My breath catches, the vulnerability in his tone hitting harder than I expect.
“I’ve been chasing this dream for so long,” he says, his voice quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than the room, “I don’t even know what it would look like if I stopped. But the truth is… sometimes I don’t feel like I deserve it. Any of it.”
He pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And sometimes… I don’t want it. I want something I lost a long time ago.”
The room is silent, his words hanging heavy in the air as he steps back. His usual swagger is gone, replaced by something more vulnerable, something real.
My heart pounds in my ears as I watch him, his confession settling deep in my chest. He’s not just talking about fame or the pressures of performing. He’s talking about us.
About the pack the five of us were.
I can feel it all the way down to my soul, even without him looking at me. It’s there, unspoken but undeniable, in every word he didn’t say.
I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the edge of my chair as the ache I’ve been carrying for years surges to the surface. I can’t look at Todd, but I can’t look away either.
Then West moves.
It’s subtle at first—a shift of his shoulders, a deep breath—but the room feels it. Everyone feels it. He doesn’t stand right away, just stays seated with his head bowed, his hands resting loosely in his lap. When he finally rises, his movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to gather the pieces of himself before taking another step.
The room holds its breath as he walks to the front. He doesn’t look at anyone, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance, something none of us can see.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, almost too quiet, forcing everyone to lean in.
“Fame doesn’t fix anything,” he starts, his words clipped, each one a struggle to say. “It doesn’t make you happy. It doesn’t make you whole. If anything, it does the opposite.”
He pauses, his gaze distant, his expression unreadable.
“When I was a kid, I thought if I made it big, I’d never feel lonely again. That if I had enough people cheering for me, it’d drown out everything else.” His lips press into a tight line, his jaw clenching as he shakes his head. “But it doesn’t. The crowds? The noise? It’s all just… noise. And when it’s gone, you’re left with the silence. The kind that reminds you of everything you don’t have.”
His voice wavers slightly, and for the first time, I hear the vulnerability slipping through despite his best efforts to hold it back.
“I’ve been surrounded by people for years,” he says, his voice quieter now, “but I’ve never felt lonelier than I do now.”
The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of his confession hanging over the room like a storm cloud.
He steps back, his movements stiff, his expression carefully blank, but I know better. I can see the cracks in his mask, the pain he’s barely holding in.
And it wrecks me.
Because I feel it too.
I’ve been running from it for years, pretending the choices I made didn’t leave me hollow. I buried myself in work, surrounded by people who admired me, envied me, wanted something from me. I told myself it was enough—that being admired was better than being loved, that the attention was enough to fill the empty spaces.
But it wasn’t.
And now, sitting here, watching West say the words I’ve never been brave enough to admit, I realize I’m as lonely as he is.
Maybe lonelier.
Because at least he has them—Jake, Todd, Xayden. They’ve stayed together, even with all their cracks and flaws. But I left. I chose the spotlight over them, over us, and I’ve been standing in that glaring, empty light ever since.
My chest tightens, and I grip the edge of my chair harder, as if it’ll keep me from falling apart. The ache inside me, the one I’ve been ignoring for so long, feels unbearable now.
West’s words echo in my head, his loneliness a mirror to my own.
The worst part of all of this is I don’t know how to fix it.
Then it’s Xayden’s turn. If I weren’t wrecked enough, he still needs to speak.
