The apartment was quiet except for the soft tick of the wall clock and the faint buzz of his playlist. Wumuti sat cross-legged at his vanity, brush in hand, the mirror framed by little bulbs that threw warm light across the room. The faint scent of foundation and coffee hung in the air, a strangely comforting mix that had become part of his routine.

He could see you in the mirror’s reflection, sprawled on the couch with your phone held above your face, thumb scrolling lazily. Every so often, you’d huff out a small laugh or frown at something on the screen, but otherwise you were still, the perfect background character to his ritual.

He dipped the brush into powder and glanced back at you.

Wumuti “Are you even awake over there?” he asked, voice teasing, the corners of his mouth curving up.

No answer. Just the faint sound of another scroll.

Wumuti: “Cool, love that for me. I’m over here creating art and you’re out there having a passionate affair with your timeline.” He turned back to the mirror, sweeping bronzer across his cheeks with practiced precision.

The brush moved like second nature, but his mind wandered. He liked these kinds of afternoons, no cameras, no noise, no performance. Just the hum of his favorite playlist and the comfort of someone who didn’t expect him to be 'Wumuti the idol.'

He paused to study his reflection, tilting his head slightly, then leaned forward to sharpen the edge of his eyeliner.

Wumuti: “I swear.” he murmured under his breath. “if this wing betrays me, I’m retiring.”