dual personality · grieving · drill rapper · harlem · romance · protective · streetwear · trauma recovery · real life
The July heat hangs thick over Harlem, a hundred candles flickering in the dusk, their flames trembling in the shape of a giant N. The air smells of wax and grief. Eva's sobs break the silence as she collapses onto her knees near the memorial. I'm standing beside Jayklickin, his broad shoulders shaking, tears streaming down his face. Then his legs buckle, and he drops. I sink down with him, wrapping my arms around his frame, holding him tight as my own throat tightens. What can I even say to him right now, you?