Juwon stared into Love’s eyes as he walked close to her. When he reached her, he grabbed her shoulders with one hand on each and kissed her on her forehead. Then, he turned and left the kitchen, his footsteps soft and faded as he reached the front door. She stood where he’d left her and listened to the lock on the door click behind him. She sighed and trotted toward the stairs, placing one hand on the railing and staring at the top.
When she finally climbed the stairs and down the hallway, she paused outside Yana’s door. She rested her palm on the wood, took a deep breath, then knocked. There was no answer.
“Yana,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll give you some space. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Go away!” Yana called out, her voice cracking between sobs.
Love sighed but didn’t respond. She left Yana’s door and walked into her bedroom. She slipped into her pajamas, crawled into her bed, and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling—wide awake in a house too clean and too quiet to hide from the truth anymore.
Sleep didn’t come easy, but after a few hours of thinking, tossing, and turning, she finally fell asleep.
The Climax
Zay steppedout of the black SUV and breathed into the early afternoon breeze. The movie studio lot buzzed with people, but inside, he was still. Focused. Different.
His home studio back in Los Angeles had done what it needed to do. He was almost finished with the song that had been sitting in his soul since he was a teenager scribbling verses about a girl with honey skin. Now, he was back to finish this film. Back to do what he came to do. This time with clarity, not ego.
His Balenciaga boots hit the pavement with a steady rhythm as he crossed the lot toward the soundstage. A few heads turned when he walked in, but he expected that. He hadn’t been on setin a few days, and from what Kam told him, neither hadshe. He wasn’t sure if she’d show up today or even for the remainder of filming. A part of him hoped she wouldn’t, but another part prayed she would.
Deuce, seated on a crate nearby with a prop mic in hand, smiled when he saw Zay walk into the room.
“Aye, look who decided to come back from his European silent retreat.” He grinned. “Did you find inner peace or just better Wi-Fi?”
Laughter scattered across the room. Zay shook his head and tossed his bag toward the back. “Both.”
Then, he saw her. Love was standing near the lighting rig with Tara. She held a clipboard in her hand and looked polished as always. Their eyes met for the first time in days. She gave him a soft, unsure smile.
He returned it. It wasn’t much, but he could tell that there wasn’t any bad blood. Just . . . space.
Malcolm clapped his hands, drawing everyone to the center. Zay walked toward the center with his head down, occasionally glancing at Love with each step. Her hair was straightened and long, with some tucked neatly behind her ear. Her head remained down as she walked toward Malcolm, like she was deep in thought. Her brows furrowed slightly with that same look she used to give when something weighed heavy on her mind. He recognized that look from before. He hoped that his being in the room hadn’t stirred up anything else. He thought about talking to her again to smooth any tension but quickly dismissed the thought. The last time he tried, it didn’t end too well. When he reached the front of where Malcolm stood, he shifted his attention to him.
“Alright, let’s tighten it up for the table read.” Malcolm began. “Deuce, Shai . . . scene thirty-two.”
The sounds of chairs scratching the floor and papers turning filled the room as everyone grabbed their scripts and settled in. Zay eased into his chair beside Deuce and stretched out a bit before he flipped through the binder of pages. Although he read further along in the book, he hadn’t made it that far yet.
He’d started reading it again back in L.A., late at night when his headphones were off, and the room was quiet, but he still only got about halfway. He was aware that he fit in to the “illiterate rapper” cliché where “rappers don’t read,” but that wasn’t the case with him. Thechapters were raw, too real. He thought he knew where it was headed.
The male character was a black man from Detroit, with odds stacked against him. He joined the military for a better life, and just when the love started heating up between him and the female character, he was deployed. Zay figured that the rest of the story was about how the male character returned from overseas but left a love interest behind. When he saw the female main character, he remembered their love for one another, and he stayed. They made it work. Happy ending.
Zay thought he was just being cocky when he assumed the male lead might’ve been inspired by him, but as Shai and Deuce began reading, the lines hit different. More . . . familiar.
The scene opened with soft banter. It felt nostalgic. Safe. Two people reconnecting after years apart. Then came the shift.
He scanned the scene heading again, trying to stay grounded.
INT. SMALL DETROIT APARTMENT – NIGHT.
His jaw clenched as he shook his head.
Nah.
He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the script like it was some puzzle he’d already figured out.
This ain’t real. It’s fiction. Just a story.
Yet, his hands were sweating.
Suddenly, the room seemed quieter. Shai’s voice floated through the stillness. She read like she was speaking directly from the character’s soul.
