The House WE Built.

7.

Onika Maraj.

"Bitch!," I said, pacing back and forth in my living room with my phone pressed to my ear, "this house? It's not just messy. It's messy-messy. Like, I thought we were just dealing with some old boxes and cobwebs, but nah. This is a whole-ass emotional landmine waiting to go off."

Lauren let out a dry laugh. "Girl, you're always so damn dramatic. What'd you find? A cursed object? Beyoncé out here hiding voodoo dolls or something?"

"Worse," I said, pausing to glance at the wall like it might give me answers. "It's like... you ever go digging through somebody's junk drawer and find shit you weren't supposed to see? Like, you're just looking for a battery, but instead, you find a diary?"

Lauren snorted. "A diary? Oh, bitch. What kind of tea are we spilling?"

I hesitated, dragging a hand through my hair. "Not the kind I can talk about. It's just... I opened something I shouldn't have. And now I can't unsee it. Like, it's burned into my brain."

Lauren was quiet for a second. "Is it bad?"

"Let's just say if the walls in that house could talk, Beyoncé would be tearing them down instead of renovating," I muttered, flopping onto the couch.

"Damn," Lauren said, her tone a little more serious now. "So what, you're just sitting on a bomb and hoping it doesn't go off?"

"Basically," I said, staring up at the ceiling. "And it's not even my bomb to deal with, you know? But now that I know it's there, I feel like... I don't know. Like I'm holding onto something I shouldn't be."

Lauren sighed on the other end. "Okay, but let me ask you this—does Beyoncé know about... whatever it is?"

"I don't think so," I said quickly, sitting up. "I mean, she doesn't act like she does. And trust me, if she knew, I'd know she knew. But the thing is... I'm starting to think this house isn't just a project for her. It's like... it's her whole way of holding onto something. And I don't know if she's ready to let go of it yet."

Lauren was silent for a moment. "That's heavy, Nika. Like, do-you-need-to-pray heavy."

"Don't start," I said, rolling my eyes.

"I'm just saying," she shot back. "Sounds like you're carrying something you don't have the tools to fix. So maybe stop trying to fix it and just do your damn job?"

"Easier said than done," I muttered.

"Well, do you want advice or just someone to complain to?" Lauren asked, her tone teasing.

"Both," I said with a dry laugh.

"Alright, here's the advice," Lauren said. "Stay in your lane, don't ask questions you don't want answers to, and for the love of God, stop opening boxes that aren't yours."

"Too late for that," I muttered under my breath.

Lauren sighed again. "Then I guess you better hope Beyoncé's as good at ignoring shit as she is at looking flawless. Otherwise, this whole thing's gonna blow up in your face."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Beyoncé Knowles.

The storm began in the late afternoon, slow at first, a quiet drizzle that turned into relentless sheets of rain by early evening. It had been raining so hard for hours now that I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard silence.

Not that silence was comforting.

I sat at the kitchen table, a mug of tea growing cold in my hands, pretending to focus on the notebook in front of me. The page was blank, the pen resting idly in the crease, but I kept staring at it like words might appear if I waited long enough.