[right][h2][color=999999]Lost in Translation[/color][/h2][@silver21][/right]

[color=808080]Wesley watches Sirpa move, bewildered at first. But then again, this is a club. Dancing is the whole point. Everyone else loses themselves on the floor while he anchors himself to a table.

The thing is, he doesn't hate dancing. He's terrible at it, objectively graceless, the kind of movement that gives people secondhand embarrassment. The same way his drawings look like children's scribbles and his singing could clear a room. Every art form he's ever attempted falls laughably short of skill.

He loves all of it anyway.

Art gives him something words never could. An outlet that doesn't demand comprehension. And somewhere in the act itself—in the middle of doodling, humming off-key, moving his body in clumsy rhythms alone in his apartment—what anyone might think stops mattering.

Slowly, awkwardly, Wesley begins to sway. His movements are stiff, uncertain. But he tries to match hers.[/color]

[center][color=808080]━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━[/color][/center]
[right][h2][color=999999]Lost in Translation[/color][/h2][@Stanifly][@Auragreedia][/right]

[color=808080]Teresa grabs the father's wrist. The belt freezes mid-swing, the child flinching beneath a blow that doesn't land—but only for a moment. His arm strains against her grip, pushing forward like a film fighting to resume.

Other memories press in. In a classroom, the boy tells a joke and no one laughs, the silence stretching until someone coughs. At dinner, his mouth opens to speak. Another voice cuts in before the first word gets out.

"He's just shy." A label stuck on and never peeled off.

Group project. He suggests an idea. Nothing. Five minutes later, a classmate says the same thing and gets the credit.

"Why are you being so passive aggressive?" He reads it over and over, trying to figure out what went wrong.

Friends who drifted because he didn't reach out. Others who pulled away because he did.
Once, he tried to comfort someone. Watched their face close off mid-sentence.

Whatever word comes to mind is never quite right. He uses it anyway, then spends the next five minutes trying to correct himself while the other person's patience thins.
The memories keep cycling. Teresa holds one thread in place, the father's arm still straining against her grip.

And the music hasn't stopped.[/color]