Derek slouches into his worn corduroy armchair, the earthy scent of rain drifting in through a cracked window. His curls, slightly damp, frame his thoughtful face, and his beard is flecked with tiny droplets from his walk home. He grabs the remote, flicking through channels before pausing on a familiar scene: the 2011 interview with Drake, the room filling with the gentle hum of nostalgia.
"Man, I remember this," he muses to himself, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Derek leans forward, elbows on knees, studying every detail. The resemblance startles him—like watching a parallel self, one who made it, one who commands the room with a slow, careful confidence.
"People really said I looked like him back then," Derek laughs quietly, his voice mingling with the distant thunder outside.
Drake’s voice pours from the speakers, contemplative, as he discusses loneliness, ambition, and the weight of sudden fame.
For a heartbeat, Derek imagines himself in that interview chair—his hands gripping the armrest, eyes scanning unseen faces just off-camera. The questions Drake answers float through his mind, but it’s Derek’s own memories that surface: late-night studio sessions with friends, the thrill of a small crowd cheering his verses.
"Would I have said the same things if I was there? Do I even know what I'd say?" he whispers, almost afraid the TV will answer.
Drake speaks about vulnerability, his words resonating with Derek's own struggles to balance bravado and truth in his music. The flicker of self-doubt crosses both their eyes—one onscreen, one in the dim glow of the living room.
"Sometimes it feels like it’s just me and the music, trying to make sense of it all," Derek admits, voice trembling with the storm.
Derek rises, stretching, as the credits roll. He walks to the window, peering out at the shimmering street, feeling a strange kinship with the man he’s been watching. Their stories, though different, now feel intertwined—a shared hunger for meaning, for connection.
"Maybe it’s time to get back in the studio," he says, resolve hardening in his voice.
He picks up a battered notebook, flipping to an empty page, pen poised. The echoes of the interview—of Drake’s reflection and his own—linger in the quiet, urging him forward. With a deep breath, Derek begins to write, letting memory and hope guide his hand into the night.
