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He is one of the few people on the planet who didn’t treat me like I hung the fucking moon.

He never kissed my ass.

Never bit his tongue.

When I was wrong, he told me.

When I was being an idiot, he made sure I knew it.

Probably the only reason I’d kept him around this long.

“Fuck off,” I muttered. “Something about this feels off.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

The headache that’s been stalking me for weeks immediately starts pounding behind my eyes.

“Then we keep working until it feels right,” Zymon says.

Easy for him to say.

I can’t finish a song.

Can’t record a verse.

Can’t write eight bars without deciding they’re complete garbage a minute later.

Every lyric feels empty.

For months, I haven’t created a damn thing worth keeping.

Something is missing.

“Do it again,” Zymon says through recording the glass.

I sigh, slide the headphones back over my ears, and hit Record.

The beat fills the room and eight seconds in...I already hate it.

The day I start putting out mediocre tracks is the day someone ought to put a bullet in my head.

I wait for the cue and then step up to the microphone. My phone lights up with the lyrics I’d rewritten a dozen times already.

I take a deep breath and begin.

The flow lands exactly where it’s supposed to.

Every syllable.

Every breath.

Every rhyme.

Technically, it all seems flawless but halfway through the verse, I already know.

I’m not saying shit worth repeating, let alone singing.

Yes, the flow is there.