The pressure built fast, swelling inside me like a balloon stretched too thin. My breath hitched. I fisted my hands in my hair and tugged, grounding myself in the sharp sting of pain.
Don’t panic.
Just breathe.
“Bodhi.”
I looked up, not realising I’d dropped my gaze to my lap, and found Iggy watching me. His arm was outstretched, fingers half curled like he was reaching for me. The space between us felt vast, a canyon I couldn’t cross, but still I swore I could feel his grip around my arm. A phantom warmth bleeding through the sleeve of my hoodie, reminding my lungs how to work.
“In the end,” I whispered. “I had everything I’d ever wanted. But at what cost?”
My jaw clenched, muscles twitching with the pressure.
“We became another cog in the machine. A cash cow for men in suits who owned us, who reshaped us into whatever sold best.”
The words kept coming, heavy but unstoppable.
“The music we wrote in our bedrooms disappeared. Professional songwriters took over, making sure everything appealed to the masses. Tours were planned for us. Setlists chosen. Our image decided by people who only saw dollar signs floating above our heads.”
My voice carried through the room, but I only saw Iggy. I was burning out fast, running on fumes, but I couldn’t stop now. Not when it had taken me three weeks to get here. Not when it was only because of the man across from me, pink hair too bright, green eyes too honest, that I felt safe enough to tear myself open.
“I fell out of love with music,” I said quietly. “With performing. Everything felt flat. The applause stopped meaning anything. I couldn’t tell if people liked our music because of how it sounded, or just because of the name attached to it.”
I swallowed.
“I lost all control. So I started taking drugs. Because I didn’tfeel anything, and I needed to feelsomething. I had the money, the access, the means to get whatever I wanted, so I thought... fuck it. Why not?”
My voice didn’t waver, even as the words darkened.
“Why not snort lines with strangers? Why not drown my privileged misery in expensive whiskey? Why not try heroin when the coke stopped working?”
A single laugh slipped out of me, hollow and sharp. Iggy’s brows had pulled together, his mouth turned down hard.
“I know how it sounds,” I said, holding up a hand in surrender. “Spoiled. Pathetic. Poor little rock star.” My shoulders sagged. “And instead of confronting the problem head on, instead of asking for change, I chose drugs.”
I dragged a hand down my face.
“I wasn’t running from pain. I was running from emptiness. I just needed stimulation.”
When my voice fell silent, the room didn’t rush in to fill the space. It just... sat there. Heavy. I glanced around the circle. A few nods. A few blank faces. Someone shifted in their seat.
My chest tightened.
Had I fucked up? Been too honest? I wished, suddenly, that I’d paid more attention to everyone else’s stories. At least then I’d know whether I’d crossed some invisible line.
Ricky leaned forward, hands steepled, nodding as he frowned. Processing. I was so wrapped up in the silence that I nearly jumped when he spoke.
“Thank you for sharing that, Bodhi,” he said. “What I’m hearing is that when things began to change, you stopped feeling?—”
“Are you fucking serious?”
The interruption cut through the room like glass. Every head snapped towards the sound.
Iggy.
He was rigid in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest, shoulders drawn up around his ears. He was glaring—no, burning. If this were an anime, black flames would’ve been licking at his outline, his fury aimed squarely at me.
“Iggy,” Ricky warned.
