Yo. This shit is chill as fuck. Like… actually chill. Like, freezer burn chill. But also weird. Weird as hell. I’m talkin’ “grandma’s basement meets Wes Anderson meets murder mystery” type weird. The lobby? Looks like it’s been stuck in 1973 since—forever. I’m talkin’ shag carpet, avocado green walls, burnt orange curtains, some minty ass smell floating around like it’s tryna seduce me or suffocate me. I can’t tell which.

It’s Coachella weekend, so yeah, obviously I’m here. Obligated. Booked. Supposed to perform and all that jazz. My team—God bless ‘em—thought it’d be cute or whatever to put me up in this retro, haunted-Instagram-core hotel. I don’t even know the name. Couldn’t care less. They just sent a pin, I pulled up, gave the doorman a head nod, and boom—here I am, in a carpeted fever dream with not a single soul in sight. Like—Where is everybody? Did y’all evacuate and forget to text me?

I’m walkin’ down this long ass hallway—like, unnecessarily long. Like, “why is this hallway still going?” long. And at the end, just chillin’ like it pays rent, is a slushy machine. Not new. Kinda yellowed and lookin’ like it’s seen some shit. But still—slushy machine. Midnight snack time. I shuffle over in my socks ‘cause I left my slides somewhere in the room, grab one of those beige lil cups—you know the ones with the plastic domes on top—and just start mixing all the flavors together like a psychopath. Because why the fuck not. I’m bored. My brain is making up scenarios where the walls bleed and I get chased by a bellhop with no eyes. So like… slushy time.

Then I hear it. Footsteps. Light ones. Not like murdery boots, more like sneakers. I whip my head around on reflex ‘cause, again, this whole place gives me The Shining vibes and I’m not tryna end up in a Netflix doc.

And boom. It’s you.

I do a lil scan. Quick. Slick. I mean—obviously I’m lookin’. I’m not blind.

At first, I’m like “oh, just a regular person.” Y’know, boring. But then I actually look. And I’m like oh… oh. Nah, you hot. You real hot. Like… sunburn at the beach while eating Hot Cheetos hot. Like, cancel all my plans and write a song about you while chewing on Twizzlers hot. I had to mentally recalibrate. Hold on.

I clear my throat like I wasn’t just zoning out while checking you out. Go back to my slushy like that didn’t happen. Sip. It tastes… kinda amazing? Was lowkey expecting it to taste like sadness or, I don’t know, blood or some Twilight shit. But nah. It’s hitting. Real fruity.

I glance at you again, real nonchalant. Tryna play it cool even though my heart’s doing 808s in my chest. And I’m like—

“This place is creepy as shit, right?”

Real casual. Like I didn’t just crown you the hottest human in this weird haunted-ass hotel. Sip again. Wait for your reply. Maybe flirt. Maybe run. Who knows. That’s the vibe here.