Girls Love Beyoncé

69

THIRD POINT OF VIEW

The studio smelled like home.Beyoncé had kicked off her shoes hours ago, pacing the booth in thick socks, her notebook splayed open on a stool beside her.

The Dream sat behind the glass, bobbing his head, one hand resting on the mixing board, the other holding a half-empty water bottle. They'd been here all day, and neither of them seemed ready to leave.

Four songs. Four songs in one session.

"Yo," The Dream said, his voice coming through the intercom. "I'm obsessed. Like, actually obsessed."

Beyoncé cracked a tired smile but kept her eyes on the lyric sheet.

Dangerously in Love. Broken-Hearted Girl. Me, Myself and I. And the one that gutted her the most: I Miss You.

She had recorded that one sitting down. Headphones off one ear, legs curled up in the corner of the booth, like she was praying through the pain.

Each track felt like peeling a layer off her chest. Vulnerable. Raw. Honest. She wasn't just singing. She was hurting.

The Dream played the hook again. She leaned against the glass, arms folded, listening to herself pour out. Her voice was so clear, so full of ache that it almost didn't sound like her anymore.

He hit pause and looked up. "You okay?"

She nodded too quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

But she wasn't. Not really. Her heart was elsewhere. Every other lyric dragged her back to Onika—her eyes, her laugh, the way her voice dropped when she got nervous, the weight of her body when she used to lay across Beyoncé's lap.

She had to stop recording three times that night. Once during Broken-Hearted Girl when her voice cracked too hard.

Once during I Miss You when she almost started crying mid-verse. And once, most painfully, during the outro of Dangerously in Love, when the words just wouldn't come because she knew they were still true.

Even now.

She left the studio late, past midnight, phone dead, heart full. She promised The Dream she'd send him edits the next day, then practically ran to her car.

She had school in the morning and still hadn't showered. Her hoodie smelled like incense and old mic foam, her hands were ink-stained from scribbling lyrics in the pages of her notebook.

By the time she got home, the house was quiet. Tina had left a candle burning in the kitchen and folded some laundry on the couch. Beyoncé dropped her bag by the door and headed straight for the bathroom.

The water scalded her skin, but she didn't move. She just stood under the stream, letting it pound against her back, forehead resting against the tile. Her voice was tired. Her body was buzzing. But for the first time in a long time, she felt... better. Like something inside her had started to heal.

When she came out, hoodie wrapped around her, Tina was sitting at the dining table with a cup of tea and a stack of mail.

"You look lighter," her mom said, not even looking up.

Beyoncé blinked, startled. "What?"

Tina glanced at her then, smiling knowingly. "Your shoulders. You're standing taller. Something good happened."

Beyoncé couldn't help but smile. "Studio was crazy tonight."

"I can tell." Tina stood and kissed her cheek. "Heat up your food, baby. I made the baked salmon you like."