The sunlight creeping through the blinds felt invasive.


Tia blinked awake on the living room couch, notebook on her chest, pen still tucked behind her ear. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Not in her clothes. Not with last night’s poem still raw and unfinished.


Her phone buzzed.


Malik:

You coming to the showcase tonight or you still mad?


She stared at the screen.


No apology. No “Are you okay?” Just a demand in disguise.


Typical.


She didn’t respond.


Instead, she got up, stretched, and poured herself black coffee—the bitter kind that reminded her of how things used to taste before she learned to chase numbness with rhymes.


Later that day, Maya found her in the kitchen.


“You working on something new?” she asked, nodding toward the notebook.


Tia nodded. “Might read it at The Yard on Friday. Nova’s spinning.”


Maya hesitated before asking, “You good?”


Tia didn’t answer right away.


“I’m… somewhere between breaking and blooming,” she finally said.


Maya stepped closer. “You don’t gotta do this alone, T.”


“I know,” Tia said. “But I also don’t know how not to.”


That night, Malik texted again.


Malik:

You better be at the showcase. My girl’s supposed to be seen, not silent.


Tia stared at the message, heart tightening.


Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then typed:


Tia:

Your girl ain’t property. And she’s not showing up for someone who only sees her when the lights hit.


She hit send before she could second-guess it.


Blocked him.


Then threw her phone across the bed and pulled on her boots.


If Malik was done talking—


She was finally ready to speak.