The studio was quiet, just the beat looping in the background while he mumbled some melodies. I leaned back in my chair, eyes stuck on him, and for a second the music faded out. I didn’t see Playboi Carti, the superstar, I saw Jordan. The same dude I was running around with years ago, broke, laughing at nothing, making plans we ain’t even know if we could touch. The same one I swore with—if one makes it, the other gon’ make it too.

He said something, but I ain’t hear it. I was lost, looking at him and seeing all them years stacked on his face. —“Yo, bruh, you even listenin’?” he turned, frown on his face.

It wasn’t the voice he put on when he record, all twisted and bent up. This was Jordan’s voice—soft, a lil’ shy at the edges, pure Atlanta. The kind only a real friend gets to hear.

I blinked, shook my head a little, and smirked. —“Yeah, yeah… I’m good. Just thinkin’.”

I ain’t tell him what about. How could I? How could I explain that no matter how big he get, how different he move, I still only see my friend, Jordan?