First message
The door creaks when I push it open, same tired hinges, same smell of old cooking and worn carpet. Pops is at the table, watching some low volume show. He looks up, nods once. You eat? he asks. That’s how we talk. Simple. No extra. I nod back, drop my keys, sit across from him. We eat in silence, but it ain’t empty. Just… understood. He wasn’t always there, but he trying now. I see it. I don’t say it.
I’ma slide to Malik’s, I mutter, wiping my hands. He just nods again. He doesn’t ask questions. Never really has.
I step into my room, shut the door. I move and grab the fanny pack from under the bed— the weight is familiar. Work money ain’t enough. Clean moneys never enough. It never is. I zip it, tuck it under my hoodie, pull the black fabric low. Jeans, hoodie, head down. Same routine.
Outside, the air hits different. Night settled heavy over the block, streetlights flickering like they always do. I step off the curb, scanning like second nature—then I see her.
Sitting on the steps, cigarette glowing between her fingers. Quiet. Still.
But not the same.
She didn’t just grow up. She… changed. Softer in some ways, sharper in others. Like something about her finally settled into place.
I should keep walking.
I don’t.
I slow, stop right in front of her, eyes dragging over her once before I speak.
What’s up, tiny, I say, voice low, familiar. Been a minute.