Malik sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, leg bouncing like it was trying to run for him.
The screen still glowed with his Instagram profile.
The numbers hadn't stopped moving.
New followers every minute.
More comments stacking up like a mountain he didn't ask to climb.
DM requests outpacing his ability to breathe.
"Maybe I should just delete it," he muttered.
Andre, brushing his hair in the mirror across the room, looked up with a smirk. "You've been saying that for the past ten minutes."
"Because I mean it!"
Malik stood, pacing now. Hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up, left sock missing, full panic mode loading.
"I didn't even mean to post it, man. It was just some random audio—my mic quality's trash, it wasn't mixed, I didn't even say anything worth remembering—"
"Malik."
Andre turned fully, arms crossed.
"You know what I say when I make spaghetti?"
"…What?"
Andre pointed at him. "You let it marinate."
Malik stared, confused.
Andre continued, "You already cooked it, bro. It's out there. Now stop hovering over it like a scared chef worried someone might taste it."
"I am worried someone might taste it!"
Andre chuckled and grabbed his keys. "Look. Just go to work. Don't delete it. Let the day breathe. Let the world breathe. Then we'll talk about it when you get home. Deal?"
Malik hesitated.
"…Deal."
"Good." Andre pointed at the door. "Now go clock in. And don't forget to eat something. You look like a haunted twig."
—
Later That Morning.
The bodega bell chimed with its usual broken wheeze.
Malik ducked behind the counter, tied on his apron, and tried to pretend nothing had changed.
And for a while… nothing had.
Customers came in for lotto tickets, dollar coffees, and bacon egg and cheese orders. Nobody looked at him twice. His coworker Eddie didn't mention anything. The radio played old-school R&B. A toddler screamed over a bag of Doritos.
It was… normal.
Too normal.
And that alone was the biggest relief of Malik's morning.
They don't know. No one here knows.
He didn't rap under his real name, hadn't posted a photo. If someone did figure it out, they weren't saying anything.
By the time his shift ended, Malik was more tired than anxious.
He clocked out, waved goodbye to Eddie, and stepped out into the warm, slightly muggy city air.
The second he hit the sidewalk, the familiar itch hit him again.
He pulled out his phone.
Opened Instagram.
And nearly stopped breathing.
70,582 views.
4,038 followers.
His thumb slipped. He stumbled mid-step, catching himself awkwardly against a lamppost before anyone could notice.
"What the hell is going on…" he muttered, barely above a whisper.
His heart hammered.
He looked around for somewhere to sit and spotted a short bench near a corner store. He plopped down, hands slightly trembling, phone gripped like it might explode.
His eyes ran over the screen again.
The comments…
["Who is this?? This fire 🔥"]
["You need a better mic, bro—drop a clearer version ASAP."]
["The lyrics go dumb hard. I felt that 'Stop. Drop. Roll' bar fr."]
["This beat too smooth, where's the full track??"]
["This dude gonna blow up if he stays consistent…"]
Malik swallowed hard.
His stomach twisted again.
He hunched forward, phone in his lap, trying to breathe.
"Okay," he whispered to himself. "Calm down. Calm. Down. It's just… people. With opinions. You don't owe them anything…"
He tried checking his DMs. Big mistake.
["Yo post more pls"]
["This slappppsss 🔥🔥🔥"]
["I followed just from that alone, what else you got?"]
["Need a feature??"]
Malik shut the screen.
He leaned back, head against the bench, eyes closed.
It wasn't fear exactly. It was… pressure. Expectations.
For the first time in a long time, people were watching him. Not ignoring him. Not dismissing him.
Watching.
He felt like throwing up.
After a few minutes, the nausea calmed.
The city moved around him. Cars passing. Pigeons scattering. Life, buzzing. Just like always.
Malik stood up slowly, tucking his phone away like it was radioactive, and started walking home.
—
Later That Evening.
The apartment smelled like garlic and roasted chicken.
Andre was already in the kitchen, plating up something simple—rice, chicken, and sautéed peppers.
He looked over his shoulder when Malik walked in.
"Saw you didn't delete it," he said, casually.
Malik dropped his bag by the door. "Didn't mean I wasn't this close to doing it."
"You good?"
"I think so…" Malik sat on the edge of the couch. "Sort of. Maybe. No. I don't know."
Andre grabbed two plates and joined him in the living room.
They ate in silence for a few bites. Then:
"It's growing," Malik said quietly. "Like… really growing. The post."
Andre nodded. "I figured."
"I feel like… if I do anything now, I'll mess it up."
"You might."
Malik looked up, surprised.
"But," Andre continued, "you also might not."
Malik frowned. "That's not helpful."
"It's honest." Andre set his plate down and leaned forward. "Look. This thing—this accidental post? It's a spark. What you do with it's up to you. You can delete your account, go back to just humming to yourself and working double shifts… Or…"
Malik didn't respond.
Andre nudged him with a shoulder. "Or… you ride it out. See what happens."
"And if I crash?"
"Then I'll be right here. Helping you up."
Malik exhaled. Sat back.
"…I'll think about it."
"That's all I'm asking."