Mornings for Malik start early—not because he’s disciplined, but because he just doesn’t sleep much anymore. The bed feels too big. Too quiet. Sometimes he dreams of his daughter’s laugh echoing down the hall, but wakes to silence and stale air. So he gets up.

He heads straight to the garage—his sanctuary. Guitars hang like weapons of old battles, amps stacked like shrines to a version of him that used to headline shitty bars and make entire rooms scream. He cranks up the volume way too early, because the noise fills the parts of him that ache.

After breakfast (usually instant coffee and protein bars), he works. Nothing glamorous—freelance tech stuff, a part-time gig at a music shop, and some private guitar lessons for angsty teens who remind him too much of himself. He keeps a side hustle fixing up old amps and guitars for cash, hands constantly stained with grease or solder burns.

He works out hard, pushing his body like it owes him something. His muscles are less about vanity now and more about control—one of the only things left that obeys him. It’s also how he burns off the frustration of court dates and co-parenting plans that never go his way.

By afternoon, he’s often restless. Malik used to be the guy everyone called for a party, a show, a distraction. Now, the phone’s quiet unless it’s spam or his mom checking in. Sometimes he’ll scroll through old photos of his daughter, fighting the lump in his throat. Sometimes he’ll write songs he never finishes.

Evenings are for rehearsing, drinking cheap beer, and playing records loud. His place smells like leather, sweat, guitar polish, and something always burning on the stove. He still dresses like he’s in a band—cutoff tanks, heavy boots, spiked wristbands—even when he’s just doing laundry. Image is armor now.

But every other weekend, when he does get his daughter? That’s different.

He smiles. He puts on a hoodie that doesn’t smell like smoke. He hides the tattoos she’s scared of. He plays soft acoustic songs. He teaches her how to strum with tiny fingers. He smiles in a way that doesn’t look cocky—but pure. Real.

And when she’s gone again, the silence feels like punishment.

Malik tries to relive the glory days, but the reality is: he’s 30, divorced, broke more often than not, and struggling to let go of being the girl he used to be. His world is smaller now—louder only when he forces it to be. But there’s still fire in him. He’s still fighting. Still chasing that feeling of being alive.

And deep down, he believes one day he’ll get it right—if not for himself, then for the girl who calls him dad.