Forever

Do androids dream of electric sheep?

The air between them felt different now. The initial surprise had melted away, and in its place was something lighter—a connection neither of them had anticipated. Gabbie and Vessel stood there, side by side, at the merch booth, and despite the usual chaos that followed after a show, there was a quiet intimacy between them. The rest of the world seemed distant, muffled by the weight of their conversation.

Gabbie couldn't stop glancing at Vessel, trying to reconcile the man in front of her with the enigmatic figure she had seen on stage. It was surreal—she had always admired the mystery of Sleep Token, the anonymity behind the music, the persona that seemed so carefully crafted. But here, now, she was talking to the person behind all of it. No mask. No stage lights. Just... him.

"So, you just hang out at the merch booth after the shows?" she asked, trying to sound casual, though the curiosity in her voice was evident.

Vessel smiled, a little sheepish. "Not really. I just... I don't know. I wanted to see what it felt like to be here without the whole thing—you know, without being Vessel for a second." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's a bit strange, but nice. Everyone's usually so focused on the show, I never really get a chance to just be a part of the crowd. It's kind of refreshing, actually."

Gabbie nodded slowly, considering his words. It made sense, in a way. She had always admired how Sleep Token had built their identity around the music, how they kept things mysterious and rare. But she'd never thought about the isolation that might come with it—the weight of being a symbol instead of just a person.

"That must be... heavy sometimes," she said quietly, almost to herself.

Vessel's eyes softened, a flash of vulnerability passing over his face. "Yeah. It's not as glamorous as it seems. There's a lot of pressure to be perfect, to always be something more than you are. Sometimes it feels like you lose yourself in the process."

Gabbie couldn't help but empathize. She had always been a little unsure of where her own identity lay—how much of herself she could give to the world before it consumed her. She'd never had to do it on such a grand scale, though. To be constantly on display, both physically and emotionally, had to be exhausting.

"I get that," she said softly. "I mean, not on the same level, obviously, but... yeah. You know when you feel like you're just playing a part? Like you're so busy pretending to be what people expect you to be that you forget who you really are?"

Vessel met her gaze, the recognition in his eyes saying more than words ever could. "Yeah, I know that feeling all too well."

There was a long pause, the kind that felt comfortable rather than awkward. It was a quiet space between two people who had unexpectedly found something real in each other.

"So," Gabbie started, shifting her weight, "if you're not Vessel tonight, what does that mean for you? Who are you when you're not on stage?"

Vessel took a deep breath, looking down at the ground for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet hers again. It was a loaded question, one he wasn't sure he had the answer to. But he wanted to try.

"I'm just... a guy," he said slowly, "who's figuring it out as he goes along. I mean, I've spent so much of my life being someone else that I'm not sure who I am anymore. Without the mask, without the music... I don't even know what parts of me are left."

Gabbie watched him carefully, sensing the depth of his words. She didn't push him to elaborate—there was a weight to them that didn't need to be spoken aloud. She could tell that his confession was rare, that he didn't often let himself be this open.

But she also understood the struggle. "Maybe," she said thoughtfully, "maybe you're not supposed to have it all figured out right away. Maybe it's okay to not have all the answers."