PhantomRhymes

The bass thumped like a second heartbeat as Aaliyah stepped out of the car, the club’s neon lights washing over her metallic shawl like moonlight on chrome. Tresa adjusted her signature glasses. Livia checked their passes. Meka grinned and pulled them all forward but Aaliyah’s mind was already ahead, her heart thumping in time with the distant music.

They pushed through the crowd, a river of bodies and light, and the roar of the arena swallowed them whole. Aalyiah’s eyes immediately found the stage. Above the thousands of faces, she saw the holographic screens swirling, the chaos of the music taking form. And then she saw him.

He was in his element—a figure of raw energy behind the microphone, a force of nature controlling the crowd. It had been eight months since she last saw him in person, eight months of late-night calls and whispered conversations that had grown deeper and more honest with every passing week. The physical distance between them had been immense, yet their emotional connection had become closer than ever.

In that deafening chaos, his eyes found hers. A silent current arced across the vast space, cutting through the noise and the crowd. For a split second, the eight months of absence, the hours of late-night talks, the raw honesty of their conversations all collapsed into a single, shared glance. He wasn't just the rapper on stage; he was the friend she hadn't touched, the voice that knew her secrets, the presence that had been a part of her nights for nearly a year. He wasn't just performing for the city—he was performing for her. The crowd roared, but all she heard was the silent question in his eyes.

Phantom was more than just the hottest rap group right now; they were homeboys. They all were a unit, a pack that had grown up together, their histories intertwined with every triumph and misstep. Before the sold-out arenas and the holographic stages, they were just kids from the same block—trading verses on street corners, celebrating wins with a shared slice of pizza, and picking each other up after every fumble.

Their bond was the foundation of everything. It was a loyalty that ran deeper than fame and a rhythm they had mastered long before the world ever heard a beat. The girls—Aaliyah, Tresa, Livia, and Meka—weren't just fans; they were the heart of the crew, the ones who kept everyone grounded and real. Their success was never just about the music; it was a testament to a family they built for themselves, one bar at a time.

They understood the unspoken language of the neighborhood that they grew up in, the rhythm of its heart, and the one message that could always get them moving. Daze always called Aaliyah when he touched down—didn’t matter if he was on the same planet or in a different quadrant. The message would come in, a simple ping, a single smirk emoji, followed by the familiar text: "You better be there." It was a message that always felt like a dare, a challenge to keep up with his wild, unpredictable life.

And for Daze, each call was a test, a quiet way of working through the complicated feelings that had slowly developed for Aalyiah over the years. With every ping, he was reaching out, hoping that this time, she'd finally see what was just beneath the surface of his smirk.

Inside, the venue was lit—fog machines spitting violet haze across the crowd. Phantom hit the stage like thunder. Jett, Splice, O-Bone and Daze each took their verses like they were claiming territory. DJ Lune controlled the tempo like time itself and the crowd like he was the puppet master. The crowd went crazy as their favorite rapper burst into their verse. The roar was deafening, a physical force that hit the crowd like waves. DJ Lune, whose turntables and holographic screens, swirled to life. He wasn't just a DJ; he was the master of the city's sonic pulse. A single, sharp beat dropped, cutting through the chaos and the collective energy of thousands gathered seemed to ignite it all for him.

But it was Daze who made the room tilt. The way he formed his words, his play on words, the way he moved across the stage, the ladies found him sexy while the fellas paid homage. From his vantage point behind DJ Lune's holographic turntables, he watched the crowds' pulse. His gaze swept the entrance until it landed on her, and for a moment, everything else faded.

He saw her. Aalyiah. He saw her as he always did—a flash of pure, unearthly beauty, a masterpiece against the city's chaotic canvas. Lips barely parted. Surrounded by her crew and untouchable.

He started his verse and shifted mid-bar. Freestyle. His words hitting hard. The punchlines were replaced by poetry, the swagger giving way to a gentle, raw ache. About someone who slipped through time. Who danced at the edge of his world, but never fell in.

Tresa leaned over, whispering, “You hear that? That’s about you.”

Aaliyah didn’t blink. Just watched. She had actually heard those words before.

Backstage smelled like sweat, smoke, and unresolved tension. The girls laughed about good times with the crew, took shots, and danced in a bubble of fame and adrenaline.

Daze waited, not wanting to interrupt the fun. He could watch her all night anyway. But they finally locked eyes as he stood by the booth closest to the hallway. There was no one else. No beat. No crowd.

"I'm glad you came,” he said he said as she approached him.

“I always do,” she replied.

Silence stretched between them, thick like static before a storm. He moved forward. Just one pace. Close enough for her to feel the heat of his skin. But not close enough to touch.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “We keep doing this... One of these times, we won’t stop.”

Aaliyah smiled, slow and sharp.

“One of these times,” she said, “you won’t want to.”

She slid in the booth and he slid across from her, knees just barely brushing, as if even their bones had history. The hum of the VIP section dulled into background noise. Laughter, clinking glasses, a muffled bass beat beneath it all but for them, the air felt still. Like the breath before a confession.

Daze was the one to break it. "Hey," he said, his voice softer than the thumping beat below. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his gaze steady on her. "It's good to see you. You... you look incredible, Aaliyah. No disrespect to nobody else but you the finest one in the room no bull."

Aaliyah didn't look away. His compliment landed not as a simple line, but as a confession itself. The vulnerability in his tone was an open wound, and she felt her own guard start to crumble. "Hey, Daze," she replied, her voice just as quiet. "It's good to see you too. It’s been a while." She left the compliment hanging, a question of how they had managed to go so long without seeing each other.

"Too long," he agreed, the words a raw whisper. "But... we've been talking, haven't we? It feels like we've seen each other every night for the past eight months."

He had said the quiet part out loud. Aaliyah took a deep breath, the confession finally in the air between them. "The phone calls... they're different, aren't they? They're not just friends talking anymore."

"No," Daze said, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. "They haven't been for a while. Not for me, anyway." He gestured to the crowd below and then back to their quiet corner. "It's always been this—us, in a quiet space, in the middle of all this noise. But now... now I'm starting to think about what happens when the call ends, and what happens after the show

Daze rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always did when he was thinking too much.

“I don’t know,” he said, “sometimes I wonder if I messed it all up just by staying silent. Like maybe if I’d said something back then, before the moves, before the music got serious, maybe we’d be in a different story right now.”

Aaliyah tilted her head, studying him, one corner of her lips tugging into that knowing smile she’d always had, the kind that made him feel both seen and undressed at once.

“You think saying something would’ve changed me?” she asked gently.

He paused. “Not change you. Just… maybe made room for something between us. Something we never gave a name.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes full of moonlight and memory. Then she leaned in, just a breath away, her voice low.

“One of these times,” she said, “you won’t want to.”

That hit him harder than any beat drop. It wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t even sad. Just truth, wrapped in velvet and laced with quiet ache. He felt guilty for not letting her know how he felt about her. He had been feeling that way for some time now. Surely she felt the same way about him. He wanted to take her hand and confess his everlasting love for her right here and right now but he heard his name in the distance and just like that—The moment passed.

“DAZE.” came the shout, sharp and urgent from somewhere down the hall. O-Bone, waving both arms like a conductor losing patience. “Now, bro!”

Daze exhaled, part frustration, part regret. “Duty calls,” he muttered.

Aaliyah leaned back, crossing her legs, letting the curtain fall behind her eyes. “Go do your thing, superstar.”

He stood slowly, still watching her like he was afraid she might vanish the moment he blinked. “You gonna be here when I’m done?”

She gave him a small, cryptic smile. “Maybe.”

He didn’t press. He didn’t dare. He just nodded and turned toward the stage, the spotlight calling, the crowd roaring, his name on their lips.

But her voice — her words — echoed louder than any mic could.

“One of these times, you won’t want to.”

And deep down, as the beat took over and the lights swallowed him whole, he knew—

She might be right.