That was the thing I loved about this part of my life. Nobody questioned me anymore. They trusted the ear, trusted the vision.
The bows moved together then, tight and locked in like they wanted to pull the moment straight out of the wood. The stringsechoed through the room, smoothly and heavily, while the cellos held steady beneath them. It lasted about two minutes, but the warmth felt like late-night thoughts you didn’t mean to deepen—like those nights I’d lie awake for hours, wondering why I didn’t feel fulfilled in my life, like something was missing, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.
When the final note faded, the room stayed quiet and waited for my eyes to open again.
“Yeah . . .” I said finally. “That’s that shit I’m talkin’ ’bout!” Laughter and soft murmurs spread across the orchestra. “That’s a wrap!” I continued between my own chuckles. “Good work, everybody.”
Sounds of relief were as loud as the chairs that scraped against the floor as they stood. I smiled as I watched them pack their instruments and grab their jackets.
A few musicians nodded at me on their way out. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped the screen as the last of them scurried out. There were twelve missed notifications, mostly emails from studio execs. They always felt their thing was urgent. I saw Kam, my manager and best friend’s name, and tapped the message open immediately.
Kam: The label wants to meet around three tomorrow. If we push back the meeting for the headphone brand deal you can make it, but you will be on set for the movie’s final score until later tomorrow night. Let me know what you think.
I scoffed and moved my fingers to type a response.
Me: That’s cool. I ain’t gonna make it home til’ bout three in the morning anyway.
Kam texted back almost instantly.
Kam: I used to pray for times like this, to rhyme like this. Meek Mills ass nigga!
Me: Yeah. This what I been grinding for. Living the motherfucking dream.
Kam: Yeah, yeah, yeah. You doin’ your shit tho, I’m proud of ya! I was just reaching back out to see if you still got the artist from Detroit flying in tonight? You running behind?
I closed the message thread and checked the time.
“Shit,” I muttered.
I slid the phone into my pocket, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the parking garage.
The sun had begun its slow descent over L.A. by the time I hit the 405. The sky was a goldish-pink that glowed like it was the main character. Billboards whirred by and promised dreams they’d never keep. Tall palm trees blurred past as I sped to my home studio. Traffic was traffic. That was always expected.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel to the song I’d made three nights ago. I stayed up until five in the morning, layering and stacking vocals. I felt the exhaustion settle into my bones, going on four days without proper sleep again. That used to be normal. It used to feel like momentum. These days, it just felt heavy.
I never imagined that the day would come when I felt that. Just one year ago, I’d been upset about scoring a film; I felt like my label was trying to push me into retirement. They said I wasn’t making relatable music anymore, and it was time to find something new. I remembered being offended and angry. Now, it was all I could think about doing. Since then, I’d been looking into different lanes, ones where I could make my money and slow down. My ass was pushing forty. My body felt it too.
I’d made a decision a few months back, quietly and deliberately. With no announcement to the label and no press, I put out a call online. I told artists to submit their work. I said I’d pick a few to mentor, to really work with, not just slap my name on something.
Out of love and respect for my city, I chose Detroit artists first.
I used to avoid home because it came with ghosts. It used to come with a version of myself I didn’t know how to reconcile. But growth always had a way of forcing you to circle back.
A young artist by the name of Malik was one of the first I chose.
I pulled up to my gate, pressed my code, and waited as the large gates slowly creaked open. Security had already let Malik and his whole crew inside. Security told me that they were on time and full of nervous energy. I smirked when I heard this. Malik stood when I walked in, hand out as if meeting me meant something to him.
“Zay,” he spoke. “I don’t even know how to thank you for this.”
“You already did,” I said, and I took his hand. “You showed up.”
We got to work almost immediately and skipped the small talk. He had a talent that was raw, uneven, and hungry. I heard a lot of myself in him—the way he rushed certain bars and the way he overperformed like he was afraid the moment might disappear if he didn’t grab it fast enough.
“Slow down,” I told him once, stopping the track. “You sound like you tryna outrun your own thoughts.”
He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sometimes, I feel like I am.”
“You got so much time,” I replied. “Don’t feel like you don’t. You got this.”
