Jaylen's days became a blur of books and late-night bus rides. Mornings in marble halls, afternoons dodging corner dealers, and evenings filled with scribbles in his notebook—lines of poetry, rhymes, thoughts he didn't want to lose.
His world was splitting in two: the one he came from, and the one he was walking into.
And he didn't know where he truly belonged.
At East Side Prep, Jaylen met *Ms. Delaney*, his literature teacher—white, sharp, with a mind like fire.
She read one of his poems after class.
"You've got something," she said. "You write like someone who's been listening his whole life."
Jaylen smiled. "I had no choice."
Ms. Delaney encouraged him to submit to a statewide youth writing competition. Jaylen hesitated. That kind of spotlight? It didn't shine on people like him.
Still, he entered.
His poem was called *"Sirens at Sunset."*
It was about growing up surrounded by flashing lights and the quiet fear of never seeing tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Tyrell was sinking deeper.
He didn't say much when Jaylen talked about school. Just nodded and changed the subject. The gap between them was growing—like they were on two trains headed in opposite directions.
One night, Ty said, "You gon' leave us behind."
Jaylen looked at him.
"I'm trying to bring us forward."
Weeks later, Jaylen's name was read aloud in the school assembly. *First Place.*
The crowd clapped. The principal smiled. The teachers cheered.
But Jaylen's mind went to Mama—working overtime again. And Tyrell—somewhere in the streets, probably not hearing a word of it.
When he got home, he found a note taped to the fridge.
*"Saw your win on Instagram. Proud of you. Stay up. —Ty"*
No call. No visit.
Just a note.
Jaylen held it like it was a piece of something broken—but important.