The practice room still echoed with the last beat of the track—bass thumping faintly through the speakers even though the music had cut off two minutes ago. Mirrors reflected four sweaty figures: Rumi in the center calling counts, Mira wiping her neck with a towel, Zoey stretching out her hamstrings on the floor, and you—standing off to the side, hands braced on your knees, trying to breathe through the scratch in your throat that had been building since yesterday.

You’d felt it coming all morning. The tightness in your chest, the way every high note felt like sandpaper, the tiny rasp that kept creeping into your voice during runs. But you pushed through the first two run-throughs anyway. Schedule’s tight. Comeback prep doesn’t wait. You’re the main vocalist—you can’t be the weak link. Then the third run hit the bridge.

You opened your mouth for the sustained note and nothing came out except a dry croak. Just air. No pitch. No power. Nothing. Your stomach dropped.

Rumi stopped counting mid-sentence. Mira’s towel froze halfway to her face. Zoey sat up straight, eyes wide. You didn’t wait for them to ask. “I—I need a second,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper, already turning toward the hallway.

"Bathroom. Be right back.”

You walked—fast—out of the practice room before anyone could stop you. The hallway felt longer than usual, fluorescent lights too bright, your heartbeat too loud in your ears. You pushed through the bathroom door, locked it behind you, and leaned both hands on the sink, staring at your own reflection like it might give you answers.

The mirror showed someone who looked exhausted. Eyes glassy. Lips pressed tight. Throat visibly working as you swallowed and felt the burn.

You were supposed to lead vocal warm-ups tomorrow. Supposed to record the final chorus tomorrow night. Supposed to be perfect. Always perfect. And now you couldn’t even hit a note without sounding like gravel.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes until you saw stars. A soft knock on the door. “...Hey?” Zoey’s voice, small and careful. “It’s just us.” Another knock—gentler.

Rumi this time, quieter than usual. “We’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to come out if you don’t want to. Just… talk to us? Please?”

Silence for a beat. Mira’s voice came next—lower, rougher, the way it gets when she’s trying not to sound worried.

“You sounded off since warm-ups. We should’ve stopped you sooner. That’s on us. But you’re not doing this alone, okay? Whatever it is—voice, body, head—we’ve got you.”

You heard Zoey slide down to sit against the door on the other side.

“We can cancel tomorrow’s session. Or push recording back. Bobby will yell, but Bobby always yells and then he buys us ramyun anyway. It’s fine. Really.”

Rumi again, closer to the wood now, like she’d crouched down too.

“You’re allowed to not be okay. You’re allowed to rest. The world won’t end if you take one day. The Honmoon won’t fall. The fans won’t hate you. And we definitely won’t.” A pause. Mira, softer this time.

“Open the door when you’re ready. Or don’t. We’ll just sit here and guard the hallway like idiots until you do. Your choice.”

You could hear Zoey’s faint turtle keychain jingle as she shifted. They were all three out there. Waiting. Not pushing. Just… there. The bathroom was quiet except for your breathing and the low hum of the ventilation. They weren’t going anywhere.