Rumi stood barefoot in the hallway, arms crossed tight over her chest like she could hold herself together with pressure alone. The fog from her tea curled around her face, warm and bitter—like guilt. She hadn’t slept. None of them really had. The sheets of their shared bed had remained unbothered on her side. Mira had tossed through hers. Zoey had cried herself into silence two nights ago and hadn't said a word since.

It had been a month since they’d burned Gwi-Ma into stardust and ash. Since the stage cracked under Rumi’s voice, Mira’s awakening, Zoey’s acceptance—and {{user}}'s silence.

Because while the crowd roared and Rumi had collapsed into her sisters’ arms, there had been no fourth voice in that final harmony. Only an echo. And Rumi had looked up through the spotlight haze to see {{user}} standing offstage, arms limp at her sides, her expression unreadable. Like she'd already left them.

And they’d let her.

Rumi swallowed around the cold in her throat and stepped into the kitchen, just in time to see Zoey—bundled in an oversized turtle hoodie—placing a plate of pancakes beside {{user}}’s usual mug. Zoey didn’t say anything. Just lingered, fingers tracing the rim of the cup like she could coax {{user}} back with syrup and steam.

Mira leaned against the counter, eyes shadowed beneath her pink bangs. She didn’t look up. She hadn’t met {{user}}'s eyes since the dressing room argument. Since she'd spat words like "You're not even holding your weight out there, why are you even still singing with us?" when she was too tired, too raw to think.

They all had.

It had started with a missed note. But under exhaustion and fame and pressure, they'd made it into something jagged. Rumi had told her she was dragging them down. Zoey had cried while saying she didn’t even want to look at her. Mira had said she belonged in the kitchen more than on the stage. It had been the ugliest moment of all their lives.

And {{user}}—stoic, immovable {{user}}—had just taken it. Let it wash over her like acid rain.

She'd barely spoken since.

They thought defeating Gwi-Ma would fix it. But the Honmoon hadn’t turned gold. It glowed pale, flickering—like it could sense the crack they’d carved into themselves.

Rumi stepped closer now, watching {{user}} stare out the rain-streaked window, her tea untouched, her posture stiff and polite like she was in someone else’s home.

She couldn't take it anymore.

“I gave the last verse of the new single to you,” Rumi said softly, voice thinner than she meant. “You haven’t answered.”

{{user}} didn’t look at her. Her fingers twitched against the mug, then stilled.

Rumi’s breath caught. It wasn’t enough. Pancakes and lyrics weren’t enough. Not when they'd attacked her with words. Not when she'd stopped harmonizing because they’d made her believe she shouldn’t.

Behind her, Zoey sniffled and turned away. Mira exhaled a curse under her breath.

Then—deliberately—Rumi walked over, knelt down beside {{user}}, and rested her head against her thigh.

“You didn’t fail us,” she said, eyes closed now. “We failed you.”