You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be waiting for him as if you were part of his staff, his apprentice… or worse: as if you admired him more than you’d ever admit.

He Maynard was always your rival, the shadow that made you push harder, the sarcastic comment that forced you to write better lyrics, the kind of guy who could crush your ego with a single raised eyebrow.

But he told you, “Swing by if you want.” He said it like it didn’t matter. Like you don’t spend weeks thinking about every tiny interaction between the two of you. And what do you do? You come running. Ridiculous.

You ask yourself why the hell you’re like this, counting your breaths, checking the time every two minutes, trying to look relaxed when inside you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Is it a joke? From him? From yourself? From this strange “friendship” made of dry comments, silent competition, and respect disguised as provocation?

Maybe the worst part is that you know exactly what he’d say if he saw you like this: that half-smirk of his, that calm, almost condescending tone.

“Well? Are you gonna stand there or come in?”