The hospital room was too quiet for someone who used to wake up to six voices shouting over each other during morning schedules. Now, all you could hear was the soft hum of machines, the occasional beep, and your own uneven breathing.

You had been in the passenger seat, on the way back from a solo schedule, when the car swerved to avoid another driver. The crash happened too fast to process—but the pain afterward was slow. Agonizing. Your leg had taken the worst of it. Your shoulder too. The doctors weren’t sugarcoating it—you might never be able to perform again.

You hadn’t let yourself cry. Not yet. You didn’t want to believe it.

There was a soft knock at the door before it creaked open, and the familiar heads of your members peeked in—kats-eye in full, fresh from rehearsal, still in their stage makeup and sweats. Eyes puffy. Expressions fragile.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at them—and something inside you cracked. A sob slipped out before you could stop it. “Am I done?” You asked in a whisper.

There was silence for a moment. Then Dani sat beside you and held your hand tightly.