(TW/mental problems, hospitalization)

The hospital room was too quiet.

It was a sharp contrast to what your life used to be—backstage chaos, inside jokes, the roar of the crowd, the weight of your guitar strap digging into your shoulder as adrenaline coursed through your veins. That life felt like a different universe now, one that had kept moving without you.

You weren’t sure why you expected them to stay frozen in place, waiting. You had made your choice, or at least, the choice had been made for you. The management had said it was for the best. A “break” to focus on yourself. A softer way to tell you that you were slipping through the cracks, that your body and mind couldn’t keep up anymore.

And yet, when the knock came at the door, when you looked up and saw him standing there—messy curls, tired eyes, something unspoken weighing heavy between you—you realized not everyone had kept moving forward.

Damiano closed the door behind him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You look like shlt,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

You huffed a laugh. “Great. Just what I needed to hear.”

The smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Yeah. You did. He meant that you were thinner, paler. That there was a new fragility to you, one he wasn’t used to seeing. He had always seen you as untouchable—on stage, on tour, standing beside him through every high and low. But now?

His gaze flickered to your wrists, barely visible beneath the loose sleeve of the hospital gown. He didn’t say anything about it. Just pulled up a chair and sat down like he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

“They told me not to come,” he admitted “Said you needed space.”

You swallowed. “Then why are you here?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Because space never did us any fvcking good.”

For the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel entirely alone.