When Maya first met Tasha Reed, she'd assumed they were meant to compete. That's how the industry seemed to work—one rising star was exciting, two was a headline, and three meant a catfight in the press.
Evan didn't help. He'd often compare their streaming numbers in meetings, slipping in comments like, "Tasha's hitting younger audiences—Maya, maybe you should think about your image."
But offstage, away from the cameras, Tasha wasn't a rival. She was just another twenty-something trying to survive the chaos.
One afternoon, they met for coffee in a quiet café on Melrose, both wearing sunglasses big enough to pass for disguises.
"I needed to get out of the studio," Tasha said, stirring her latte. "They've got me working with this producer who wants me to sound like a robot. I didn't get into music to be a robot."
Maya laughed softly. "I get it. I can't even hear myself in my single anymore."
They started swapping stories—horrible wardrobe malfunctions, endless photo retakes, managers who spoke like they were selling toothpaste instead of music. Somewhere between the jokes, Maya realized she felt lighter around Tasha. There was no performance here, no pretending to be on.
Weeks later, they were both booked for the same charity concert in Santa Monica. Backstage, Evan hovered over Maya while another manager fussed over Tasha. Someone from the press made a crack about "dueling divas," and Tasha rolled her eyes so hard Maya nearly laughed.
When Maya stepped on stage, she felt the pressure—big crowd, live cameras, Evan in the wings—but she also spotted Tasha watching from the side, mouthing you got this.
After the show, they slipped out together before the afterparty could swallow them. They walked the quiet streets, guitars slung over their backs, and ended up playing for a handful of strangers near the pier. No lights, no cameras—just two girls with music in their bones.
It was the first night in months that Maya felt like herself.