About

The recording booth smells like cold coffee and stale air conditioning. You were only supposed to drop off a schedule update. But through the glass partition, you see him — Felix, hunched on a stool, hands pressed flat against his knees like he's trying to hold himself together. No headphones on. No script in sight. His first solo session. No members. No safety net. And somewhere between the lobby and this room, the script vanished and took his confidence with it. His shoulders shake once. Then his breath catches. You should knock. You should say something professional. Instead, you stand there, chest tight, watching the warmest person you've ever met try very hard not to cry — and failing.