The dorm was loud that Thursday night. Somebody down the hall had their speaker blasting Lil Baby, and the smell of ramen mixed with cheap cologne floated in the air. I sat on my bed with my sketchbook open, half-finished drawings staring back at me like ghosts.
I wasn't gonna lie—college was already more exhausting than high school. Between classes, shifts at Grillz on Wheels, and trying not to get caught in Dante's side-eye every time I crossed the quad, my brain was fried.
But then Malik, my roommate, poked his head in.
"Yo, Ty," he said, grinning like he had news. "You pulling up to the open mic tonight, right?"
"Open mic?"
"Yeah, down at the student union. Poets, singers, rappers, comedians. Whole thing run by the Culture Collective Club. You gotta come, bro. It's the one spot everybody actually mixes. No cliques. No beef."
I raised an eyebrow. "No beef? Not on this campus."
Malik laughed. "Aight, maybe less beef. Still—it's dope. And I heard Alana performing tonight. You cool with her, right?"
I felt a little heat in my face. "She's just in my class."
"Uh huh. Wear something clean. Let's roll."
The Langston Union Hall looked different at night. Strings of lights crisscrossed the ceiling, and folding chairs lined the room. The stage wasn't much—just a mic stand, a stool, and a little spotlight—but the vibe was alive.
I spotted familiar faces as soon as I walked in.
Alana, headphones around her neck, flipping through a notebook nervously.
Tiny and Rash, lounging near the back with sodas in their hands.
Dante's crew, standing by the wall like they owned the place—Dante, Flip, Dez, and Mason "Mace" Carter scowling like he had a grudge against gravity.
And then there were new faces.
A tall girl in a jean jacket handing out programs—Keisha Brooks, president of the Culture Collective. A couple dudes arguing about whose beat was harder—Devon and Corey, aspiring rappers from the music department.
This wasn't just an open mic. It was the crossroads. Every clique, every personality in Iron Heights University seemed to have shown up.
The show started with some laughs—a comedian named Janelle Wright cracked jokes about the cafeteria food, comparing mystery meat Monday to "chewing on a shoelace dipped in gravy." People lost it.
Then, it was Alana's turn. She walked up, clutching her notebook, her voice soft at first but steady as she read her poem.
It was about movement. About the way life never lets you stand still. About finding rhythm in the chaos.
The room went quiet, every word catching like sparks in dry grass.
I'd seen her doodle in margins and crack jokes in class, but this? This was different. She had presence. Power.
When she finished, the snaps and cheers filled the hall. I clapped too, louder than I meant to.
She glanced my way, smiled, then looked down shyly.
Halfway through the night, Dante's crew made their move. Flip went up on stage with a beat machine and started freestyling. He was good—no denying it—but his lines had sharp edges.
"Food truck boy think he cookin', but he ain't servin' heat,Tryna draw his little pictures while we run the street."
The crowd ooohed.
I froze. That was aimed at me.
Tiny and Rash started hollering, "Man, chill out! That ain't it!" But Dante just laughed, arms crossed, watching me from the wall like a wolf waiting for a reaction.
The host, Keisha, grabbed the mic. "Aight, aight, we keepin' it fun tonight. No personal shots."
But the damage was done. My name—or at least my presence—was in the air now. People turned, whispering.
Malik leaned over. "Yo, don't let that slide. You gonna get up there, right?"
I shook my head. "I don't rap, man."
"Don't matter. Say something. Show 'em you here."
My hands itched, not from anger exactly, but from that urge I always got when the world pushed me into a corner. I wanted to sketch. To capture this whole scene—Alana's fire, Dante's smirk, the energy bouncing around the room.
Instead, I sat there. Silent.
For now.
When the open mic ended, the energy spilled into the courtyard. People mingled, laughed, exchanged numbers. Alana came up to me, cheeks pink.
"So… what'd you think?" she asked.
"You killed it," I said honestly. "Like… for real. That was next level."
She smiled. "Thanks. You should've gone up."
I shrugged. "Not my lane."
Before she could respond, Dante's crew brushed past us. Mace bumped my shoulder—hard enough to sting.
"Watch your step, rookie," he muttered.
I clenched my jaw. Malik stepped between us before it got ugly. "Yo, chill. Night's over."
But as they walked away, I knew it wasn't over. Not even close.
Later that night, back in the dorm, I couldn't sleep. The sketchbook on my lap filled with rough drawings: Dante's sneer, Alana on stage, the crowd split between laughter and tension.
And in the corner of the page, I drew myself. Small. Silent. But holding a mic I hadn't touched yet.
Something told me that sooner or later, I wouldn't get to stay in the background.
And when that day came, I had to be ready.