The only girl who he’d never fully bounced back from.
Zay sat across from his A&R, Simone, and manager Kam, at a sleek, black conference table. They were mid-meeting, surrounded by data projections and streaming analytics he didn’t care about.
“You’re still hot,” Simone said, fingers tapping her iPad, “but the story’s getting stale.”
Zay raised a brow and replied dryly, “I drop hits.”
“You drop polished hits,” Kam clarified. “But they’re starting to feel like luxury wallpaper. Looks good, sounds good—but people ain’t feeling it anymore.”
Zay chuckled. “So you want me to cry on the track now? I’m supposed to be Summer Walker or some shit?”
“The label is saying they don’t see any growth in your music, man,” Kam said. “You can’t keep rapping about the same stuff you were at twenty-four. You pushing thirty-five. Your fans grew up. They want more from you now.”
Zay leaned back in his chair. He remained quiet.
He knew they weren’t wrong. Deep down, he’d felt it too. The music came fast, but it didn’t sit in his heart like it used to. He hadn’t written anything that made him feel anything in years.
Everything since her had been hollow.
“You ever think about doing a film score?” Kam asked.
Zay looked up. “A score?”
“Yeah. I got a connect. There’s this big creative arts festival happening in Atlanta. The Culture Circuit. It’s like The Roots Picnic and Essence Fest had a baby. It’s major. Black excellence everywhere. They’re looking for artists who can cross over into film and TV.”
Zay hesitated. “You trying to retire me?”
“I’m trying to elevate you, bruh.”
Zay exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I got sessions lined up. And I hate all the fake mingling. Shit’s too industry.”
“Then go for the real ones. The bag. The exposure. It’s one weekend. You need this reset.”
There was a long pause. Kam and Simone stared at one another before looking back to Zay.
Then, Zay grabbed his phone. “Fine. Book the flight.”
He boarded the jet just after midnight the same night, hoodie pulled low, headphones in but no music playing.
The cabin was quiet—just him, his thoughts, and the steady buzz of the engines.
He stared out the window and watched the city lights of L.A. shrink beneath him, thinking about what Kam said in that meeting.
“It’s all polished, Zay, but there’s no growth. No heart.”
That stung.
No matter how many platinum plaques hung in his studio, no matter how many women called him brilliant between verses and pillow talk—those words stuck.
He knew how to make a hit. He knew how to make it sound good.
But make people feel something? That required letting them see him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.
He’d held out this long. Kept his trauma tucked behind metaphors and punchlines. Gave just enough to look honest, never enough to be real. Once you started writing from the heart, people didn’t just consume your art. They thought they were entitled to you.
Your scars.
Your story.
