As the rest of the room cleared, chairs scraping softly, plates clinking, I noticed something.
He hadn't moved.
Malik was still seated, his eyes fixed on me like the moment hadn't ended.
I started gathering my things, trying to act like I didn't feel his gaze. Notebook, pen, water glass. I adjusted the strap of my bag, giving him a quick glance. He was still there. Still watching. Like he was waiting for a sign. Or maybe just waiting for me.
I turned toward the door, slow, pretending not to notice. But I did notice. The air felt different. Still. Pressed in around me like the calm before something you can't name.
"Sera," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through everything.
I looked over my shoulder. "Yeah?"
"You have a minute?" he asked, standing now. His tone was smooth, easy, like we'd done this before.
"Sure," I said, too quickly. I swallowed the nerves before they reached my voice.
We stepped together, walking side by side.
It was quieter than I expected. The muffled rhythm of the building fell away behind us, and the sun outside spilled over the concrete in long yellow stretches.
The noise of Harlem was there in horns, shouts, but it felt far away. Like we were just slightly outside of real time.
I wasn't sure what this was, or why my hands suddenly felt too empty. But I followed his lead, pretending my pulse wasn't giving me away.
"I wanted to say," he began, voice low, "your delivery today… it wasn't just strong. It was honest. Unfiltered. Rare."
That caught me. "Thank you. That really means a lot, especially coming from someone who was at that table."
He smiled. "Titles don't matter. Good work speaks for itself."
The quiet settled between us again. Not tense. Just... full. Like it was waiting for something else to be said.
Then he glanced at me. "Why writing?"
The question threw me for a second. I hadn't expected it. Not from him. Not now.
"Why breathing?" I said.
His smile came easy this time. Something about it made me want to say more. Or maybe just stay longer.
"I guess... writing found me," I said softly. "I needed a way to make sense of the noise. The silence too. Words were the safest place I had."
He nodded like he got it, like maybe he'd been there too. "So, you write to survive?"
"And to heal," I said. "Not just me. For other people too. People who can't say it out loud."
Malik's face changed. He got quiet. Thoughtful. Like he was weighing every word.
"That's powerful," he said finally.
There was no praise in his tone. Just truth. Like he meant it.
Then he looked at me like he saw something I hadn't figured out in myself yet.
We stopped walking. He shifted his weight, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes scanning the skyline. "You ever think about what you want them to become? Your words."
"All the time," I said quietly. "I want them to outlive me. To echo in places I may never step into."
He looked at me then—really looked. There was something about the way his gaze settled on mine. Steady. Still.
"I think they will," he said.
The way he said it—it wasn't casual. It landed deep, like it had been waiting to be spoken.
I studied him a little more closely. Malik had this calm confidence. Young, yes. But something about him felt older than his years. Like he'd seen things he didn't talk about much. Like he'd had to fight for his place at that table.
"And you?" I asked. "What's your story? How'd you end up sponsoring a student creativity conference? You look too young to be this"
He gave a quiet laugh, head dropping for a second. "Long story."
I smiled. "We've got two more minutes of daylight and at least three blocks before I pretend I'm not lost."
He laughed again, the sound warmer this time. "Alright. Let's just say I didn't grow up with art. Or freedom to express. Just expectations. A lot of pressure to become... someone. Not someone kind or creative… just someone big."
His voice didn't sound bitter. Just honest.
And for a second, I felt like he wasn't talking to me.
I nodded slowly. I knew that kind of pressure. Too well.
Questions started crowding my head—too many at once. All loud. All tangled. I didn't know which one to ask first.
I didn't push. But I felt the weight of it. Of him.
"That must've taken a lot," I said, not really expecting a response.
He gave a small smile, straightening his shoulders like he was folding the moment back into himself. "It still does."
We'd stopped walking. I hadn't noticed when. We were standing in that quiet little garden beside the building, the kind of place most people passed without seeing. The sunlight had dipped lower, gold stretching across the sidewalk like it was trying to hold on.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I checked it.
Big G. Of course.
"I have to get this," I said, glancing at him, a little apologetically.
Malik nodded. "Duty calls."
"Hello?"
"Where you at, star girl?" Big G's voice came through, low and steady. Comfort in a sentence.
"Still wrapping up," I said, stepping a little away.
"Good. You alright?"
"Yeah. Just... a lot to process."
A pause. Then his voice softened. "Proud of you, Sera. Always."
"Thanks, Dad."
I hung up and turned back. Malik hadn't moved much. He stood there, hands tucked behind him, watching the skyline like it was telling him something.
"Well," I said, trying to break the stillness, "duty called."
"I should go," I added, suddenly aware of how fast the afternoon had gone.
"Understandable." He smiled gently.
I smiled, awkward but honest. "Thanks for the walk."
He didn't answer right away, just held my gaze for a second.
I stood there a moment longer, watching him go, heart pacing like it had just heard something my mind hadn't yet figured out.
Back home, I dropped my bag beside the bed, the door clicking shut behind me like the end of a scene I hadn't fully processed.
My breath still hadn't evened out. Everything from that lunch came rushing back in pieces,: Malik's voice, sharp and calm; the way Elaina said my name like it already belonged to something bigger; the weight of that envelope in my hands.
I kicked off my shoes, sank onto the edge of the bed, and reached for my bag. Unzipping it slowly, I pulled out the envelope. I hadn't paid much attention to it earlier, hadn't noticed the smooth paper, the gold crest at the seal. Now, it looked almost too official. Like something from another world.
My hands shook a little as I peeled it open.
There it was.
The check.
With my name printed right there. Clear as day. Bold as a dream.
I stared at it like it might vanish if I looked away too fast. Five thousand dollars. That wasn't just money. That was breathing room. That was belief in paper form.
I set it gently on the coffee table like it might break if I touched it too hard.
I reached for my notebook, the one that followed me everywhere. I wanted to write something down. Anything. A line. A thought. I needed to mark this moment.
But something slipped out.
A folded piece of paper I hadn't seen before. Tucked right between the pages.
No name. No label. Just a small note, neatly folded, like it had been waiting to be found.
I opened it.
*Your words are seeds. Don't stop planting."
I froze. My thumb pressed against the paper, reading it again.
Once.
Twice.
A warmth crawled up my spine. I hadn't seen anyone put it there, but somehow... I knew. I didn't need a signature.
Just a sense that something had started. And there was no going back.