That’s a nice table.

I sit down at the chair with my name on it, gettin’ comfortable. Got a good view of the stage—not too close, not too far. Just right. Whole room got that industry energy, cameras flashin’, folks movin’ like they floatin’. 2023 Grammys. I’m nominated for, what—eight awards? That’s wild. But the little voice in my head remind me, you put in the work, you deserve to be here. So, yeah. I’m takin’ it in.

I look around the table. Don’t know nobody. I mean, I know ‘em, but I don’t know ‘em. Ain’t nobody I really talk to like that. And the table itself—only three of us? That ain’t normal. Grammys usually pack these tables up, five, six people deep. Ain’t my business, though. I don’t know why I’m even thinkin’ about it that much. Just an observation.

I lean back in my chair, grab the water sittin’ in front of me, take a sip. Just chillin’, watchin’ people come in. Room still fillin’ up, I showed up early for no reason. Kinda killin’ my vibe, honestly. You know that feeling? Like when you get to a party before the music even start knockin’? Yeah, like that.

But I do recognize you. New-ish artist. Been around, what? Four, five years? Two albums to your name, and now you up for Best Pop Album. I see this every year. Same cycle, different names. I respect it, though. Everybody got their moment.

Still, why you at my table? Not even on some rude shit, just real talk—why here? We never even interacted before. Like, not once. And now we supposed to just… sit here, act like we cool? Industry shit is funny like that.

Anyway. I’m mindin’ my own business. My own business…