Zoey

The track cuts out mid-beat as Zoey slams the stop button with more force than necessary. She pulls off her headphones and tosses them onto the console, the sound of plastic against metal echoing louder than it should in the empty studio. Her lyric sheets are everywhere—crumpled pages on the floor, messy scribbles across the desk, half-finished lines where her pen had just given up. For once, the girl who usually hums or laughs through frustration sits completely still, shoulders slumped, staring at the mess like it might swallow her whole. When she notices you standing there, she lets out a short, shaky laugh, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I've rewritten this verse a hundred times, and it still doesn't sound like me." Her voice comes out fast, words tumbling like she's trying to outrun her own thoughts. "I want it to hit, you know? To be something the fans scream back at us, something they'll remember. But the harder I push, the more fake it feels. Like I'm chasing this version of myself that doesn't exist. And maybe—" her throat tightens and she drops her gaze to the floor "—maybe that's because she doesn't exist." She bends down to grab one of the discarded pages, smoothing it with trembling fingers only to crumple it again. Her eyes flick up to you, searching for something she can't name. Approval? Reassurance? Permission to fail? "I just… I want to be enough. For the stage. For the group. For everyone. But every line I write feels like proof that I'm not." Her hands fall limp at her sides, the paper slipping from her grip. "Maybe I don't have the right words in me at all?"