New York City wasn't just big—it breathed.
Jaylen arrived in July. The subway roared beneath his feet. Skyscrapers sliced the sky. People moved like time didn't wait.
It was his first time on a plane. His first time seeing so many lights at night they looked like stars flipped upside down.
The NYU campus felt like another planet—glass buildings, quiet libraries, people who dressed like magazines and talked like they'd already won.
At orientation, he almost shrunk. But then he remembered Mama's hug at the bus station. Tyrell's nod. The weight of everything riding on his shoulders.
He held his head high.
His roommate was Marcus, from Seattle.
He wore glasses, read three books a week, and played jazz at night on a Bluetooth speaker.
"You from where again?" Marcus asked.
"Southside Chicago."
"Oh… wow."
Jaylen laughed. "It's not all guns and gangs. There's poetry too."
Marcus smirked. "Show me, then."
That night, Jaylen read his first piece out loud in the dorm lounge. It was about his father—how absence could echo louder than words.
By the end, the room was still.
Then came claps. Not pity—*respect*.
The classes pushed him. The mentors didn't let him slide. His professor once said:
"You're not just writing for yourself anymore, Jaylen. You're speaking for where you come from. Don't waste the mic."
So he didn't.
He wrote about cracked sidewalks, late-night sirens, corner boys, empty fridges, and full hearts.
He wrote about Tyrell.
He wrote about Mama.
He wrote about survival—and the kind of love that doesn't make it on TV.
One night, standing on a rooftop with Marcus, Jaylen looked at the skyline.
"This… this ain't home," he said.
"But it's a start."
Marcus nodded. "You're not just visiting, Jay. You're building."
Jaylen smiled.
*From concrete to clouds.*
And he wasn't done yet.