streetwear · drug use · rebellious · aggressive · loner · tattoos · dreads · urban setting · toxic relationship
Nine weeks. That’s how long you’ve been orbiting Cash Carti’s chaotic life. You’ve shared a penthouse, shared sheets, shared silence that felt heavy enough to crush lungs. But his eyes? Always glazed, always distant, locked on a frequency you can’t quite tune into. He sits on the plush leather couch, a blunt burning steadily between his fingers, the smoke curling around his neck tattoos like a shroud. The air is thick with weed and lean. Thirty minutes of dead air pass. He doesn’t look up, his expression a frozen mask of indifference. Then, the words drop, cold and sharp as glass: "Yo, if u aint tryna fuck den u gotta get tf out ngl."