The Rapper's Favorite || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 5: The Weight of Silence

Marshall's POV

The diner's neon sign flickers, casting a dim, jittery red light across the wet pavement as we walk. The cold air bites, but it's grounding after everything we laid down in the studio. The track still clings to me, like it doesn't want to let go, and I can tell Aria feels it too. She walks beside me, hands deep in her jacket pockets, but the silence between us is heavy—not uncomfortable, just... loaded.

We step inside, the warmth of the diner hitting me first, followed by the smell of old coffee and greasy food. The normalcy of it feels distant, far removed from the intensity we just left behind. A few people sit scattered around, buried in their phones or staring off into space. Everything feels still.

Aria slides into the booth by the window, and I sit across from her. She pulls her hood down, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, but her eyes stay locked on the menu, though I know she's not seeing it. There's something still hanging in the air between us, something more than the song.

I stare out the window for a moment before I break the silence. "You ever think about how people are gonna remember you?"

Her eyes flick up to meet mine briefly before drifting back to the menu. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... with all the noise I've made, the mistakes. Is that what people are gonna remember?"

She doesn't answer right away, but I can tell she's thinking it over. When she does speak, her voice is steady, but there's something fierce behind it. "You think that's all people will remember? The noise?"

I shrug, turning back to the window. "Yeah. Sometimes it feels like that's all I've left behind."

Aria puts the menu down, her gaze sharpening as it locks on mine. "No. That's not how it is."

Her voice doesn't waver as she leans in slightly. "You didn't just make noise, Marshall. You reshaped the game. You took hip-hop and made the world pay attention, on your terms. You didn't just make it mainstream—you made it undeniable. You pushed boundaries that no one else had touched."

Her eyes don't leave mine as she continues. "You raised a generation, not just of artists, but of kids and adults who learned how to be unapologetic because of you. You gave them the courage to stop hiding their pain, to wear it like armor. You didn't just tell them it was okay to be broken—you made them believe it."

Her words hit hard, but they land with a sense of clarity.

"And your legacy? It's going to live on. Because you didn't just make music—you made people feel like they weren't alone in their fight. There's never going to be another you, Marshall. And no one is ever going to forget what you did for them."

I sit back, letting her words sink in. It's not flattery. She's laying out the truth, simple and clear. And for the first time in a long while, I feel the weight of it settle in a way that doesn't feel crushing.

There's a beat of silence, and I glance back at her. I can't help but notice how she seems to get it, almost too well. "You know, you seem to understand all of that better than most," I say, shifting slightly in my seat. "I saw you in the booth earlier. You walked in like you owned the place. How do you know your way around a studio so well? You sure you're just a songwriter?"

A faint smile pulls at her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I've spent more time in studios than anywhere else," she says, her voice dropping slightly.

"Yeah, I figured," I say. "You don't just walk into a booth like that without knowing what you're doing."

She sighs, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "It's not something I talk about much," she says softly. "But yeah, I've been in studios for years. Just... not always on my terms."

I tilt my head, curiosity tugging at me. "What do you mean?"

Her gaze flicks up for a second before dropping back to her cup. "Let's just say... people wanted me to follow a path I didn't want."

Her words are careful, but they carry weight. "People?"

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah. The industry. They make sure you don't get to play if you don't follow their rules."

I blink, letting her words settle. I know that feeling all too well. "That's why you're not singing?"

Her eyes meet mine again, and I see something raw, something real. "Yeah. That's part of it."

I don't push for more. I get it. I know what it's like to feel like your voice is being taken from you. But now I understand her better—the way she walks into the booth like she's fighting for something more than just music.

"So what?" I ask after a beat. "You gave up?"

She shakes her head, that small, determined smile pulling at her lips again. "No. I didn't give up. I just found another way in."

I chuckle softly, nodding. "Yeah, I get that."

Her smirk returns, her eyes a little brighter now, the weight between us lifting. "I figured you would."

The silence between us feels lighter now. I watch her as she looks out the window, the flicker of neon reflecting in the glass. For the first time, it feels like we're really seeing each other—understanding the things we've both been carrying.

"Do you regret it?" I ask quietly. "Not pushing harder for what you wanted?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes stay fixed on the window, her reflection blurred in the glass. "Sometimes," she says finally. "But maybe this is the way it was supposed to go. Maybe this is the only way it could've gone."

I nod, staring into my coffee. "Yeah. I know that feeling."

There's a slight pause, then I throw her a sideways glance, cracking a grin. "And here I thought you were just another ghostwriter trying to feed me some corny hooks."

She snorts, shaking her head. "You wish I'd give you corny hooks. You can't afford me if I did."

I laugh, leaning back in my seat. "Alright, alright. We'll see about that. But you're still on my payroll, so you're stuck with me for now."

She smirks, the lightness between us feeling natural now. "Lucky me."

The weight of the song still lingers, but it feels different now, like we're carrying it together. I watch her for a moment longer before pushing my cup aside.

"You ready to get out of here?" I ask.

She nods, sliding out of the booth. I toss a few bills on the table, and we step back into the cold night. The song still trails behind us, like a shadow we can't shake. But for the first time, it feels like we're walking through it, not running from it.