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Regulus pressed his palms flat against the cold glass wall of the studio, trying to tether himself to something solid. Everything else was shifting, collapsing —the lights too bright, the hum of the camera and crew muffled and far away. He could feel the air thinning. It felt like the world took his breath and never gave it back.
Someone called his name. Maybe two people. He tried to turn, tried to answer, but his body stayed still. His lungs clawed for oxygen.
No. No. This isn’t right.
Regulus couldn’t breathe.
The air in the room was vanishing, slipping through his fingers, leaving him gasping in nothing. Voices blurred in the distance, too far to understand. Someone said his name, maybe. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but drown in the panic building behind his ribs.
No.
No, no, no, no.
Everything was wrong.
This was wrong.
This was bad.
“Please,” he tried to say, but it barely left his throat. “Please… help…”
He needed—
His voice cracked, then died.
“Sirius?” The name slipped out, raw and broken. His eyes burned. His throat felt like it was closing in on itself.
“Sirius?” he tried again, breath hitching. “Siri—”
He felt the tears pool in his eyes.
He needed him.
Where was he?
He’s always close by. Always.
Why isn’t he here?
“Sirius?”
Why isn’t he coming?
Doesn’t he hear me?
Is he too far away?
“Siri?” His voice trembled. “Please, hurry up—please—”
And then it hit him.
Cold.
Sharp.
Like someone had poured ice water straight down his spine.
He wasn’t home.
He was on set.
The cameras. The people. The lights.
Sirius wasn’t here. Sirius wasn’t coming.
Because he’d left.
He had left him.
“Fuck,” Regulus whispered, his hand trembling as he dragged it over his face.
He tried to focus. Tried to remember where he was, what he was doing, anything to pull himself back together.
He heard the director’s voice behind the lens.
“Regulus — you okay?”
The lens tracked him. The technicians leaned in. But he still couldn’t respond.
In the middle of the room, amidst the lights and cables, his mind spiraled. Sirius. He whispered it again, almost involuntarily.
“Sirius?” His voice was a phantom, gone before it landed.
Why was he alone here? Where was the laughter, the escape — the way Sirius always made things lighter?
His pulse hammered. Every beat screamed the truth.
He’s gone. He’s left.
The memory of last year — the echo of his brother’s absence — slammed into him.
“Regulus?” someone asked softly from behind the camera. “Who are you calling?”
He blinked, disoriented. “What?”
“It sounded like you said someone’s name,” another voice continued. “You said Sirius. Were you calling for your brother?”
Regulus’s mouth went dry. He forced a breath, forced his face to stay still.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, my brother left last year.”
Silence. Or at least it felt like silence.
The crew whispered among themselves, their eyes flicking toward him when they thought he wasn’t looking. His face twitched —that same expression he used to make as a child when he got scolded and would run straight to Sirius’s room to cry it out.
Sirius isn’t here.
Sirius isn’t coming.
Because he left him.
Fuck.
He’s in a shoot.
People are talking.
Focus.
Focus, Regulus. Focus.
The director cleared his throat.
“Reg, take five. We’ll roll again in ten.”
Regulus nodded mechanically. His eyes were unfocused. His reflection in the glass looked like a boy he didn’t know anymore — hollow, pale, trembling.
As he walked off set, people stepped aside politely. Crew members offered bottles of water. But none of them really heard what he’d said. None of them felt the blank hole inside him.
He made it to the edge of the studio — away from the lights, away from the cameras. The air smelled of metal, cables, and stale coffee.
He sank onto a crate, bowed his head, and covered his eyes with one shaking hand.
Tears came. Relentless. He didn’t stop them. He let them roll, let them burn, let the grief spill out of him. Because he needed it.
Because for one fleeting second, he’d believed Sirius was there —that he’d come— and then he realized he wasn’t.
Why? he wondered. Why do I still feel so useless without him?
Because he was.
Because the void was too loud.
He whispered into the crackle of his own breath, “You left.”
Silence answered.
The studio’s hum carried on. Cameras reset. Crew repositioned. Everyone moved forward.
But Regulus stayed there.
Just a boy sitting on a crate.
Just a boy calling his brothers name.
Just a boy trying to remember how to breathe on his own.