PhantomRhymes

"What's up shorty, you wanna dance?" came the voice from her right — low, smooth, laced with a swagger that tried a little too hard but still hit the right note.

Aaliyah turned and found a tall Brother with hands out, palms open like an invitation and a dare. He had that confident lean, the kind that said he wasn’t new to the game.

A flash of gold at his neck, a glint in his smile. She raised a brow, more amused than impressed — but something about the beat dropping in the background and the way her friends were already laughing and spinning on the dance floor tugged at her like a ripple in her bloodstream.

She grabbed his hand, soft but steady, and glanced back over her shoulder — back at Daze, still centerstage, bathed in electric blue and spotlight heat.

"Yep," she said with a sly smile, and let the stranger lead her to the dance floor.

But Daze saw it.

He saw everything.

The stage lights made it hard to focus, but not on her. Never on her. She glowed in the crowd like a lighthouse through fog.

And now, she was swaying with another man — someone he didn’t know, someone who had just swooped in with a line and a hand and a confident little smirk like he had a chance.

Daze’s jaw tightened as he watched the guy lean in a little too close, whisper something that made Aaliyah laugh — not in that full-throated, magic kind of way, but enough to set Daze’s pulse ticking.

She was dancing, sure. Just dancing. Nothing more. And Aaliyah was always like that — breezy, radiant, light on her feet and impossible to catch unless she wanted to be caught.

But still. Daze couldn’t help it.

His hand hovered over the mic, temptation flaring in his chest. He imagined it:

"Hey yo, my man — you got a name or should I just call you 'temporary'?"

The crowd would've laughed. Aaliyah would've shot him that look, the one that could freeze time and raise eyebrows in one blink.

But no. Not tonight.

He had a job to do. The beat was still bumping. The crowd was waiting. The spotlight was his, and he couldn’t afford to fumble it over feelings he wasn’t sure he was allowed to claim.

So he turned his attention back to the music, to the roar of the crowd, to the rhythm that had always steadied him when everything else felt like quicksand.

He couldn’t be distracted.

At least not now.

But later?

Oh, later might tell a different story.

During the next intermission, Daze spotted her in the VIP section — low lights, plush seats, her laugh folding in with her friends like harmony. She looked effortless, like she belonged there, like the night had been written just to compliment her skin and her smile.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

Sliding into the seat beside her, the bass still thrumming in the background like a pulse, he leaned back, close enough to smell her perfume — soft, citrusy, the kind that lingered like memory.

She glanced over, just a flick of the eyes, and without a word, slid closer. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough for the space between them to vanish. Enough to tell him this is okay.

He looked at her, really looked — like someone soaking in a painting they’ve seen a thousand times but only just started to understand.

“Did I tell you how good you look?” he said, voice a low thrum like vinyl under a needle.

“You have,” she smiled, playful, but her eyes were searching.

“Well . . . it's true.”

There was a beat. A pause that stretched like a held breath. And then, the words started spilling, soft and unsure, but real.

“I saw you dancing,” he said. “With ol’ boy in the chain.”

She tilted her head, smile still there, but quieter now.

“I know it was nothing,” Daze continued. “I mean — I know you. I know your heart. You’ve always been... you. Light in every room.

But when I saw him holding your hand, even just for a song… I ain’t gonna lie — it messed with me.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just listened, fingers idly toying with the edge of her cup, eyes on his.

“I don’t know if I have the right to feel the way I did. We never called it anything. We never said it out loud. But the way you’ve always been in my corner...

I guess part of me thought you might always be mine, in some way.”

Her expression softened. No teasing now. No armor.

He shook his head, chuckled once, embarrassed. “Crazy, huh? I’m out here pouring my soul out like I’m on stage again.”

“No,” she said, her voice low, barely above a whisper. “Not crazy at all.”

And just like that, the room emptied. Not literally — her friends were still chatting nearby, music hummed faintly from the speakers,

lights glimmered against glasses — but for them? It was quiet. Like the whole world had leaned away to give them room.

They talked — really talked. About the past, about dreams, about all the versions of themselves they’d grown into and out of.

About how sometimes the right person shows up too early, or how timing keeps playing jokes on fate.

Time melted.

Neither noticed the shift in the music. Neither saw O-Bone come in, looking half-wild, scanning the crowd until he spotted Daze.

“Yo!” O-Bone barked, cutting through the haze. “You tryin’ to miss your own set?”

Daze blinked, dazed — pun very much intended — like someone snapped him out of a trance.

“Damn,” he muttered, glancing at the clock. “I— I gotta go.”

He stood, hesitant, not ready to leave her orbit. But she smiled, just a little, and said, “Go do your thing. I’ll be here.”

And with that, he jogged back toward the stage, heart thundering louder than the beat.

But his mind? Still on her.

Always on her.