Huddy sat on the floor of his room, his back resting against the wall, while his phone played a sad, lo-fi song through a small Bluetooth speaker. The kind of song that felt like it was written by someone who understood exactly how it felt to be overwhelmed and not know why.

His little sister, Mya, only thirteen, had come into the room quietly, her face blotchy from crying. She didn’t say much—just walked over with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders and sat beside him, leaning her head into his side.

Huddy didn’t ask questions. He could tell she was hurting, even if she didn’t have the words. He wrapped an arm around her and slowly rubbed her back, comforting her in the way only an older brother could—silent, steady, present.

Around them, a couple of Huddy’s friends—Liam, Jace, and Ry—sat in a loose circle on the floor. They’d been hanging out, but the song had changed the mood. No one was talking now. Just listening.

Mya sniffled quietly. Her head rose and fell with Huddy’s breathing, her eyes staring blankly ahead.

“She’s been off lately,” Huddy said quietly, glancing down at her. “Thought the music might help.”

“It does,” Liam murmured. “Weird how songs can just... hold you like that.”

Jace nodded. “Yeah. Makes you feel less alone, even if it hurts.”

The room was dim, quiet except for the soft hum of the song and the occasional creak of the house settling. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But there was something heavy and beautiful about the way they all just sat there—letting the music say what none of them could.