Her powerful and provocative artistry fails to capture the hearts of those who don't quite understand her message. Often overlooked in the art world, Beyoncé has struggled for years to gain the respect of her peers. That all changes when she meets A...
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now playing: "brutal" by Olivia Rodrigo
bonus track: "Broken‐Hearted Girl" by Beyoncé
(This chapter contains content that may be triggering for some audiences. Reader discretion advised.)
(a/n: very long chapter)
I'd never been homesick.
I'd been 'home-sick' carrying a hunk of lead in the pit of my stomach since birth. Suffering through a meal or a family gathering. Having to smile politely while stifling the urge to throw the fine china across the room or scream obscenities at the two responsible for my existence.
Yet, despite that, a tiny, albeit growing, fraction longed to roam the streets once more. To walk the block where I used to frequent the local donut shop, the elderly owner greeting me by name, always ready to offer a kind word or one of the lemon crullers I favored for free.
To sit on the stoop, in spite of the muggy summer air, watching the sunset alone, listening to the neighbor's teenage son strum along to the bluesy chords of a guitar as he practiced for the jazz festival.
Houston was home.
And home was a burden.
It hung upon my shoulders like the humid Texas air, dense and unrelenting, as I threaded my way through the cluster of travelers at LAX. The routine was as familiar as it was tiresome, akin to the choreographed fuss of urban bees in a hive made of steel and glass.
Despite my Pre-Check status, the line at security felt like a slow descent. The cries of a toddler nearby, rebelling against the confines of the queue and the request to give his mother's phone back, were a sharp counterpoint to the hushed tones of business travelers and the soft shuffle of feet. The child's frustration was a mirror to my own, a raw, unedited soundtrack to the internal monologue I tried to silence with every glance at the sluggish clock.
Finally, at the gate, my patience was thin, and my anticipation for the journey ahead was as heavy as boots in thick mud. I brought out my headphones, diving into the familiarity of a podcast episode of The Read while my pen danced across the screen of my iPad.
I was only faintly aware of a new presence that claimed the adjacent seat moments later. I was a bit irritated, given the ample number of seating options in the vicinity, and her phone conversation was an added nuisance.
Even without the intention to eavesdrop, her phone conversation was a siren call, a blend of brisk efficiency and barely concealed exasperation that filled the space between us.
Her attire was a statement mirroring her voice, a declaration of self that transformed the terminal around her into her personal runway. The deliberate placement of her Miu Miu shades, the impeccable fall of her silk-pressed hair, and the casual elegance of her coat resting on her shoulders all spoke of a life far removed from the cumbersome weight of my own reality.
