Gelo's POV
The fluorescent lights of the REAL TALK studio still buzzed faintly above us, even though the cameras were off and the crew had started packing up. The air smelled like coffee gone cold and hairspray, the kind of sterile studio scent that clung to you long after you'd left.
We had just wrapped up the interview, but the weight of it stuck to me like static. Everyone else looked drained—slouched in their chairs, scrolling absently through their phones, waiting for the signal that we could finally go. But my head was still buzzing, not with the interview questions, not with the audience's laughter or the cameras flashing, but with what hadn't been said. With what always hovered in the background lately.
I leaned back, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "See? I told you last week it was a bad idea." My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't care.
Steve raised a brow, his phone still in his hand. "How was I supposed to know? The guy never agrees to anything. When he finally did, I thought it was worth the shot. We paid for it anyway. I just don't know what he's planning now."
Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a frown tugging at his mouth. "Speaking of—where is he?"
"Probably overthinking again," Steve replied with a dry laugh, though even he didn't sound convinced.
I shook my head. My patience was thinner than usual. "If he drags us into something ridiculous, I'm done. Don't expect me to play along."
"Same here," they said almost in unison.
And then the door opened.
Adra walked in.
He didn't storm, didn't hesitate—he simply entered the room with that quiet composure that always made it hard to read him. His footsteps were steady, his face unreadable. No drama, no theatrics. Just Adra being Adra.
Except it wasn't just. There was something different now, something heavier in the air when he stepped into a room. He carried silence like a shadow, like it clung to him no matter where he went. It used to frustrate me, used to make me want to shake him until he finally reacted to something. But right then, it only made me uneasy.
He sat down, placed his hands on his knees, and without any buildup, said:
"I want to take a leave."
The words landed like a cymbal crash in the middle of silence.
I straightened, my chest tightening. "What?"
Steve blinked at him, stunned. Mark shifted, his arms uncrossing slowly.
Adra's gaze didn't waver. "I'm burned out. Three years without a break. I've decided it's time. That's why I agreed to the concert. Next week, I'm stepping away."
It was like the ground tilted under me.
Steve found his voice first. "But the contract—"
"Can't this wait?" Mark added quickly, his tone more desperate than defiant.
Adra shook his head. Silence stretched.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm, forcing myself not to yell. "Why now?"
For the first time, he actually looked at us. His dark eyes met mine, steady but exhausted. He sighed, shoulders sinking just slightly. "Because if I don't stop, this might be my last year. My body... it's not holding up. And honestly, I'm not ready to say it out loud. Not even to myself."
The memory slammed into me before I could push it away.
Flashback
The warehouse had smelled like rust and smoke. My shoes had splashed through puddles of rainwater and something darker—something sticky I didn't want to name.
"Adra!" I'd shouted until my throat burned.
And then I saw him.
Crumbled on the ground, blood matting his shirt, his breath shallow. A girl lay beside him, unconscious, her arm twisted unnaturally. His hands were stained from dragging her away from whatever mess had nearly killed them both.
"Shit, Adra—don't you dare!" I dropped to my knees, shaking him. "Stay with me, damn it!"
His lips parted, barely a whisper. "I saved her..."
And then his eyes rolled back, and everything blurred into the frantic wail of sirens.
The hospital had been a blur after that. Weeks of sterile hallways and doctors with grim expressions. Weeks where we weren't allowed in his room, told he needed "undisturbed recovery." Weeks of waiting, praying, wondering if the silence meant we'd already lost him.
When he finally woke, he didn't let us in. Not really. He came back to rehearsals, back to concerts, back to us—but something in him was different. His music was heavier. His smile, when he gave one, looked painted on. And his silence... it was deeper than before.
Back to Present
And now, hearing him say he wanted to leave—it made horrible sense.
I glanced at Steve and Mark. Their faces mirrored mine: confusion, frustration, fear. None of us had an answer.
Finally, I exhaled, feeling the fight drain out of me. "Alright. We'll figure it out. Whatever this is, you're not carrying it alone. You're our brother. We're with you."
Adra's expression barely shifted, but I saw it—a flicker of relief, the faintest curve of a smile. "Thanks."
And somehow, that was enough. For now.
Adra's POV
Music is the only thing that ever felt like mine.
Not my parents' expectations. Not the suffocating silence of their house. Not the sterile classrooms where I was always the quiet one in the back, easy to overlook.
But music—music had been my voice when words failed me. The band gave me family. The stage gave me meaning.
And I almost lost it all—because I couldn't ignore a stranger crying for help.
I don't regret saving her. Not really. If I had to do it again, I would. But the cost lingers in my body. My chest still aches when I breathe too hard. My throat strains when I sing. Every note feels like it could be the last.
Now my body betrays me, my voice cracks, and every song feels heavier than the last.
What happens if one day I can't stand on stage anymore? If one day I just disappear?
Will they remember me for the music... or as someone who left too soon?
Damn it.
I close my eyes and inhale, trying to steady myself. The silence presses in, thicker than before.
The truth is simple, but unbearable: I'm terrified.
And for the first time since I joined this band, I don't know if music will be enough to save me.