"The Vibe's Off" by Sasha Ravae

When the group chat goes quiet, the vibe speaks louder than words.

The Vibe’s Off is a Black millennial dramedy that follows six long-time friends navigating one emotionally chaotic season where everything feels just a little…off.

Set in the Bay Area and rooted in the intimacy of group chats, late-night spiral texts, and brunches that never quite happen, the story moves through the lives of Zora, Kev, Jada, Bree, Tariq, and Malik as they each try to hold it together—and each other. But between unspoken tension, delayed replies, and spiraling self-reflection, even the strongest friend group can feel like it’s fraying at the edges.

This isn’t trauma porn. It’s not a love story either. It’s the in-between.The mood before the breakdown. The awkward silence between the jokes.A book about nothing…except everything.

With sharp dialogue, quiet heartbreak, and Black sitcom realness, The Vibe’s Off explores what happens when healing isn’t aesthetic—and friendship is the only thing that still kinda makes sense in the world.

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Chapter One

Zora Ellison was muted. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Not emotionally—though all three might've been true. No, she was literally muted. On Zoom. Again.

She stared at her screen, blinking slowly, letting her face go slack in the way only someone who'd reached the fourth stage of corporate grief could. She had unmuted herself to make a point three times. Each time, her voice hadn’t carried. No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t care. They just kept nodding along with Jeff from Sales as he explained Black culture like he personally discovered it last Juneteenth, and now thought that he was qualified to teach a MasterClass on allyship. He even had a book recommendation ready. Something by Ta-Nehisi Coates, though Zora was fairly certain he hadn't read past the first chapter. The kind of man who skimmed a tweet thread and called it scholarship.

Zora, still muted, sipped from her giant water bottle and imagined herself throwing it. Not at Jeff. But at the system. At capitalism. At this job that paid her just enough to stay miserable, but not enough to afford therapy and a solo vacation in Tulum at the same time. Choices had been made; mistakes had been sponsored. Her health insurance didn’t cover burnout…or rage. Or the specific ache behind her left eye every time someone said, “circling back.”

Her fingers hovered over her keyboard. She could drop a snarky comment in the Zoom chat. Just a little “per my last email” jab to remind folks that she wasn’t dead, just defeated. But what was the point? No one read the chat unless it was a link to an article no one was going to open, but everyone would pretend they did. Instead, she sighed and rolled her chair back until it hit the IKEA shelf behind her. Minimalist. Beige. Sad. The kind of shelf that says, "She tried."

Her phone vibrated on the desk beside her. She didn’t need to look. The group chat was already on fire. It all started with Jada sending a voice note titled: “Y’all need to wake up.” And it just spiraled from there. Zora swiped to unlock her screen without looking away from the blinking Zoom window. There they were, the usual suspects. The sacred six.

Group Chat – 8:42 AM Jada: [1:52 voice note] "And I’m telling y’all, fluoride is a scam, and the real reason folks be docile is 'cause they brushing their teeth with mind control."

Kev: …not this before breakfast.

Malik: Peace, family. The sista makes a valid point. I been off toothpaste since March.

Kev: Your breath confirms this.

Bree: Y’all, I have a meeting and a headache…and possibly a demon attached to me. But mostly the meeting.

Tariq: iight but like…y’all ever think the moon not real though?

Kev: Blocked.

Zora stared at the messages with the dead-eyed affection of someone too tired to laugh, but too Black not to find it funny. They were a mess. Her mess. Her beautiful, chaotic, brilliant mess of friends who were more consistent than her last four relationships combined. They were the only stable thing in her life that didn’t require logins, credentials, or a five-point performance review.

They could annoy the hell out of her. Malik and his eternal wisdom pulled from a Tumblr postdated 2013. Bree with her curated calm and inability to answer a phone call before texting “what’s up?” Kev, the unofficial kween of passive-aggressive commentary. Tariq, who somehow made being fine a full-time job. And Jada. Goddess. Terror. Oracle. Wildcard. Zora loved them all…and sometimes wanted to block every single one of them.

Zora stood up, closed her laptop, and said out loud to no one, “I’m not doing this today.”

There were emails to send. Projects to fake-care about. A manager to pretend to respect. But none of it mattered right now. The vibe was off. Not just in the chat. In the whole damn city. In her spirit. It had been off ever since that full moon two-weeks ago. Maybe, even before then. She couldn’t pinpoint it, but something in her body—her back, her breath, her bones—was telling her that it was time to go.

She needed some air. She needed some caffeine. She needed Auntie Café. The only place in Oakland that still felt real. The lavender lattes were a little overpriced, and the Wi-Fi never worked, but the plants thrived, and the music was always right. The owner there, Mama Vida, wore caftans and called everyone “baby” like she meant it. She once told Zora that her aura looked like it was “fighting for its life,” so she tipped her $10.

Zora grabbed her keys, her bag, and her water bottle. Left her job mid-meeting…again, but no one noticed.

Before she could even reach the door, her inbox pinged.

Subject: Re: URGENT - Q2 Forecast Deck

From: Jeff Samuelson (Sales Department)

She didn’t open it. She would just circle back.

Probably. Maybe...unlikely.

*****

Auntie Café smelled like cinnamon, sage, and judgment. Which is exactly what Zora needed.

She pushed open the wooden door and let the little brass bell over the frame announce her presence with a tired chime. The place was half full—low jazz playing, sunlight spilling through the windows like gossip, and Mama Vida at the counter rearranging a crystal display with the kind of care usually reserved for funerals. A few regulars were seated with open laptops and closed expressions, sipping lattes with oat milk and trauma.

Zora inhaled deeply and tried to will the tension out of her neck. The lavender from the diffuser in the corner hit first. Then the warmth from the chai spices baking in the back. Then the unmistakable static of Kev’s side-eye burning a hole through the back of her head.

“Look what the emotional drag race dragged in,” he said without looking up from his phone. He sat near the front window, ankle crossed over his knee, sunglasses on like the lighting offended him. His coat was draped over the back of his chair like a character in a play, and he had one AirPod in, just in case the room got boring. “Rough morning, Z?”

“Don’t start,” Zora said, sliding into the chair across from him. “Not until I order something I can pretend is breakfast.”

Kev grinned, tapped his screen a few times, and said, “Just know if you have a meltdown, I already picked the soundtrack. It’s mostly Solange and violins.”

Mama Vida glanced over, eyes warm but unreadable. “Zora, baby. Your aura’s crunchy again. You want yerba mate…or therapy?”

“Do y’all serve both now?” she deadpanned.

“Not yet, but I’m working on a package,” Mama Vida replied. She nodded toward the menu chalkboard behind her. “Go on and order, baby. You look hungry for clarity.”

Zora stepped up to the counter, trying not to read too deeply into that. “Can I get a turmeric ginger oat milk latte and a warm banana muffin if you got any left?”

Mama Vida tapped the register like she was punching in ancestral math. “One left. Must be yours.”

Zora took the receipt like it was a prophecy.

Behind her, the door swung open again.

“God, this place smells like healing and student debt,” Bree muttered as she breezed in, heels clacking, power coat sweeping behind her like she owned the lease. Her tote bag slapped the back of a chair, and she didn’t apologize for it.

Zora turned. “You look like you just yelled at three interns and canceled a trip to Bali.”

“Because I did,” Bree snapped. Then, she smiled and kissed the air near Zora’s cheek. “Also…hey.”

Kev didn’t even look up. “You’re late to the unraveling.”

“Good. Maybe, I missed the dumb part,” Bree replied, removing her sunglasses dramatically. “What’d I walk into?”

“Me, minding my business,” Zora said.

“So...nothing,” Kev whispered. Zora flipped him off behind her latte.

Bree ordered something complex and gluten-free before sliding into the seat beside Zora like she’d been summoned. She pulled out her phone and placed it face down on the table like she was declaring war.

“Malik said he’s joining via FaceTime,” Kev said, already scrolling. “Because of course, he is.”

Bree sighed. “He better not be shirtless again…or reading Rumi.”

Too late. The FaceTime rang, and there he was: Malik, backlit by what looked like either a sunrise or a Himalayan salt lamp, shirtless with intention.

“Peace, queens,” he said, voice smooth like butter left on the stove too long. “I’m in ceremony right now, but I wanted to ground with y’all right quick. The ancestors said…”

“Ground with us or monologue at us?” Zora asked.

“Both can be true,” Malik said, serenely.

“Put on a shirt,” Bree added.

“This is a shirt,” Malik said, gesturing to the sheer scarf wrapped around his shoulders. “It’s symbolic.”

“Of what, fabric shortage?” Kev asked.

Before Malik could answer, the door chimed again. Tariq entered, all slow grin and good intentions in a hoodie that cost too much. He dapped Kev, kissed Zora on the cheek, and nodded at Bree like they were co-workers in a heist film. His cologne lingered like a promise he’d already broken.

“Y’all smell like affirmation oil and microaggressions,” he said, dropping into a chair.

“You’re late,” Zora said.

“I bring light. It travels on its own time,” he replied, pulling out a tiny notebook and pen. He began scribbling something he’d probably post as a caption later.

“So do missed opportunities,” Bree muttered.

“Hey,” Tariq said, turning to Zora, lowering his voice. “You good?”

Zora blinked. The question caught her off guard. He was looking at her like he meant it, and she hated that.

“I’m fine,” she said too fast.

Kev looked up, smirking. “Translation: deeply unwell.”

The door opened again. This time, no one looked up.

“Why is the Wi-Fi giving Mercury in retrograde and gentrification?” Jada barked, sliding into the room with her giant tote bag and chaotic grace. Her bangles clinked like a spiritual threat. “And where the hell is Santi? My sea moss shot is twenty-minutes late, and my spirit guides are already annoyed.”

“Good morning to you too,” Zora mumbled.

“It’s not morning. It’s a matrix construct,” Jada snapped, then hugged everyone a little too hard. Her earrings hit Kev in the face. She smelled like shea butter, palo santo, and conspiracy.

“I rebuke this energy,” he said, flatly.

Mama Vida set Zora’s muffin down in front of her with a wink. “Careful, baby. Mercury may not be in retrograde, but something in this room is.”

Santi, the barista, appeared with Jada’s drink and an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. “Here you go, Jada. Extra cayenne, just like your attitude.”

“Thank you, love,” she beamed. “You’re seen.”

Zora took a sip of her latte and let the noise happen around her. Kev was now critiquing Bree’s phone case. Malik was doing breathwork on FaceTime while a confused dog barked in the background. Tariq was tapping his pen like he was writing spoken word, and Jada was loudly explaining how email was a colonial tool.

She loved them. She really did. But today…? The vibe wasn’t just off—it was sideways, spiraling, and completely out-of-alignment.

******

The group chat went quiet for about an hour after the café. Which, in their language, was basically a crisis.

At 4:03 p.m., Kev sent a meme of a possum playing dead with the caption: me after holding in my emotions for three-hours straight.

By 5:15, Zora had agreed—against her better judgment—to host game night. A few passive-aggressive “who bringing what” texts later, and it was confirmed. Everyone was coming.

None of them knew that the evening would unravel like the crust on a gluten-free cobbler, but that was the magic of this crew. It always seemed like a good idea…until it wasn’t.

Game night was supposed to be chill; but if there was one thing this group could not do, it was chill. They said they wanted ease. But what they really wanted was emotionally turbulent camaraderie, served with a little charcuterie and chaos on the side.

Zora regretted hosting the second Malik walked in with a singing bowl. Not because he brought it—but because he used it. In the middle of the kitchen. Without asking. While everyone was still taking their shoes off.

“We’re gonna clear the energy,” he said, swirling the mallet around the rim like he was conjuring a portal to another dimension. “Make space for truth.”

“Make space for snacks,” Kev muttered, dropping a bag of Flamin' Hot popcorn on the table like a declaration of war. “You clearing vibes and ain’t even bring no hummus?”

Zora raised a brow. “We have hummus. Two kinds, because I have taste."

“And because you fear confrontation,” Bree added, walking in with her own bottle of wine because she didn't trust anyone else to bring something “drinkable.” Her heels clicked like judgment. “That beet one is an abomination.”

“It’s earthy,” Zora defended.

“It’s disrespectful,” Bree shot back, already scanning the room for seating that wouldn’t ruin her pants.

Jada arrived with no food, no drink, and no warning, wearing a hoodie that said Trust Black Women, Especially This One. She plopped down on the couch, kicked off her shoes, and immediately opened her Notes app.

“Did y’all know game night is rooted in ancestral gathering practices?” she asked the room like she was leading a TED Talk no one RSVP’d to.

“Girl, no one asked,” Kev said. “And yet, we all expected it.”

Tariq rolled in last, smelling like cologne and an unopened vision board. He brought a bottle of tequila, a potted succulent, and a deeply sincere apology that bounced off the walls like bad Wi-Fi.

“I brought agave too, just in case y’all are trying to be earthy and sweet,” he offered.

“No one wants your plant syrup, Tariq,” Bree said. “But thank you for showing up on brand.”

“Aight, let’s get into it,” Zora said, clapping once like a preschool teacher trying to maintain control of toddlers with Wi-Fi.

The crew circled up in the living room. Lights dimmed. Music low. Jada lit incense that smelled like prophecy and mango. Kev rolled his eyes so hard Zora could hear it. Bree poured a very full glass and didn’t bother pretending that it was her first, and Tariq adjusted his hoodie like it was emotional armor.

Zora held up the deck of Truth or Drink cards and cleared her throat.

“We’re doing this with honesty and respect,” she said, trying to sound stable.

“Lame,” Jada coughed, already saging the Uno deck.

“I will turn this night around,” Zora warned.

She pulled the first card.

“Have you ever had a crush on someone in this room?”

The silence was instant. Not tense, just...loaded.

Kev sipped his wine like it was his alibi.

Bree looked directly at the ceiling like it owed her answers, and Malik smiled like a man who knew things he shouldn't. Tariq looked at Zora, but she looked down at the floor.

“Wooooow,” Jada said. “We only three-minutes in, and it’s already giving HBO season finale energy.”

“Next card,” Kev said, snapping his fingers.

“What’s something you’ve never told anyone here?”

Malik leaned forward, suddenly sincere. “I sometimes feel like the enlightened version of me is a performance.”

“Baby, we knew that,” Jada said. “The scarf told us. It’s been screaming ever since you walked in.”

“What’s one thing you regret?”

Bree answered without hesitation. “Giving my twenties to a company that replaced me with a spreadsheet.”

“Okay, wow,” Tariq whispered, momentarily humbled.

“Who in this room do you trust the least…?”

Kev grinned like a cat with a prayer cloth. “I plead the fifth, which is also my love language.”

“That tracks,” Zora muttered.

The tension was lowkey rising. Not hostile, but real.

“Have you ever lied to protect someone here?”

“Yeah,” Tariq said softly, looking straight ahead. “I told Zora I was good. I wasn’t.”

The room went still. Not dramatic—just frozen in that way when realness enters the chat uninvited.

Zora looked up. Met his eyes. Didn’t blink. The silence stretched just long enough to become its own kind of emotional violence.

Final card: “What are you afraid they see when they look at you?”

No one spoke…not for a long time.

Jada, surprisingly, broke the silence.

“That I’m actually still scared. Still soft. And it’s easier to play wise than be vulnerable.”

Kev nodded slowly. “Same. That if I stop being funny, no one will stick around.”

Malik placed a hand on his chest. “That I’m more facade than foundation.”

Bree swirled her wine. “That I’m not actually as together as I pretend to be. That I’m exhausted.”

Zora sat back. The cards in her hand trembled slightly.

She didn’t speak, but her eyes were glassy.

“…I’m gonna get a refill,” she said, too casually. Like it would drown out what had just been said.

Everyone got up at once, as if released from a collective spell.

The game ended, but something had started.

They wouldn’t say it. Not yet. But the vibe wasn’t just off. It was shifting, and none of them were ready.

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Chapter 1 cracked the group chat wide open. Now, the tea’s boiling—and the masks are slipping.

🔓 Tap into Chapters 2–5 with the Vibe Check Bundle ☕Or level up with The Flame to get every messy moment the second it drops.

No spoilers. No chill. Just vibes, lies, and spirals on sight.