The thing about almost dying when you're sixteen is that you spend the rest of your life learning how to breathe.
Then. Age Sixteen.
I remembered the ceiling of my childhood bedroom like it was a person I used to know. Cracked plaster shaped like a country I'd never visit. I'd lie there for hours, climb the rooftop, and sit there until morning fell, the weight in my chest so heavy I thought my ribs might cave in. I'd trace those clouds with eyes that had forgotten how to cry.
I sat with my headphones on, listening to twenty one pilots' "Truce" on repeat. I'd switch songs from time to time, but mostly it was "Truce," "Lovely," "Addict with a Pen." I'd sit there, doodling and sketching, trying to make the world inside my head quieter than the one outside.
Present Day. Brooklyn.
Nayla's POV
I stepped back from my easel, paintbrush tucked behind my ear, and scowled at the half-finished skyline. Something was wrong with the fire escape. Something was wrong with everything.
I glanced over at Pip, my miniature dachshund, who was judging me from across the room with the weary disappointment of a creature who knew I should be sleeping.
Pip yawned. Judgmental little gremlin. I loved him violently.
My phone exploded across the room—Baby Hotline ringtone at full volume. It only meant one thing: Rhea was in crisis.
"WHAT."
"EMERGENCY," Rhea screamed back. "Tomorrow. Nine AM. Sarah sent a calendar invite with ALL CAPS and FOUR exclamation points. FOUR, Nayla."
"That's one more than last time."
"EXACTLY. This is either amazing or we're getting fired so she can turn the office into a plant store."
"Sarah's allergic to plants."
"DRAMATIC IRONY, Nayla. READ THE ROOM."
I laughed, and the sound surprised me. It had been a while since laughing felt easy. Since it didn't feel like I was performing for an audience of one: the ghost of Jacob, still lingering, still waiting to tell me I was too much.
Three years. Three years of shrinking myself into the negative space of his insecurity. Of watching his face tighten when I mentioned late nights or male clients. Of explaining to colleagues why my boyfriend needed to be backstage at every event.
He's just protective.
But love wasn't supposed to feel like a cage with a really comfortable bed.
I'd ended it six weeks ago.
Pip jumped down and headbutted my ankle, jolting me out of my head.
"I know," I whispered, scooping him up. "I'm being sad. You hate when I'm sad."
Pip licked my chin.
The office smelled like ambition and burnt espresso.
I walked in at 8:47—professional, but also needing those fifteen minutes to prepare for chaos. The conference room was already filling. Marcus from accounting with his World's Okayest Accountant mug. Priya, logistics queen, calm as always. Rhea, purple hair in an aggressive knot, pacing like a caged animal.
"Sit," I commanded. "You're making me nervous."
"I am nervous. What if it's bad? What if they want us to manage a children's party for a crypto bro?"
"Then we quit and start that plant store ourselves."
"I'm serious!"
"So am I."
And then Sarah swept in.
The room went quiet. Sarah was fifty-three, impeccably dressed, and had once told a rockstar to stop having a tantrum—and he'd actually stopped.
"Close the door," she said.
Rhea's knee started bouncing. I put my hand on it. Solid.
Sarah smiled. The kind of smile that made my stomach drop in the best way.
"We got it."
Silence.
"The pitch. The world tour. The artist who never works with outside management." Pause. "They said yes."
The room erupted. Rhea grabbed my arm so hard there'd be bruises.
"Who?" someone shouted.
"Announcement next week. But here's what matters—" Sarah looked directly at me. "We're managing the image. The narrative. Every press interaction, every city, every moment the public sees. And I want Nayla on the road team. Full time. Traveling with the crew."
I stopped breathing.
It was funny, I thought, how breathing was something you learned and unlearned and had to learn again. How the ceiling could stop caving in and then start again.
But this wasn't the ceiling.
This was the sky.
"Me?"
"You. You speak artist, Nayla. You understand the connection between music and the people who love it. That's not a skill you can teach." Beat. "You in?"
Rhea was vibrating. The room was watching. The October sun poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything gold.
I thought about Jacob. How he'd hate this. How I'd spent three years letting that matter.
I thought about sixteen-year-old me, alone in the dark, believing the night would never end.
I thought about survival. About all the ways we find to keep breathing.
"Yeah," I said. Voice steady. "I'm in."
Later, Rhea dragged me into the stairwell.
"Okay. Honest. Are you freaking out?"
"I'm terrified. And excited. Is that a thing?"
"You're describing every major life event ever." Rhea softened. "Hey. You deserve this. After everything with Jacob, after everything... you deserve something huge and terrifying."
I blinked back the prickle behind my eyes. "When did you get so wise?"
"Always been wise. You just weren't ready to hear it."
We laughed, and it echoed off concrete, and I thought: this may be the beginning of something.
That night, alone with Pip snoring on my chest, I opened my phone. I scrolled past the playlist that had saved my life. Opened my journal instead.
Dear Future Me, I typed. You're about to travel the world with someone's art. Someone's survival. Don't forget what that means. Don't forget how far you've come.
I saved it. Closed my eyes.
Outside, Brooklyn hummed with sirens and strangers. And me—who had once been a girl on a rooftop, learning how to breathe—felt, for the first time in a long time, like I finally was.
This is Nayla 
This is Rhea
This is Tyler
This is Josh