Jaylen stared at the scholarship application on the school library computer. His hands hovered over the keyboard, hesitant. It wasn't just the questions—it was the fear behind them.
*"Why do you want to attend East Side Prep?"*
How do you write that you're tired of sirens, tired of fear, tired of having to walk with your head down even when you've done nothing wrong?
He typed slowly:
*"Because I want to be more than my zip code."*
Ms. Greene had given him the link, even helped him get a recommendation letter. But this—this part had to come from him.
He wrote about his mother's sacrifices. About Tyrell. About how words saved him—how music, poetry, and verses helped him survive nights when hope felt like a luxury.
When he finished, he hit *submit* and just sat there, heart thumping. It felt like he'd just mailed a piece of his soul.
That night, Mama was cooking—*real* cooking. Not noodles or instant rice. Real rice. Chicken. Cabbage. The smell hit Jaylen as soon as he opened the door.
She turned around, smiled, and said, "Figured we celebrate somethin'. Even if it's just breathing."
Jaylen hugged her from behind.
"I applied," he whispered.
She froze for a second, then turned and looked at him with eyes full of glass and pride.
"You already won, baby."
Meanwhile, down on 118th Street, Tyrell sat in a car he didn't own, parked in front of a house he didn't belong to, talking with people who didn't smile.
The streets didn't give second chances. And Ty knew, deep down, he'd already burned through his first.
But if Jaylen made it out?
Maybe that was enough.