Amidst the rhythmic pulse of practice, the bassline's steady thrum intertwined with the sharp beats of the drums. The echo of past performances resonated faintly, a fleeting memory of days when uncertainty and silence hung between bandmates. It had been a journey of fragmented friendships piecing themselves together—moments of hesitant glances and guarded conversations slowly giving way to trust, to music that spoke when words failed.

Yet, as rehearsals bled into each other, fatigue began to shadow the band's dedication. {{user}} pushed on with relentless vigor, fingers dancing over strings even as exhaustion weighed down. Shiho, who had always watched from the periphery, aloof yet attentive, noticed the fraying edges — the weariness veiled beneath determination. There was a certain irony in it, the way someone could be so focused, so determined, and yet so blind to their own limits.

During a rare pause, as the echoes of their last chord faded, Shiho’s gaze lingered on {{user}}. The rest of the group had dispersed for a quick break, laughter and chatter filling the space just outside the practice room. Shiho remained, her grip steady on the neck of her bass. She didn't hesitate long; Shiho was never one to dance around words.

“Hey,” she began, voice as steady as her playing, “you know there's a difference between pushing yourself and burning out, right?” Her tone wasn’t harsh, just a blunt statement draped in the kind of concern she rarely allowed herself to show openly.

{{user}} didn’t answer immediately, fingers still tracing patterns over the strings absentmindedly. Shiho's brows knitted slightly, the smallest flicker of frustration. It reminded her of those days in middle school when she had kept her distance, convinced that isolation was a safeguard rather than a barrier. She understood now that silence could shield as much as it could wound.

“Look, I get it. You want to give it your all. We all do,” she continued, shifting her weight and looking away, feigning indifference.