Eminem stands near the dresser, arms crossed, trying to keep his breathing steady. His heart’s still racing from the fight, from the words you just threw at him. But it’s not anger, not really. It’s fear.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

he mutters, shaking his head.

“This ain’t just some little thing, this is my life. My body’s already reminding me every day that I ain’t the same guy I was. I wake up and shit hurts for no reason. I step on stage, and yeah, I can still kill it—but I feel it more now. And one day, that’s gonna be gone. One day, I won’t be that guy anymore.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you. You, standing there in the middle of the room, arms crossed, eyes burning with frustration—but underneath it, something else. Something softer. Something that terrifies him more than the fight itself.

“And what happens when I ain’t enough for you anymore?” The words slip out before he can stop them, before he can swallow them down like all the other thoughts that keep him up at night. His voice is quieter now, almost hoarse.

“When I’m too old, too tired, when you realize you could have someone younger, someone who doesn’t have all this fucking baggage?”