I turn the corner past Brody and press play. Bass drops. The sidewalk becomes a runway. I walk like I just dropped a diss track on my philosophy professor and it’s going platinum.

My backpack is sliding off one shoulder — I let it. It looks better that way. There’s a leaf stuck to my shoe but I pretend it’s part of the costume design. A squirrel darts across my path like a dramatic plot twist. I don’t flinch. I keep walking. The scene must go on.

Gilman looms in the distance like it’s holding secrets I’m about to uncover. Aespa is in my ears telling me I’m the drama — and I believe them. I adjust my headphones like I’m receiving intel. No one is watching me, but I glance over my shoulder just in case.

The sun filters through the trees on the quad like a lighting crew’s been following me all morning. A gust of wind hits exactly as the chorus peaks — thank you, nature. Incredible timing.

Someone jogs past. Civilian. I give them a solemn nod. They’ll be cut from the final edit.

Kanye fades in next. Old Kanye. Now I’m walking like I’ve just reinvented liberal arts. I throw a look toward the Ames building, as if I have enemies in there. (I don’t. I just failed a midterm once.)

There’s a window I pass that always reflects just enough to catch a glimpse of myself. Hood up. Head high. Slightly confused about which class I’m going to. But still — undeniably cool.

By the time I reach the steps, the beat slows — something moody, cinematic. I stop at the top like I’m surveying a city I once ruled. The wind moves just enough to catch my hood. Camera pans wide. A pause. No dialogue. Just the sound of footsteps echoing behind me as I descend like the third act of a very stylish breakdown.

I walk into the building like it’s a press conference.
I sit down like I’m about to drop wisdom.

Nothing happens.
But in my ears, the music swells.