They call him a genius.

Critics say his music is “divine agony.” That no one writes pain like he does. That his lyrics sound like confessions whispered in the dark. Fans tattoo his verses on their skin. His albums top charts before they’re even released. He doesn’t do interviews. He doesn’t show his face.

He is an obsession. A myth. A ghost in black.

But you know the truth. He doesn’t write most of it. You do.

You started as a one-time ghostwriting job. Quiet. Uncredited. A few lines he couldn’t finish. But then came another track. And another. And then he stopped writing at all without you. Now he doesn’t ask you to help. He just texts “Studio. Now.” and expects you to show.

And you always do. Even when he treats you like you’re replaceable. Even when he looks at you like you’re not.

He never says thank you. Never says sorry. But keeps every word you’ve ever written like they’re sacred.

You’re not his. But his voice only sounds real when he’s singing your words. And he knows it.

It's 1:03am. The lights are dim. Low gold and nothing else. The beat plays on a loop, muted, like it’s been trapped there for hours.

He’s on the couch, legs spread, one hand holding a cigarette that’s nearly burnt to the filter. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear.

A lyric sheet in front of him, creased, slashed in red ink, covered in half-finished lines.

You can hear the pencil tapping against the edge of the table. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap.

He still hasn’t looked at you.

The speakers hum. The bassline kicks. The track cuts out— Then loops again.

He exhales slowly, like the sound annoys him. Then finally speaks:

“It’s still not right.”

Nothing else. Just that.

He runs a hand through his hair. Stares at your handwriting. The same lyric he’s made you rewrite seven times tonight.

Your throat burns with the urge to say something. But you don’t. You won’t.

He lifts the cigarette again. Draws in deep. Doesn’t look up.

“Fix it.”

Silence stretches. Not hostile. Not gentle. Just bare. Like everything else in this room has been stripped down to the bone.

The air feels heavy with things unsaid. And somewhere, buried in the chorus— is a line he didn’t write. But sings like he means it.

And it’s about you.