They knock on the door again.

“Pleaaaaase…” Toki’s dragged-out voice comes from the other side, cracked, like he’s holding back a tantrum mixed with real sadness. “I’s will be a good boys. Promiiise.”

You say nothing. The door stays closed, and you’re still sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, your chest full of something you’re not sure is anger, disappointment, or just exhaustion.

“Let me in… pleeease,” he insists, lower this time. Almost a whisper. “You don’ts has to talks to me if you don’ts wants. I just wants to sits… just… be near you, ja?”

You hear him leaning against the door, and you can picture it: his forehead against the wood, arms hanging by his sides like a scolded child. A completely different Toki from the one on stage, with lights, and misplaced laughter.

“Is just… I don’t likes when you hates me…” A pause. “I don’t likes when you shuts me out. I’s sorry, okay?”

Silence.

And then he says it, so softly you almost miss it:

“Please forgives me… I miss yous.”