The days started to blur together — school, dinner, curfew, sleep.
Freedom had rules now, too.
At the transitional home, everything was scheduled: breakfast at seven, chores by eight, group check-ins on Thursdays. The walls were covered in posters about "responsibility" and "healthy choices," but to Jayden, they just looked like reminders that somebody else was always in charge.
Most nights, he sat by the window in his small room, sketching under the dim lamp until his eyes ached. The paper was his escape — a place where he could control the story, shape something that belonged only to him.
But lately, his drawings had changed.
Less anger. More faces.
One face, especially.
Tasha's.
---
School Days
School hadn't gotten easier.
Every hallway still felt like a minefield — loud voices, laughter that didn't include him, teachers who treated him like a ghost.
He'd learned to keep his head down and move quiet, but it didn't stop the whispers.
"That's the kid from juvie," they'd murmur. "He's crazy."
Sometimes he wanted to swing — to prove them right, maybe — but then he'd remember Malik's words.
Don't let them write your story for you.
So he breathed. Bit his tongue. Walked away.
Still, by the time he got home every day, the anger clung to him like static.
He'd sit on the edge of his bed, fists tight, trying to calm the storm inside before it cracked him open.
Some nights, it worked.
Others, he'd punch the wall and hate himself after.
---
The Park
It was a Friday afternoon when he ran into Tasha again — outside of school this time.
He'd gone to the park after class, sketchbook tucked under his arm, looking for somewhere quiet. He found her sitting on the swings, headphones in, sketching in a small notebook.
She noticed him first. "Hey, artist boy."
Jayden smirked faintly. "You always here?"
"Only when I need to breathe," she said, kicking her foot gently against the dirt. "You?"
"Same."
He sat on the swing beside her. For a while, they didn't talk. The air smelled like rain, the clouds heavy but holding.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low, thoughtful. "You ever feel like… the world already decided who you are before you even open your mouth?"
Jayden looked at her, surprised.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Every day."
She nodded, eyes still forward. "Me too."
That's when Jayden noticed the faint scar on her wrist — a small, thin line, half-hidden under a bracelet.
He didn't say anything.
She didn't either.
But for a moment, neither of them felt alone.
---
The Return
Back at the group home that night, Jayden couldn't stop thinking about her.
The way she spoke without pretending. The quiet understanding between them.
It scared him a little — that he could feel that connected to someone after trying so hard not to.
At curfew check, Ms. Delaney caught him spacing out.
"You okay, Jayden?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Just tired."
She smiled, soft but weary. "Tired's normal, sweetheart. Healing takes work."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he just went to bed.
But as the lights went out and the room filled with the sound of the ceiling fan, he opened his sketchbook again.
This time, he drew the swings. The faint scar.
And next to it, in small, uneven handwriting, he wrote one word:
"Maybe."
---
The next few weeks passed in slow, uneven waves.
Some days felt almost normal — he'd laugh with Tasha after class or lose himself in a drawing.
Other days, the weight came back heavy, and he'd shut down completely.
But for the first time, he had something — someone — to look forward to.