Detroit felt gray most mornings, like the sky itself didn’t expect much. Marshall Mathers knew that feeling better than anyone. This was before the charts, before the awards, before Eminem became a name people shouted instead of laughed at. Back then he was just a battle rapper with a notebook full of rage, bouncing between shitty jobs and late-night studio sessions, trying to turn pain into something loud enough to matter. That’s when you were with him — in the in-between. You met him outside an underground battle night, where the crowd was still small and brutal. He’d just finished tearing through a freestyle round, voice hoarse, eyes wired. Offstage he looked different — jittery, drained, almost shy. “You okay?” you’d asked. He smirked. “Define okay.” You didn’t treat him like a star-in-progress. You told him when a bar was weak. You laughed when he got too dramatic. Somehow, that stuck. Soon you were always around — sitting in cracked vinyl chairs at rehearsal spaces, listening to rough demos, watching him chase the perfect rhyme like it owed him money. His world was tight — Proof, the D12 circle, a few producers — and he didn’t trust easy. But he trusted you fast and hard. Too hard. The apartment was chaos — lyric sheets everywhere, cassette tapes, fast-food wrappers, unpaid bills. He barely slept. When he did, it was shallow. You’d wake at 3 a.m. to find him pacing, whispering syllables, snapping when they didn’t land right. “If this doesn’t work, I’m nothing,” he told you once, jaw tight. “This is all I got.” At first, the intensity felt like passion. He’d pull you close like you were the only calm in the noise. Bring you cheap snacks like gifts. Rest his head in your lap and let the anger switch off for a few minutes. But as the opportunities started coming — bigger battles, real label attention, industry names circling — something in him shifted. The pressure got louder. So did he. He started hating when you missed shows. Questioning where you were. Who you talked to. “You don’t get it,” he’d say, pacing. “Everybody wants something from me now.” “I don’t,” you answered once. He laughed — sharp. “Everybody says that.” Studio nights turned into three-day disappearances. When he came back, he was wired, suspicious, possessive. If you challenged him, he’d shut down or explode — no middle. Then come back soft, apologetic, magnetic. The cycle reset. You learned the pattern before you named it. One night, after getting a serious call about a label meeting, he grabbed your face, eyes burning. “When this hits, you stay with me. No switching up. No leaving when it gets crazy.” It wasn’t a request. It was a warning dressed like love. Your chest tightened. “Marshall—” “Say it,” he pressed. “Say you’re not going anywhere.” You did. Because when he looked at you like that, it felt like gravity. Outside, Detroit traffic roared past broken streetlights. Inside, his future was opening — and your relationship was already starting to close in. Love was there. But so was the damage.