Hollow Where My Heart Should Be

The lights were too bright. Julian Ash stood at the center of the stage, heart thudding in sync with the deep bass rattling the floor. Or maybe that wasn't his heart at all. He could never really tell. The roar of the crowd swelled around him like a crashing wave, the sea of voices chanting his name. They chanted his name. Not with frenzy, but devotion. He'd never understood that. He didn't even like his name. Julian Ash. Soft. Empty. Like a whisper after the fire's gone out. He moved through the final chorus with the others—his group, the ones who weren't perfect. Not really. They didn't have the sculpted cheekbones, the luminescent skin, or the surgically calculated charisma of the newer idols. But they had something else. Presence. Grit. Realness. People clung to that like a dying prayer. Julian… tried. He was never good at feeling things. Could mimic them, sure—he had watched people smile and learned the angle, the pressure, the slight crinkle near the eyes. He could perform emotions with frightening accuracy. But actually feeling them? That was harder. Sometimes impossible. Tonight, it felt especially far away. The stage beneath him throbbed with bass. Heat rose from the floor like mist. Around him, confetti swirled like ash. The other members danced, gleaming with sweat, shining under blinding spotlights. And somewhere between the third spin and the final jump, something clicked inside Julian's chest. Not metaphorically. A real, audible click. He staggered. No one noticed—yet. His body struggled to catch up. The lights fractured. His head rang like someone had dropped a metal tray inside his skull. That clicking was back, louder now, tick-tick-tick, like a wind-up doll winding down. It echoed beneath his ribs. He raised a hand, as if reaching for balance—but it was too late. Julian collapsed. Hard. Loud. Center stage. Gasps echoed. Screams followed. The music kept playing for a moment too long before cutting off abruptly. The world tilted. His teammates rushed toward him, faces warped by stage lights and panic. Julian couldn't hear them. Couldn't feel them. He was just… cold. --- He woke in a sterile room. White ceiling. White lights. IV in his arm. "You're awake," someone said. He turned his head, slowly. It was Marvo, the youngest member of the group, hunched over in a plastic chair, his hoodie bunched up around his neck. "You fainted. On stage," Ren said. He looked pale. His voice was tight. "It was bad." Julian stared at the IV. The steady drip. "I'm fine," he murmured. It was the lie he always said. "Just tired." Their doctor called it exhaustion. Low blood pressure. Maybe anemia. But Julian knew better. He had always known. The buzzing in his chest wasn't normal. The cold wasn't natural. The stillness inside him didn't feel like life. And no matter how much he smiled, no matter how much he sang and danced and posed for cameras, it didn't go away. --- Some weeks later, the video was still trending. #JulianCollapse #PlasticHeart The fans had taken it personally. Conspiracy theories were already forming. "He was poisoned." "He pushed himself too far for us." "He's just a human being. Let him rest." Julian watched from the dorm couch, blanket tucked around his legs. The others were out rehearsing. Management had given him time off, but time off didn't fix whatever this was. They weren't broke. Their group was growing. Their fans were loyal. Their shows were booked. But they weren't supported, either. No label. No corporate sponsor. Just five boys who clawed their way up from the bottom. In their world, beauty was currency. And they were barely middle class. They had enough to live. Enough to eat. Enough to dress nice and post a filtered life on socials. But medical tests? Specialist care? Not worth the cost. If Julian was going to get checked out, it had to be quiet. Cheap. Preferably free. His phone buzzed. It was from a name he hadn't seen in a while. Dr. Shane: Heard what happened. Come in next week. No charge. Julian stared at it. Dr. Shane wasn't family. Just someone who helped them a few years back when they were unknowns, half-starved and sleeping in a leaky room behind a karaoke bar. A clean man. A kind man. One of the few adults who never asked for anything in return. Julian replied: Okay. --- A few days later, he stood outside the clinic. It wasn't flashy, but it was spotless. Quiet. Out of the main city, tucked behind a towering glass recycling facility. The kind of place only the forgotten or the ultra-rich used. He signed in under a fake name. One of the nurses nodded and led him down a long corridor. The walls smelled of steel and antiseptic. Dr. Shane waited in a minimalist office. Metal table. No clutter. "Julian," he said without surprise. "Sit." Julian sat. "Stage collapse," Shane said, reading from a digital pad. "Chest complications." Julian shrugged. "Just dizzy." "Mm." Shin tapped the screen. "I think it's time for some deeper scans. Just to be sure." Julian hesitated. "How long?" "An hour. We'll be careful. You need answers." Julian nodded. --- The test room was dim, lined with humming machines. Julian lay on the table, shirt pulled aside, sticky probes pressed against his chest. He watched the flicker of lights across the monitor. That faint humming inside him? It never stopped. Not pain. Not sickness. Just a reminder. The technician adjusted something. Julian spoke softly. "Do you think some people are born wrong?" "Wrong how?" Julian didn't answer. --- Back home, the dorm was full of noise. George and Ren were arguing about dance counts. Marvo and Tae were on the floor reviewing old footage. No one looked at Julian when he walked in. No one asked what the doctor said. Not because they didn't care. Because they were scared. Because Julian was the glue. The face. The one who had to be okay. --- That night, Julian stood at the cracked window in their shared bedroom. The city beyond was layered in neon and smoke. Drone lights buzzed over skyline advertisements. He pressed his palm to his chest. Still no heartbeat. Just that low, distant buzz. He whispered, "Not yet." Down below, across dozens of giant digital billboards, his face flashed again. Perfect smile. Perfect eyes. A hollow lie. ---