It doesn't happen all at once.
There's no crash.
No breaking point.
Just a dimming.
The party invitations keep coming.
Group chats lighting up.
Afterparties.
Launch events.
Industry birthdays.
He reads them.
Doesn't reply.
At first, he says he's busy.
Then he stops explaining.
Silence is easier.
Rehearsals continue.
He shows up on time.
Knows the cues.
Hits the notes.
Delivers the hook exactly as arranged.
The producer nods approvingly through the glass.
"That's clean," he says over the intercom.
Clean.
Zane steps away from the mic.
Takes off the headphones slowly.
He feels nothing.
Not pride.
Not excitement.
Just completion.
Task finished.
He stops looking at himself in mirrors.
Not consciously.
It just happens.
He passes reflective surfaces without pausing.
Elevator doors.
Bathroom sinks.
Studio glass.
He doesn't want to study the expression.
Doesn't want to evaluate what's shifting.
It's easier not to check.
His penthouse grows quieter.
He doesn't turn music on when he's alone anymore.
Doesn't leave the TV running for background noise.
He sits on the couch sometimes without scrolling.
Just… sits.
The city hums below.
Unconcerned.
Sunny sends voice memos.
Photos.
Updates.
Little pieces of her day.
Laura's new arrangement.
Axel's sarcastic commentary.
Amelia's exaggerated complaints.
He listens.
Replies.
Keeps it light.
He doesn't tell her he hasn't left the apartment outside of obligations in three days.
Doesn't tell her the silence feels heavier lately.
He doesn't want to make her carry it.
At a live showcase, the crowd is massive.
Lights sweeping over thousands of faces.
They chant his stage name.
Calder.
Calder.
Calder.
He steps into the spotlight.
The new single hits perfectly.
The hook explodes.
Arms rise in unison.
It should feel electric.
He performs flawlessly.
Controlled movements.
Measured eye contact.
Strategic pauses.
The applause is deafening.
He bows slightly.
Smiles.
Exits stage left.
Backstage is chaos.
Congratulations.
Back slaps.
Numbers already being projected.
He nods.
Says thank you.
Finds the dressing room.
Closes the door.
Silence crashes down instantly.
He sits in front of the mirror.
Stage lights still glowing around the frame.
For a moment, he stares.
Not at the outfit.
Not at the styling.
At his eyes.
They look tired.
Not physically.
Muted.
He looks away first.
He used to thrive on the high.
The rush after a show.
The validation.
Now—
It fades too quickly.
Like the battery drains before he can use it.
He scrolls through his phone instead.
Sunny:
Saw the clips. You were incredible.
He types:
Thanks.
Deletes it.
Types:
Wish you were here.
He stares at the message.
Leaves it unsent.
Instead:
It went well.
Sends.
She replies:
Proud of you.
He closes his eyes.
Lets the words sit.
Proud.
The room feels smaller than usual.
He leans back in the chair.
Lets his head rest against the wall.
The applause is still ringing faintly in his ears.
But inside—
It's quiet.
Too quiet.
He built himself to survive silence.
He didn't expect to drown in it.