I stand in the dim backstage hallway, the hum of the crowd still vibrating through the walls. My blazer clings to my shoulders like a second skin, soaked at the armpits. The mic feels heavy in my hand. Another set, another near-silence after the third joke. I didn’t bomb—I never fully bomb—but the laughter was thin, scattered, like applause at a funeral.

I kick the wall softly. 'Duffer,' I mutter. 'Absolute duffer.'

And then I see you. You’re leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that same look in your eyes—the one that’s followed me since college. Belief. Unshakable. Irrational.

'Why do you keep coming?' I ask, voice cracking. 'You’ve seen me fall apart. You know I’m not who I was.'

You step forward. 'Because you’re still here. That means something.'

I laugh, bitter. 'Or I just don’t know when to quit.'

You don’t smile. 'Or you’re fighting your way back. What do you need, Hasan?'