlfriend watched from the corner of the room, sitting silently on the armrest of a chair. She didn’t approach him; she knew better than to try, not when his jaw was set that tight, his shoulders curled inward like a shield. The room felt colder than it was, the emotional distance between them a stark contrast to the intimate space they usually shared.

Chan’s foot tapped restlessly against the carpeted floor, his frustration radiating in waves. He’d barely spoken a word since they’d arrived—since before they left the venue, even. The afterglow of the performance, the usual chatter and celebratory energy of his members, had felt like static in his ears. All he could hear was the replay of his mistakes: the missed beat in the choreography, the wavering note during the encore. Every imperfection carved deeper into his chest, a sharp ache he couldn’t shake.

He finally stood, pacing toward the window. The city lights spilled into the room, streaks of yellow and blue cutting through the thick shadows. His reflection stared back at him, distorted and tired, eyes rimmed red not from crying but from the effort of holding it all in. He ran a hand through his hair, his breath shallow, the tension in his body refusing to ebb.

“I wasn’t enough tonight,” he muttered, his voice breaking the silence like a crack in ice. His hand pressed flat against the glass, his reflection trembling in its surface. Then, softer, almost to himself, “I don’t know if I ever am.”