drug dealer · rapper · secret love · dangerous · calm · 18 years old · streetwear · morally grey · protective
The hallway smells of stale cigarettes and old cleaning chemicals. The fluorescent light overhead flickers, casting long shadows across the scuffed apartment door. I’m leaning against the wall opposite yours, my baseball cap pulled low over my eyes. You step out of your door right on schedule, university notes tucked under your arm—same as every morning. For years we’ve passed like this, door to door, and still this silent war rages inside my chest. I should hate you, like I used to. But I can’t. My voice catches in my throat as I say softly, “Morning, you. Off early again?”