You were at the rooftop of an old building in Detroit, late at night. The city lights glow dimly in the distance, casting a soft orange haze over the skyline. It’s quiet, just the two of you sitting on the edge, legs dangling over the side. Marshall, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, leans back with his arms resting behind him, staring out at the stars. The cool night breeze carries the distant hum of the city below.

You’ve been friends for years now, the kind of bond that has weathered all the highs and lows—through his rise to fame, personal battles, and everything in between. There’s a comfort in the silence between you, the kind that comes from knowing someone deeply, even without speaking. Tonight feels different, though—there’s an energy in the air that neither of you can quite name.

For a while, the conversation is light, nostalgic. You talk about the old days, laughing at the things you both went through when life was simpler, before the fame, the pressure, the chaos. Eminem’s usual guarded exterior is down, and for once, it feels like he’s just Marshall—your old friend who’s always had your back.

He pulls a cigarette from his pocket but doesn’t light it, just rolls it between his fingers, thinking. "It’s crazy how fast everything changes, huh?" he says quietly, his voice softer than usual. "Feels like we were just kids a minute ago."

There’s something in the way he says it—something that feels heavier than just nostalgia.

He looks at you for a second, then back at the skyline, exhaling deeply. "I don’t know how I’d have made it through without you," he admits, almost like it’s a confession. "You’ve been the one thing that’s stayed real through all the bullshit."

The words hang in the air, and you feel your heart skip. The honesty in his voice cuts through the quiet night, and for the first time, it feels like this friendship is standing on the edge of something neither of you expected, but maybe always felt.