Page 12 of The Spark

I exhaled sharply and clicked play on the track, letting the bass roll through the speakers. The artist I was working with, a Grammy-nominated R&B singer, was supposed to be pulling up soon, and I needed to be ready. This was a big deal. The kind of collaboration that could finally push my name into the mainstream. I should’ve been excited. I should’ve been fully focused on making sure everything sounded right.

Instead, I was thinking about how I had spent the last year convincing myself I didn’t want Amaya like that for real.

A fucking lie.

A knock on the glass snapped me back to reality.

I checked the time. I had a break before the next session, long enough to grab a drink, stretch, and maybe clear my head. But instead, I reached for my phone.

Without thinking, I hit her number. I rarely ever texted her. Not like I did with everyone else. With Amaya, it had always been calls. And we always answered. Always called back. Except for that one time.

Jasmine. Yeah, that was her name. A woman I had no business being with, who had no business thinking she could dictate my life. I didn’t even realize what she’d done until I saw Amaya at her graduation party, her face set in something close to disappointment. It wasn’t until she let it slip—how she’d called me that night, how I’d never answered—that I pieced it together. Jasmine had put my phone on silent, making sure I never got the call.

I ended things that night.

The phone rang twice before Amaya answered. "Calling me on a break? You must really miss me."

I smirked, my shoulders easing at the sound of her voice. "You wouldn’t believe how bored I am without you."

"Mmmhmm." I could hear the smile in her voice. "How’s the session going?"

"It’s going. You?"

"Actually," she exhaled, her tone bright, "I finally finished the commission! Well, mostly finished. Still needs some touches, but it’s there."

My lips parted, an unexpected wave of pride washing over me. "That’s dope, Amaya. Lemme see."

She groaned. "Amir, you know I hate showing my work before it’s completely ready."

"Come on, you know I got the best eyes in the game."

"Ugh, fine. Hold on." A few seconds passed before my phone buzzed with a message.

I opened the image, and something in my chest tightened.

The piece was stunning. A Black woman, her skin the deep warmth of brown earth, standing beneath a cosmic sky. Her hair was full, wild, textured clouds curling into a galaxy that seemed to breathe. Her eyes—star-shaped, glowing—looked up, reaching as if calling on something bigger, something divine. The colors bled into one another seamlessly, blues melting into purples, streaks of gold illuminating the edges of her form. It was dreamlike. Ethereal.

And it was her.

Amaya wasn’t just talented. She was brilliant. A force.

I’d watched her grow into this, piece by piece. From the girl who used to sketch in the margins of her notebooks to the woman who poured her whole soul into every line and brushstroke. I remembered when she used to come to school with charcoal smudges on her fingers, or when she'd disappear for hours in her room, emerging with paint in her braids and a light in her eyes. Even back then, I knew she saw the world differently—felt it differently.

Where I heard rhythm, she saw light. Where I broke down beats, she built up color. We both made art from nothing—but her gift felt like it came from someplace divine.

I didn’t realize I had gone silent until I heard her hesitant, "Amir?"

I cleared my throat, my voice lower, quieter. "A… it’s incredible."

Silence stretched between us. When she finally spoke, it was softer, almost shy. "You really think so?"

My fingers gripped my phone. "I know so. It’s… I don’t even have words. You’re magic."

Her breath hitched. It was barely audible, but I caught it. Felt it.

Something moved in my chest, something heavy, something dangerous. I ignored it. "We gotta celebrate. I’m taking you out."

She laughed. "Oh… you are?"

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