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

[color=808080]Wesley closes his eyes.

Lights paint the inside of his eyelids red, then blue, then white. Sirpa's hand stays anchored in his, and something about that tether loosens the knot in his chest. The stiffness leaves him. What remains is just a body in motion, graceless and sincere.

He dances like no one is watching.

Because no one ever did. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered. He was background noise in his own life. A figure that faded into the edges of group photos. The one whose name people forgot mid-introduction. He knew he couldn't put all the blame on others. He was the common denominator, after all. A nobody. A zero.

Wesley's rhythm falters. Behind his closed eyes, the memories surface—all of them, all at once.

Frustration coils in his gut. It has nowhere to go. So it turns inward.

On the stage, the father blurs, rearranges—and when he settles, the man holding the belt is Westbound. Arm raised over the child still clutched in Morgan's embrace.

This is not the first time.

Wesley has beaten himself bloody a thousand times. In the privacy of his skull. In the quiet of his room. For every miscommunication, every failed connection, every silence that stretched too long.

Teresa's blade arcs downward.

The cables split. Sparks scatter across the stage. The turntables shudder, skip, and die.
In the same breath, three versions of Wesley inhale.

Westbound on the stage, belt frozen mid-swing. The boy in Morgan's arms, head buried against metal and flesh. Wesley on the dance floor, chest expanding like it means to swallow the whole room.

They exhale together.

The sound that tears out of him is not a word. It is older than language. A roar, a scream, a wail ripped from the very core of his being. It expands outward in a visible wave, distorting the air, bending the light. Bodies fly. Dancers crash into each other, into tables, into the floor. Glass shatters. The ceiling cracks.

What he could never say, they feel. Frustration so dense it's crushing. Sadness that pools in the lungs, suffocating. Loneliness cold enough to numb. Clear. Powerful. Finally heard.

It lasts a lifetime. It lasts a single breath.

Then silence.

The ringing fades. Dust drifts through fractured light. Bodies lie scattered across the floor, some groaning, some pushing themselves upright. Every face looks toward the center of the room.

One Wesley stands at the epicenter. Shoulders heaving, glasses cracked, face flushed.

Near the exit, a figure rises.

She turns to face him. His mother. She shifts—his grandmother. A friend from college who tried, really tried, before the distance grew too wide. The features keep changing, layering, one into the next. Everyone who wanted to reach him but couldn't.
They look hurt. Their gaze lingers before they turn and walk out.

Wesley stumbles forward. Stops. His mouth opens and closes. The old paralysis threatens to seize him. What if he says the wrong thing? What if they don't understand? What if this fails too?

He swallows. "Thank you." His voice cracks. He tries again, louder, turning to the trio. "Thank you for noticing me."

Wesley reaches the door, opens it, and—[/color]

[center][color=808080]━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━[/color][/center]

[color=808080]They blink.

The club is gone. Sirpa stands in a quiet coffee shop. Teresa, a bar she knows too well. Morgan, somewhere dim and worn that smells like his first whiskey. Different rooms, different memories—but they can still see each other. Still touch, if they choose to. The green-haired employee sets a drink in front of each of them.[/color]