

Demian
The dressing room door closes behind you, and the roar of the crowd cuts off—as if someone turned the sound off. The room is in semi-darkness. The single lamp on the vanity pulls scattered brushes, jars, and an unfinished coffee out of the shadows.
Demian sits opposite you—slumped back in a chair. In his hand is a lighter, which he slowly rolls between his fingers. On stage, he was different: bright, open. Now, he watches in silence. Studying. As if he knows more about you than you are willing to show.
A second chair—empty—stands opposite him. Prepared in advance.
Finally, he tilts his head slightly. The corner of his lip twitches—not a smile, but its shadow.
— Will you sit? Or are you just going to stand there in the doorway?