In My Rearview Mirror, JACK.HUGHES

THIRTY FOUR

"If you are what you say you are, a superstar. Then have no fear, the camera's here. And the microphones. And they wanna know-oh-oh-oh, yeah," I sing on top of the bed, again trying to wake up Jack like almost every two days. 

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room as I stand on top of the bed, belting out the lyrics of "Superstar" with infectious energy. The rhythm of the music pulsed through my veins, adding a lively cadence to my enthusiastic serenade. The room seemed to come alive with the beat, as if the very walls were grooving along.

I glanced over at Jack, who lay still with a half-open eye, squinting at me in mock annoyance. His disheveled hair and sleepy grin hinted at his resistance to being pulled from the embrace of dreams. Yet, there was a twinkle in his eye, an acknowledgment that he couldn't resist the charm of the impromptu performance.

The lyrics carried a touch of irony that lingered in the air. Jack, once a fervent admirer of Lupe Fiasco's "Superstar," was now living the lyrics as a real superstar. The camera crew, microphones, and the relentless pursuit of fame were his daily companions. I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy, a mix of admiration and yearning for the world he now effortlessly inhabited.

The irony wasn't lost on me – the fact that Jack, the one who had always loved "Superstar" by Lupe Fiasco, was now living out the very essence of the song. The cameras, the microphones, the constant scrutiny – they were all part of his everyday existence as a real superstar. It made me wonder if he had always known, if there had been an unspoken prophecy in the lyrics that he had embraced and fulfilled.

As I continued to sing, the jealousy that lingered in the corners of my mind couldn't be ignored.

Jack lays nestled in the blankets, seemingly impervious to the persistent nudges of the waking world. His disheveled hair framed a face that radiated a blissful ignorance of the morning. As I continued to sing the lyrics of "Superstar" in an attempt to disrupt his slumber, it became apparent that waking him up was going to be an uphill battle.

Jack is not a morning person. He adores sleeping, and in fact, if he could, he would sleep all day long. He has no issues whatsoever falling asleep anywhere, at any time of the day. On the other hand, I have to fight with him to wake him up.

Jumping down off the bed, I sprint to the curtains and eagerly yank them open, allowing the morning light to flood the room. The sunshine spills in, casting a warm and vibrant glow that chases away the remnants of sleep. 

This time, I elicit a reaction from him as he chuckles at my impromptu descent from the bed. I catch a glimpse of his hand bouncing up and down to the beat of the music since I just put it on my phone to enhance the auditory experience, knowing full well it sounds better than my karaoke voice.

As he inches closer to waking up, much like every other morning we spend together, I playfully tug on the sheets, gradually revealing his still-slumbering, naked body. The soft morning light accentuates the contours of his form. It's a familiar ritual, a teasing gesture that often brings about a mixture of surprise and laughter. 

He rises from the bed, reaching for the clothes he wore the previous night. Like every time he joins me for a friendly activity, it inevitably leads to him spending the night at my place.

Meanwhile, I continue to dance and sing with shades on, stealing glances at myself in the mirror. Surprisingly, I look damn good for a girl who just woke up. 

Jack wraps his arms around me from behind, joining in the melody as we continue to sing the song together while gazing into the mirror. The harmonious blend of our voices creates a soundtrack to the shared moments, our reflections capturing the genuine joy and connection that the music and the morning have brought.