The Silence

The silence was violent.

It hit me harder than the bass had. One second, the world was a screaming void of noise; the next, it was nothing. The soundproofing in this penthouse was military-grade.

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since the concert started.

This was the "Panic Room." Technically, it was a high-end home recording studio with an attached balcony, but tonight, it was just a sanctuary. A Steinway piano sat in the corner, gleaming black under the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass, Los Angeles sprawled out like a circuit board of gold and amber.

I walked over to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. My reflection ghosted over the city—tired eyes, messy hair, a suit that didn't quite fit right.

I counted to ten.

On eight, the heavy door clicked.

I didn't turn around. I knew who it was. The lock code was known only to the owner of the penthouse, the tour manager, and the two people who had spent the last six months rewriting the album in this very room.

Dae slipped inside. He didn't slam the door; he closed it with the gentle precision of someone handling a bomb.

The latch clicked. The party was gone.

"Leo," he breathed.

I turned then.

He looked wrecked. The stage persona—the glitter, the smile, the untouchable aura—had dissolved the moment the door sealed. He slumped against the wood, closing his eyes. Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead. His chest heaved, rising and falling in a rhythm that was trying to find calm.

"Hey," I said softly. My voice sounded too loud in the dead air.

Dae pushed himself off the door and walked toward me. He didn't go to the piano. He didn't go to the wet bar. He walked straight to the spot on the floor where the rug was thickest, right by the window, and collapsed.

He sat cross-legged, leaning his head back against the glass. "I thought my head was going to explode."

"The bass was a bit high," I said, sitting down next to him. Not too close. Close enough to feel his body heat, far enough to maintain the line. "I think the DJ is trying to demolish the foundation."

"I forgot the words," Dae said.

He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "During *'Paper Thin.'* I just... blanked. thousands of people singing it back to me, and my mind was just white noise."

My heart hammered a skipped beat. *'Paper Thin'* was the ballad. The one I had written at 3:00 AM on a napkin in a diner, thinking about the way Dae looked when he slept on the studio couch. It was the most honest thing I had ever written.

"Nobody noticed," I lied. "You let the crowd sing the bridge. It looked like an artistic choice."

"I didn't let them sing it," Dae murmured. He turned his head, his cheek pressing against the glass, looking at me. "I couldn't sing it. My throat closed up."

The silence stretched between us. It wasn't the empty silence of the room anymore; it was a heavy, pressurized thing. It was the feeling of being underwater.

"Why?" I asked.

Dae looked at me. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the smudged kohl liner he wore for the show. "Because I started thinking about the lyrics. Really thinking about them."

I looked away, focusing on a blinking red light on a radio tower in the distance. "They're just lyrics, Dae. Just rhymes."

"Don't do that," Dae whispered. "Don't diminish your work. You give me the voice, Leo. I'm just the speaker."

He shifted, turning his body fully toward me. The leather of his pants squeaked softly against the floor. "Who were you writing about?"

The question hung in the air, suspended like dust motes.

"What?" I croaked.

"In *'Paper Thin,'*" Dae said. "*'I stand in the light so you can hide in the shadow / I scream your name but I can't say it aloud.'* Who is it, Leo? You never told me."