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MidReal Story
The Idea of You
Scenario:this is in london england and los angeles and a story about music and love and marriage and adultery and drug use and alcohol use and travels and bdsm and and age difference and explicit nudity and sex content and drama and sexual affair and fame and fans and my name is mohamed abdi and i am from london england and i have a british accent and i am a rich established world famous rich singer and rapper and songwriter and i am 24 years old and i have tattoos on my arms and legs and neck and abdomen and back and hands and i have dark skin and braids and i was born poor and i was raised poor with my parents abdinur abdi he is 49 years old and he has dark skin and my mother layla abdi she is 47 years old and she has dark skin and my sister munira abdi she is 18 years old and she has dark skin and we lived in a run down apartment in brixton london and we almost were homeless countless times and then i got into a studio and released a song and i got a record label and i released hit albums and hit songs and i toured around the world 4 times and i earned millions of pounds and i am the most rich and famous rapper and singer and songwriter on earth and i have a british accent when i talk or sing or rap and i became attracted to a white american woman named sarah adams and she is 42 years old and she has a daughter named emma adams and she is 15 years old and she is a huge fan of my music and me and she has a belly button piercing and sarah is recently divorced from her cheating husband named henry adams and he is a stock broker and he is 43 years old and he is mean to sarah and he insults her and me and sarah are the central characters and protagonists and this story is called the idea of you
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Mohamed Abdi
He is a 24yearold British singer, rapper, and songwriter from London. He is charismatic, ambitious, and passionate. Born in a poor neighborhood with his parents, he faced challenges but gained fame through music. He signed with a label, released hit albums, and toured worldwide. Mohamed's wealth increased, and so did his fame. He met Sarah, a 42yearold divorcee with a 15yearold daughter, and became infatuated with her. Despite their age difference and her recent divorce, Mohamed pursued her with intensity, leading to an affair that would change both their lives.
Emma Adams
She is Sarah's 15yearold daughter from Los Angeles. She is observant, sensitive, and hopeful. As a teenager growing up in Los Angeles with her mother struggling postdivorce, Emma witnesses their family transformations firsthand. She navigates the challenges of her mother's fragile mental health postseparation while trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy at school. Emma’s budding teenage years are marked by an acute awareness of her surroundings and the adult emotions that impact her daily life.
Henry Adams
He is Sarah's exhusband and a 43yearold stockbroker from Los Angeles. He is unfaithful, selfish, and coldhearted. Henry's infidelities led to his marriage crumbling, ultimately resulting in their divorce when he was caught cheating again. His behavior towards Sarah was dismissive and cruel, leading her to feel isolated and vulnerable. Despite this rocky relationship ending in separation, Henry continues his reckless lifestyle without regard for others' feelings or consequences of his actions.
My name is Mohamed Abdi, and I am from London, England.
I am a rich, established, world-famous singer, rapper, and songwriter.
I am twenty-four years old and have tattoos on my arms, legs, neck, abdomen, back, and hands.
I have dark skin and braids, and I was born poor.
My parents, Abdinur Abdi and Layla Abdi, were also born poor.
They were from Somalia, and my mother was born in a refugee camp after they fled the civil war.
My father was born in Mogadishu, the capital city of Somalia.
They met in Saudi Arabia, where they worked as laborers.
After they married, they moved to London, where I was born.
We lived in a run-down apartment in Brixton, London.
We were almost homeless countless times because my parents couldn’t afford the rent.
My father worked as a taxi driver, and my mother worked as a cleaner.
Sometimes they had two or three jobs to make ends meet.
When I was growing up, I always wanted to be successful so that I could help my parents out of that situation.
I went to school and worked hard to get good grades.
When I was eighteen years old, I got into a studio and released a song.
After signing with Sony Music Entertainment UK, I released my fourth album in Los Angeles.
I spent the day at my secured mansion, moving between the music studio and the pool.
I thought about how far I had come from Brixton to being a global superstar.
My family joined me, and we enjoyed the luxury that my success had brought us.
We celebrated with a small gathering, discussing future tours and the impact of my music on society.
As the evening came to an end, I sat by the pool, contemplating my next steps in the industry.
I called my manager to discuss upcoming projects and potential collaborations.
I sit in my private recording booth at the mansion, scrolling through tracks for my upcoming album.
The sun is setting outside, casting a warm glow over the room.
Suddenly, my manager Oliver bursts in, waving his tablet excitedly.
"Hey, Mohamed! I have some news about tomorrow's show."
He plops down beside me, tapping on his tablet.
"Tomorrow night's show is going to be at The Echo in Los Angeles. It’s a small venue that has hosted some of the biggest names in music. They have a great sound system and an intimate setting that will make for an unforgettable performance."
Oliver continues to ramble on about the venue's history and legendary performances.
I scroll through my phone, half-listening as he explains the security arrangements and VIP sections.
My mind wanders to the meet-and-greet details.
"Tomorrow night, you'll be performing at The Echo in Los Angeles. It's a small venue that has hosted some of the biggest names in music. They have a great sound system and an intimate setting that will make for an unforgettable performance."
I arrive at The Echo, greeted by the buzz of anticipation.
Backstage, I meet other artists, exchanging nods and brief conversations about our upcoming performances.
I check my setlist, ensuring "Midnight in London," "Freedom," and "Know Myself" are ready.
As I adjust my microphone, I overhear snippets of fans chanting my name outside.
My manager Oliver confirms the meet-and-greet schedule post-show.
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment.
I stride onto the stage, my boots echoing against the wooden floor.
Bright lights wash over me, illuminating the packed venue.
The roar of 4,000 fans hits me like a physical force.
Through the glare, I scan the crowd - women press against the barrier, phones raised high, while others crowd the balcony areas.
My heart pounds with pre-show adrenaline as I grip the microphone stand.
The band behind me strikes the first notes of "Midnight in London."
I lean into the microphone, letting my British accent flow smoothly.
"I grew up in Brixton, where the streets were tough and the nights were long. But I found my escape in music, and it took me places I never thought I'd go."
The crowd sways in unison, their phones creating a sea of lights.
My drummer kicks in with a heavy beat, and I move across the stage, making eye contact with fans in the front row.
After the performance, I head to the meet-and-greet, still buzzing from the stage energy.
Fans line up eagerly, mostly women, girls, and some gay and bisexual men and women.
I sign autographs and take selfies, feeling the crowd's excitement.
Then, Sarah Adams and her daughter Emma approach.
I sign Emma's autograph and snap a selfie with her.
Sarah explains they came because Emma is a huge fan of my music and persona.
Standing in the meet-and-greet area, I extend my hand to Sarah and Emma.
"Hello, I'm Mohamed," I say, offering a formal introduction.
They both smile knowingly, aware of who I am.
Sarah mentions watching my recent appearance on Graham Norton's show, while Emma excitedly references my cameo in that superhero film from last summer.
I notice Sarah's slight blush when she recalls my performance on Saturday Night Live.
The familiar way they discuss my public appearances makes me pause, realizing how my life has become an open book to strangers.
Emma pulls out her phone, showing me her lockscreen - a promotional shot from my latest cologne campaign.
I flirt with Sarah, and we laugh together.
Emma glances at her phone, checking the time.
I hand Sarah my number on a piece of paper.
She smiles, tucking it into her pocket.
They leave, and I return to the fans until the event ends.
Climbing into my black armored Mercedes, I drive to my secured mansion.
The gates open, revealing the sprawling estate: bedrooms, bathrooms, a bar, a giant pool, a guest house, and a vast garden merging into a forest.
Entering through the back door, I head straight to the temperature-controlled wine cellar beneath the kitchen.
The LED lights automatically flicker on, illuminating rows of vintage bottles.
I select a 2015 Bordeaux and make my way to the outdoor kitchen.
Opening a cabinet, I retrieve a crystal glass and step onto the heated travertine tiles surrounding the infinity pool.
The water's blue lights ripple across the surface while the Los Angeles cityscape twinkles below.
I sink into a cushioned lounger, pour the wine, and notice Sarah's perfume lingering on the sleeve of my leather jacket from our brief encounter.
I decide to visit Sarah's art gallery.
I dress casually to avoid recognition, wearing a white T-shirt, black jeans, and a baseball cap.
I drive my black SUV to the gallery's location in Los Angeles.
I park a block away and walk, keeping my head down.
Entering the gallery, I see Sarah discussing a painting with a client.
I wait until she's free, then approach her.
She looks surprised but pleased to see me.
We talk about the art, and I learn more about her passion for it.
I return to my car and place the paintings in the trunk.
Sarah explains the artwork's significance, her voice soft and engaging.
Her assistant, Claire, recognizes me and is dismissed by Sarah.
Alone again, Sarah mentions a warehouse with more art.
I agree to visit, suggesting we use the back door near my car.
Sarah hesitates, mentioning her car is parked out front.
I propose following her through traffic to the warehouse.
She agrees, and we head to our separate vehicles.
As I start the engine, a sense of anticipation fills the air, hinting at possibilities yet to unfold.
I grip my steering wheel tightly, keeping my eyes fixed on Sarah's silver Mercedes as it weaves through the afternoon LA traffic.
The sun glints off her brake lights at each stop, giving me time to admire her silhouette through her rear window.
When she signals right onto a quieter industrial street, my heart rate quickens.
I check my phone's GPS - we're heading toward the Arts District.
Sarah slows down near a row of converted brick warehouses, pulling into a narrow alley between two buildings.
I ease my Range Rover behind her, watching as she parks and steps out, keys jingling in her hand.
I cut my engine and pull up next to her, leaving enough space between our vehicles in the narrow alley.
Through my tinted windows, I watch her gather her purse and the gallery paperwork from the passenger seat.
My hands are slightly damp on the steering wheel as I take in the brick walls rising on either side of us, creating a private corridor.
The metal warehouse door looms ahead, its industrial facade marked with faded graffiti.
Sarah's heels click against the concrete as she approaches the entrance, keyring extended.
The door swings open, revealing a world of hidden treasures and untold stories waiting just for us.
I slide out of my Range Rover, the door closing with a solid thunk behind me.
The alley feels intimate, enclosed by weathered brick walls that block out the usual LA noise.
Sarah's perfume drifts back as she pushes the heavy metal door wider, revealing concrete floors and white walls lined with canvas-wrapped shapes.
Industrial lights flicker to life overhead as she steps in, her hand finding a switch.
I follow her inside, my boots echoing in the vast space.
The door swings shut behind us with a metallic clang, sealing us into this private world of art and unspoken tension.
I move closer as she walks deeper into the warehouse, her heels clicking against the concrete floors.
The industrial lights cast dramatic shadows across her face as she turns to gauge my reaction.
Her fingers trace the edges of the wrapped canvases, explaining the history of the collection and the artists involved.
I watch, captivated by the way her silk blouse falls across her shoulders when she reaches up to adjust a painting.
We're standing inches apart now, and I can smell her perfume mingling with the scent of oil paint and dust.
