The performance hall carried a familiar scent—old fabric, polished wood, and dust that clung to lights rarely used at full power. Zen liked this place. Not because it promised success, but because it felt honest.
Here, he didn't have to know where he was going.
He bounced lightly on his heels while Alex struggled with his collar, already tense.
"Why are you smiling?" Alex muttered. "This is an evaluation."
Zen shrugged. "It's still a stage."
"That doesn't help."
"It does to me."
Students scattered themselves across the seats, whispering lines, rehearsing panic. At the front sat Professor Ainsley—quiet, sharp-eyed, impossible to impress.
"Zen Hart," Ainsley called.
Alex jabbed his arm. "If you emotionally destroy the faculty, I'm pretending we've never met."
Zen stepped forward, posture loose, heartbeat steady.
Under the Lights
The lights glowed just enough to blur the empty rows into shadow. Zen stood still and breathed out.
"Your piece?" Ainsley asked.
"Improvised."
A pause. "Bold choice."
"Today felt right."
A single nod. "Begin."
Zen closed his eyes.
Something surfaced—unexpected and unfamiliar.
Not a thought.
Not a memory.
A sensation.
His palm tingled faintly, as if it remembered holding onto something it no longer had. His breath faltered, then evened out.
He didn't push it away.
When he opened his eyes, the room felt far off, like it belonged to someone else.
Words That Found Him First
"I used to believe that caring was enough," Zen said quietly.
"That if you held on tight, nothing important could leave."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"But some things disappear without warning. And years later, you realize you've been living beside an absence you never learned how to name."
His fingers curled at his side.
"I don't know what I'm searching for. I only know I keep moving—like if I stop, I'll lose the chance to understand what went missing."
The hall didn't breathe.
"But someday," his voice softened, "I want to stop chasing the feeling. I want to stand still long enough to recognize what my heart has been waiting for."
A beat.
"And I hope… wherever it is… it hasn't forgotten me."
Silence followed.
Then Ainsley leaned back slightly.
"That," he said, "was honest."
Zen blinked. "Is that… acceptable?"
"It's rare," Ainsley replied. "Don't dull it."
From the side, Alex mimed dramatic applause.
Zen ignored him, chest tight—not with fear, but with recognition he couldn't explain.
After the Lights Fade
When the evaluation ended, Zen lingered near the stage, gathering his things. Something about the performance unsettled him.
Not anxiety.
Awareness.
Across the hall, Liya watched him quietly, her fingers pressed lightly to her chest, eyes searching for something she couldn't name.
Alex threw an arm around Zen as they left.
"You terrified me. And the professor. That takes talent."
Zen laughed. "I didn't plan any of it."
"That's what worries me."
Liya stepped closer. "You were… compelling," she said, choosing the word carefully.
Zen smiled, warmth returning. "Thanks."
She handed him her sketchbook for a signature—an ongoing joke between them.
As he wrote, a subtle pressure settled beneath his ribs.
Not painful.
Just persistent.
As if somewhere, someone had listened closely.
Zen didn't understand it.
But the stage had revealed more than he intended.
And something unseen had taken notice.