The song leaked by morning.
I knew before Reese even called, because my phone felt heavier than usual, like it was carrying bad news instead of notifications. When I unlocked it, my group chat with Aisha and Malik was blowing up.
Aisha: Did you post "Static"??
Malik: Please tell me this ain't what I think it is.
My heart dropped.
I hadn't posted it. I hadn't sent it to anyone. I'd saved it on my laptop and closed it like it was something fragile, something still growing teeth.
Then I saw it.
A grainy audio clip on TikTok. My voice—unmixed, raw, shaking in places—playing over a black screen with white words flashing in time with the beat.
They only love you when you're quiet /
Soon as you shine, they start riots…
Over two hundred thousand views.
By 7:30 a.m.
I answered Reese's call with shaking fingers.
"Tell me this isn't real," I said.
"It's real," he replied, too calm. That scared me more than yelling would've. "Someone accessed your cloud. We're handling it."
"Handling it how?" I snapped. "My unfinished song is everywhere."
There was a pause. "Public reaction is… split."
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Of course it is."
At school, the tension had mutated.
Yesterday it was whispers. Today it was opinions.
A girl I barely knew stopped me near the stairs. "That song kinda disrespectful," she said, folding her arms. "You talking about us again?"
"I'm talking about me," I replied, keeping my voice even.
She rolled her eyes. "Same thing."
In history class, someone played the clip out loud before the teacher could stop it. A few kids nodded along. A few laughed. One guy clapped sarcastically.
I sank lower in my seat, heat crawling up my neck.
At lunch, Malik slammed his tray down harder than necessary. "I swear, people act like you can't breathe without offending them."
Aisha leaned in. "But… the song?" she asked gently. "It's powerful. Hurtful, but powerful."
"Hurtful to who?" I asked.
She hesitated.
"That's the problem," Malik muttered. "Everybody think everything about them."
By the end of the day, I felt hollowed out. Like the city had scooped me up, examined me, and decided I was either a trophy or a traitor—nothing in between.
When I got home, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, phone in her hand.
"You wanna tell me why your aunt called asking if you hate where you come from?" she asked.
I dropped my bag. "You heard it too?"
She nodded slowly. "I heard the clip. I also heard what people said about it."
My throat tightened. "I didn't mean for it to come out. It wasn't finished."
Mom studied me the way she used to when I was little and lying badly. "But the feelings were real."
I nodded.
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Baby, truth makes noise. Especially when folks ain't ready to hear it."
"Then why does it feel like I'm the one getting punished?"
"Because you're visible," she said. "And visibility comes with a price."
That night, Reese picked me up for an emergency studio meeting. The room was full of adults talking around me instead of to me—labels, PR people, someone from legal.