"Do you still sing?" I asked.
Charles shifted the bag in his arms, hugging it like it could shield him from the question.
"No," he said quickly.
I frowned. "Why?"
He let out a sigh — the kind that was half dramatic, half real exhaustion.
"Because," he muttered, eyes drifting to the floor tiles, "my mother always expects more from me."
I stayed quiet, letting him speak.
"She never said it directly," he continued, "but she wants me to be something else. Something serious. Something that sounds important when she tells her friends."
His fingers tightened around the shopping bag handles.
"She liked it at first. When I was younger. But somewhere along the line, it became… childish to her."
He let out a humorless laugh. "So I stopped. It's easier to be what she wants than disappoint her."
He looked up at me then — soft, unsure, but honest.
And suddenly I understood why he clung to the things he liked so fiercely.
Why he hid the gentler parts of himself.
