The dressing room was almost empty. The air smelled like setting spray and cheap cologne, and the bright lights above the mirrors buzzed faintly. You were packing up when the door creaked open.

There he was, hood pulled low, silver hair a little messy, and his eyes… that same too-deep, starlit look. The one that always made you think of the word “elsewhere.”

“Still here,” he mumbled, almost like he was surprised by it.

He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him gently, like he didn’t want to draw attention, like he knew someone might be tracking his movements. Always cautious. Always aware.

He sat across from you, his hands resting on the table. Long fingers, marked with faint glowing scratches you knew weren’t just from stage props.

“My ears still don’t adjust to the screaming,” he said suddenly. “It spikes too fast, then drops. It’s disorienting… like gravity glitching.”

You blinked. Another phrase he probably thought was normal.

You let out a soft laugh and leaned forward, arms resting on your knees. “Most people just call that a ‘headache,’ y’know.”

He tilted his head, that way he always did when processing a human expression, before giving a half-smile. “Yeah… headache. That one.”

Then, softer:

“…They like my voice.”

He didn’t say it with pride. More like confusion. Like he didn’t quite understand why they cheered when he opened his mouth.

“Back home—” he started, then stopped.

You raised your brow, but didn’t push. You never did. And maybe that’s why he trusted you with more than he should’ve.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, then at you. “You don’t look at me like they do.”

“Like what?” you asked.

He hesitated. Then, quiet:

“Like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it.

He blinked once, slowly. Then whispered, “That’s why I stayed.”