Cocktail Dreams

Chapter 14- Confessions of a Lonely Girl

Taraji had been gone for over a week now, the days stretching longer than Fantasia expected. She had done everything to fill the empty spaces where Taraji's presence used to be—hours spent scribbling lyrics in her notebook, the comforting chaos of studio sessions, and diving headfirst into her music. She wasn't avoiding the ache of missing her; it was just easier to drown it out in melodies and basslines than to sit with it.

They were in sync for the first five days despite the miles between them. Morning texts were exchanged with almost surgical precision: "Good morning, beautiful." "Did you sleep well?" Evenings brought FaceTime calls where Taraji's voice became the anchor to Fantasia's day, her laugh lighting up the screen. But somewhere around day six, things started to change.

It wasn't deliberate—just life creeping in between them. Taraji's business trip was packed, her itinerary crammed with meetings, wine tastings, and late-night brand events. Meanwhile, Fantasia found herself tangled in her own whirlwind, balancing deadlines and the creative tug-of-war that came with perfecting a new track. By the time their phones connected at the end of the night, one of them would already be fighting to keep their eyes open.

The last call had been emblematic of their struggles. Fantasia had barely set her phone against the stack of books she used as a makeshift stand before noticing the soft rhythm of Taraji's breathing. She had fallen asleep mid-sentence, her face illuminated in the screen's blue light, peaceful and unguarded. Fantasia didn't mind—it was proof of how hard Taraji was working—but it stung a little too. The call had lasted fifteen minutes at most.

She had tried not to dwell on it, convincing herself it was temporary, a small hiccup. But as the days dragged on, their messages grew shorter, and the hours between them replying stretched longer. Fantasia hated how it felt like the tether that had drawn them so close was loosening—not breaking, but straining under the weight of their separate worlds.

Sitting in the studio one evening, she stared at her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. Taraji's last message was from hours ago, a quick, "Just wrapped the event. Miss you. Call later?" Fantasia had replied with a simple, "Miss you too. Can't wait." But she hadn't called, knowing Taraji was likely already asleep after another packed day.

Fantasia leaned back in her chair, letting out a sigh. The studio was quiet, save for the hum of the equipment around her. She closed her eyes, replaying their last moments together in her head—Taraji's warmth pressed against her, the way her leg instinctively tangled with Fantasia's in her sleep, the softness in her voice when she said goodbye that morning. Those memories felt like a lifeline, but even they were starting to feel distant.

She opened her notebook, flipping through the half-filled pages of lyrics. One caught her eye, a fragment she had scribbled late one night after one of their calls:

"We found a rhythm in the silence,  but now the beat feels far away.  Still, I hum the melody of you,  hoping it carries me through the day."

It wasn't finished—none of it was—but it captured the ache she couldn't quite put into words. Missing Taraji wasn't just about the physical distance but the sudden shift in their connection. It was wanting to tell her about the song she had finished that morning or how her producer called her a genius after hearing her new hook. It was needing Taraji's laugh, her teasing, her steady presence, in an almost unbearable way.

Fantasia shook her head, closing the notebook and grabbing her phone. This wasn't like her—to overthink, to spiral. She had been through long-distance before, and she knew the pitfalls. This thing with Taraji, though, felt different—raw and new and worth holding onto. Before she could talk herself out of it, she opened their chat, typing out a message.