Track 03: The Set
Welcome to In Rotation: The Love Series presented by Honey Blossom Press.
This one’s for the ones who move through the crowd looking for more than the main stage. For the ones who know that the best moments don’t always get posted. For the ones who show up open, even if just a little.
The Set is about music, energy, and the kind of connection that slips in quietly but stays with you long after the bass fades. It’s about a soft hello in the middle of everything loud. A glance. A name. A number written by hand. A day you didn’t expect to mean something…but does.
Maybe it starts with a song. Maybe it starts with you.
Side A: Press Play & Listen
Side B: Curl Up & Read
Track 03: The Set
By the time I got through the gates, the air already smelled like a hint of weed, smoked jerk, and trampled grass. My sundress stuck slightly to the back of my thighs, and I had lost one of my earrings in the Lyft. But none of that mattered. I was here.
A festival built for us, by us. Soul, sound, sun. A full day of music, Black joy, and maybe, if the universe was feeling generous, a soft moment or two to tuck away.
I scanned the crowd while pretending I was just searching for my cousin. What I was really looking for was that vibe. The one where the music catches your body before your brain can catch up. The one where your shoulders start moving without permission.
"Yo, you good?" My cousin Tori appeared out of nowhere, holding two frozen lemonades, both sweating.
"I’m good. This is already a win."
She handed me one and pointed toward the main stage. "We’re meeting up with Kam and them near the second speaker tower. You coming?"
"Yeah, just give me a second. I want to walk around."
She gave me a knowing look. "Alright. Don’t get swept up in nobody’s cypher this time."
"No promises."
I wandered through the vendor booths, letting the beat from the main stage guide my steps. Someone was spinning a mix that jumped from 90s hip-hop to go-go to a gospel sample so smooth it almost made me shout. I passed rows of Black-owned businesses with T-shirts that said Pay Black Women and Protect Black Boys, handmade shea butter jars, old-school CD crates, and stacks of books, all under bright tents.
Then I heard it. Not the DJ. Not the crowd. A voice. Low. Focused.
"You sure you don’t want the rose gold? It sets off your undertones."
I turned.
He was helping a little girl pick sunglasses from a folding table. She was no older than ten, head full of braids, lips pressed in concentration. He knelt to her level, holding up a mirror with the patience of someone used to being listened to.
She smiled shyly. He smiled back, proud. Then looked up.
At me.
He stood, slow. Wiped his hands on the sides of his cargo shorts.
"Hey," he said. Not loud. Not smooth. Just real.
"Hey," I answered. Then, because I needed more than that, "She your daughter?"
"Niece," he said. "I got big Uncle duty today. My sister’s volunteering at the first-aid tent."
"She’s cute. And has excellent taste in sunglasses."
"Clearly runs in the family."
I raised an eyebrow. He caught it.
"Too much?"
"Not if you meant it."
He smiled. Crooked and a little off-guard.
"I’m Malik," he said.
"Erin."
We shook hands. His grip was steady, warm. The kind you remember.
"You here solo?" he asked.
"With my cousin. She wanted to post up near the main stage, but I like to wander."
"Same. Mine’s off with her crew, so I’m just making sure my niece doesn’t blow her whole stash on cotton candy and flavored popcorn."
We both laughed.
For a moment, we stood still while everything around us moved. It wasn’t awkward. It was spacious.
Then he spoke again. "You want to check out the jam session stage? They’re doing open mic for a bit before the band sets up."
I paused. Not because I didn’t want to. But because my cousin had teased me just this morning about catching feelings at festivals.
"Sure," I said.
We fell into an easy pace. His niece stayed behind with a family friend, and Malik and I followed the music.
The jam session tent was tucked between a food truck park and a mural wall. A young woman was covering Minnie Riperton with a voice so clear it made the man next to me lower his phone and just listen. Malik nodded with respect.
"This is the kind of moment I came for," he said.
We found a shady patch under a tree and sat on the grass. He offered me his water bottle. I took it.
We talked. About nothing urgent. Favorite songs. Worst concerts. How both of us had started and stopped journals more times than we could count.
"I never get past page ten," he said.
"Page ten is an accomplishment," I said. "Most people don’t get past the cover."
He looked at me like he wasn’t used to being understood that easily.
The band warmed up next. The type of group that makes eye contact mid-note and grins. Real players. No gimmicks.
Someone started a groove. Bass first. Then a snare hit. Then keys.
Without thinking, I closed my eyes.
The music moved through me. I wasn’t dancing, not exactly, but my body swayed in time. I felt grounded. Alive. And not at all alone.
When I opened my eyes, Malik was watching me.
Not in a creepy way. Just observing. Like I was the only part of the festival that wasn’t background.
"What?" I asked, smiling.
He shook his head. "You just get it."
Before I could reply, a drizzle began. Not a downpour. Just a light tease. Enough to make the crowd collectively pause, then shrug it off. The music didn’t stop. Neither did we.
Malik stood and reached for my hand.
"Come on. Let’s walk."
We strolled along the edges of the festival. Past the main stage. Past lines for shaved ice and lemon pepper wings. Past couples stretched out on picnic blankets like time didn’t exist.
We didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. The music filled the air like mist, and something between us had already started.
Eventually, we circled back to the vendor tents. His niece spotted us and waved with both hands. He waved back.
"Duty calls," he said.
"Understood."
He looked at me, then pulled a pen from his pocket. A slim black felt-tip, the kind you'd see clipped to a sketchbook or tucked behind an ear.
"Let me write my number."
I handed him my palm without thinking.
He scribbled gently across the curve of my skin. His handwriting was careful, almost bashful.
"Text me. Or don’t. But if you want to talk more music, or journal failure, or eat too many lemon pepper wings."
"I do," I said.
He smiled again. Crooked. Certain.
We didn’t hug. Didn’t kiss. But something settled between us. A connection. Light and rooted. Like a melody you hear once and remember.
I walked back to find Tori, his number still drying on my hand.
The sun returned. The crowd swelled. And somewhere in the distance, a band covered Donny Hathaway like they meant it.
I didn’t catch Malik again that day.
But I didn’t need to.
I could already sense this was the beginning of something good.
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This one’s for the ones who know the best part of a festival isn’t always the headliner. For open mic moments, soft smiles under shady trees, and the kind of vibe that hums low but lingers long.
Filed under: unexpected connections, frozen lemonades, and numbers written straight to skin.
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“Find a Way” – A Tribe Called Quest
“Ascension (Don’t Ever Wonder)” – Maxwell
“Be Your Girl (Kaytranada Edition)” – Teedra Moses
“Prototype” – OutKast
“Brown Skin Girl” – Beyoncé, SAINt JHN, Wizkid, Blue Ivy
“Sunny Duet” – Noname ft. theMIND
“Get You” – Daniel Caesar ft. Kali Uchis
“Collide” – Tiana Major9 & EARTHGANG
“Ready for Love” – India.Arie
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Watch: Summer of Soul (...or, When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised) (2021)
Summer of Soul is the heartbeat of The Set. A celebration of Black culture, music, and memory, the documentary captures the joy, resistance, and soul of a summer gathering that meant everything to those who were there. Like Erin and Malik’s story, it’s layered, moving, and rooted in the power of presence.
Both remind us that sometimes, the most unforgettable moments happen in the spaces between—where the music hits, the people are real, and something meaningful starts without a script.
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Every track in In Rotation offers a soft place to land.
This week, let yourself follow the music. Literally or metaphorically. Step into something that moves you, even if no one else understands it. Let the sun warm your skin. Let joy catch you off guard.
Because sometimes, peace finds you while you’re just walking around being yourself.
You deserve moments that feel like yours alone.
However you found your way to the festival… music first, soft vibes second… we’re glad you stayed.
With love and softness,
Your fam at Honey Blossom Press
© 2025 Honey Blossom Press. All rights reserved.
