From A Producer To A Global Superstar

The room was too small for pacing, but Frosh did it anyway.

Two steps to the door. Turn. Two steps back to the thin mattress. His foot clipped the edge of a plastic bucket and it rocked, water sloshing against the sides. He steadied it with his toes, exhaled, and kept moving.

His phone lay face-up on the mattress, the screen dimming, lighting, dimming again as he kept tapping it awake.

Same message.

Same address.

Same time.

He read it again like something would change if he stared hard enough.

Nothing did.

He dragged a hand over his head, fingers catching in the rough cut of his hair, then stopped in front of the cracked mirror hanging unevenly on the wall. His reflection looked back at him tired eyes, jaw tight, a shirt he’d worn too many times already.

He tugged at the collar, frowned, pulled it off.

It dropped to the floor.

He reached for another one from the small pile folded on a chair. This one was cleaner. Not new, but better. He held it up, looked at himself again, turned slightly to the side.

"Hmm."

Not bad.

Not great either.

He put it on anyway.

Behind him, his sister shifted on the mattress, her voice still thick with sleep. "You’ve been standing there for like ten minutes."

"I’m not," he said, too quickly.

"You are."

He ignored that, stepping closer to the mirror, smoothing the shirt down over his chest. He practiced under his breath, the melody barely audible, just shaping the words, feeling the rhythm.

He stopped halfway.

Forgot the next line.

He stared at himself again.

The silence stretched a little too long.

His sister pushed herself up, sitting cross-legged now, watching him properly. "You’re going for it?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Just picked up his phone again, checked the message one more time.

"I’ll see," he said finally.

She tilted her head. "You’ve been ’seeing’ since morning."

He let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "I just don’t want to go there and look stupid."

"You won’t."

"You don’t know that."

"I do youre the most talented and hardworking person i know this is your time go and shine brother.."

He glanced at her then, really looked this time. She was smaller than him, younger, but the way she said it—steady, like it was obvious—made something in his chest shift.

He looked away first.

"I’ll go," he said.

Not loudly. Not like a declaration.

Just... settled.

She nodded once, like that was enough and hugged her brother..

They stayed like that for a few minutes before separating.

He picked up the phone again, this time not to reread the message, but to lock the screen and slip it into his pocket. Then he sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

For a second, he just stayed there.

Still.

Then he stood up again, grabbed his shoes, and started getting ready properly this time.

****

The house was quiet when Dayo walked in.

Not silent—never fully silent—but the kind of quiet that settled into the walls. The low hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the back, the faint clatter of dishes being moved, a television playing softly in another room.

He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door without looking. The metal hit ceramic with a dull, familiar sound.

Shoes off.

Watch unclasped, placed beside the keys.

He rolled his shoulders once, like he was shaking something off that hadn’t quite left yet.

"Dayo."

He didn’t turn immediately. Just closed his eyes for half a second before facing her.

His mother stood in the hallway, one hand resting against the wall, the other holding a folded dishcloth. She looked exactly the same as she always did in moments like this—calm, composed, watching.

"How was today?" she asked.

"Fine," he said.

Too quick.

Too clean.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked at him a little longer.

"Fine," she repeated, softer this time, like she was testing the word in her mouth.

He walked past her into the living room, loosening the top button of his shirt. "It was a normal day."

"Normal," she said again, following him now.

He picked up the remote from the table, turned the television on without really seeing what was playing, then dropped it back down.

She stopped a few steps behind him.

"Dayo."

He exhaled quietly, hands resting on his hips for a moment before he turned back to her. "What is it, Mom?"

She took a step closer.

"This thing," she said, her voice still gentle but firmer now, "you can’t keep pushing it away."

He held her gaze, expression steady. "I’m not pushing anything away."

"You are."

"I said I’ll handle it."

"You keep saying that."

There was no accusation in her tone. That was what made it worse.

Just certainty.

He looked away first this time, his jaw tightening slightly. "I’ve been working. There’s a lot going on right now."

"And this is not part of it?"

He didn’t answer.

The silence settled between them, heavier than anything either of them had said.

She watched him for a moment longer, then let out a small breath, the tension easing from her shoulders.

"Come and eat," she said, turning toward the kitchen like the conversation had reached its limit for now.

He stood there for a second, staring at nothing, then nodded even though she wasn’t looking.

"Okay."

Later, the house was quieter.

Lights dimmed.

Doors closed.

The day folding in on itself.

Dayo lay on his bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest. His phone sat beside him, screen dark.

He reached for it.

Stopped halfway.

Let his hand fall back.

A few seconds passed.

He picked it up this time.

Unlocked it.

Scrolled.

Messages.

Emails.

Notifications he didn’t care about.

Then her name. Luna....

Not even a message. Just the contact.

He stared at it.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

Stayed there.

Didn’t press.

He locked the phone and dropped it back onto the bed, turning onto his side, facing away from it.

The room felt smaller like that.

He closed his eyes.

Opened them again.

Stared at the wall.

Eventually, sleep came.

Not deep.

Not clean.

Just enough to carry him through the night.

****

The bar was louder than it needed to be.

Not full, not packed, but loud in that uneven way—glasses clinking, a burst of laughter from one corner, music playing just a little too low for how heavy the bass was.

Faye adjusted the microphone stand, lowering it slightly, her fingers quick and practiced.

"Alright," someone called from behind the counter. "You’re good."

She nodded without looking back.

The music shifted.

Her cue.

She stepped forward, one hand brushing the side of the stand, the other hovering near the mic before she wrapped her fingers around it.

The first note came out clean.

Stronger than the room deserved.

A few heads turned.

Not many.

Enough.

She didn’t push for attention. Didn’t perform like she was trying to win anyone over. She just sang steady, controlled, letting the sound carry itself.

By the second verse, one of the bartenders had stopped moving for a moment, watching.

A couple near the back leaned closer to each other, talking, but their voices dipped slightly.

Still, it wasn’t a crowd that was there for her.

She knew that.

Always knew that.

She finished the set without stretching it, without adding anything extra. The last note lingered for a second, then faded into the noise that had never really left.

A few scattered claps.

Nothing more.

She gave a small nod, stepping back, already letting the moment go.

Off the stage, the air felt thicker.

She wiped her hands against her jeans, reaching for a bottle of water on a nearby table. The cap twisted open with a soft crack, and she took a long sip, her shoulders dropping slightly as she exhaled.

"Tough room."

She glanced up.

A man stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching her with a neutral expression.

She shrugged. "It’s fine."

He tilted his head. "You’re better than that stage."

She let out a short breath through her nose, almost a laugh. "I’ve heard that before."

"I’m not saying it to flatter you."

"Most people don’t think they are."

He didn’t react to that. Just reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card, holding it out to her.

She hesitated for a second before taking it.

"Call the number," he said. "If you’re interested."

She looked down at the card, turning it between her fingers. Clean print. No flashy design.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A session. Private. Performance-based."

She looked back up, but he was already stepping away.

"No pressure," he added over his shoulder. "Just call if you want to."

Then he was gone, blending back into the room like he’d never been there.

Faye stared at the card for a moment longer.

Then slipped it into her pocket.

Her apartment was quieter.

Smaller.

Real.

She dropped her bag onto the chair by the door, kicked off her shoes, and leaned back against the wall for a second, eyes closed.

"Faye?"

She opened her eyes.

"I’m here," she called.

Her sister stepped out from the bedroom, arms folded loosely, taking her in with one quick look. "You’re late."

"Work."

"You always say that."

Faye pushed off the wall, walking past her into the kitchen. "Because it’s always work."

Her sister followed, leaning against the counter as Faye grabbed a glass and filled it with water.

"You ate?"

"I’ll eat later."

Her sister watched her for a second, then nodded toward her. "You look like something happened."

Faye paused.

Reached into her pocket.

Pulled out the card.

She placed it on the counter between them.

Her sister leaned in slightly, reading it. "What’s this?"

"Someone gave it to me after my set."

"And?"

"He said it’s an opportunity."

Her sister raised an eyebrow. "That’s how they always say it."

"I know."

"Do you trust it?"

Faye didn’t answer immediately. Just picked up the card again, turning it over in her hand.

"I don’t know," she said finally.

Her sister straightened, folding her arms again. "Then be careful."

"I will."

A beat.

Then softer, "But... you should try."

Faye glanced up at her.

There it was.

Not blind encouragement.

Not fear.

Just... balance.

She nodded slowly.

"Yeah."

She sat on the edge of her bed a few minutes later, phone in hand.

The card lay beside her.

She picked it up again.

Read the number.

Put it down.

Picked up the phone.

Stopped.

Exhaled.

Then dialed.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

"Hello?"

Her grip tightened slightly. "Hi... I was told to call this number."

A pause.

Then, "Yes. Go ahead."

She swallowed. "I was given a card. After a performance."

"Alright. It’s a private session. No autotune. Live performance. We’re selecting artists for something bigger."

Her brows drew together slightly. "What kind of selection?"

"Performance-based. You come in, you sing, we assess."

"And that’s it?"

"That’s it."

She leaned back slightly, processing.

"When?" she asked.

They gave her a date.

A location.

Clear.

Simple.

Real.

"Okay," she said.

Another pause.

Then, "I’ll be there."

Somewhere else, Frosh stood in front of his door, hand on the handle.

Inside, his sister moved around quietly.

Outside, the street buzzed like it always did.

He took a breath.

Opened the door.

Stepped out.

And miles away, in a quiet room with the lights off, Dayo lay awake again, eyes open in the dark.

Not moving.

Not reaching for his phone.

Just staring into nothing.

Three different nights.

Three different lives.

Moving.

Slowly.

Toward the same place.