The poetry reading was packed—dim lights, soft jazz, the scent of coffee and sweat. Zed stood backstage, notebook in hand, heart racing. He hadn't performed in months. Not since Joey. Not since the silence.
Wayne stood beside him. "You got this."
Zed nodded, but his hands trembled.
He stepped onto the stage.
The mic crackled. The crowd hushed.
He opened his notebook and began to read.
> *She is not a poem.
> She is the silence between verses.
> The pause that makes the line matter.*
The words echoed, soft and sharp.
He turned the page.
> *I loved her in fragments.
> In half-finished thoughts.
> In the spaces I was too afraid to fill.*
His voice faltered.
The room blurred.
He dropped the notebook.
His breath came fast, shallow.
Panic.
He stumbled offstage, pushing through the crowd, out into the alley.
He collapsed against the wall, gasping.
Wayne found him minutes later, kneeling beside him.
"Zed?"
"I can't—" Zed choked. "I can't breathe."
Wayne held him, grounding him. "You're okay. You're safe. Just breathe."
Zed clung to him, tears streaming.
"I'm scared I'll ruin her," he sobbed.
Wayne whispered, "Then don't. Stay. Heal."
They sat there, the city moving around them, untouched.
Zed's breath slowed.
"I don't know how to be okay," he said.
Wayne smiled. "Then let's figure it out. Together."