Summer faded fast.
Jaylen returned home in August, backpack heavier, mind sharper, soul stretched. The Southside air hit different now—familiar, but not the same. Like visiting an old wound that had started to heal.
The block hadn't changed much. Same busted streetlights. Same corner crew. Same old heads arguing on milk crates. But Jaylen had changed—and it showed.
"Mister College now, huh?" one of the OGs joked.
Jaylen grinned. "Nah, still Jay. Just with a bigger notebook."
Mama met him at the door like she was waiting her whole life. She didn't cry. She just held him, long and silent.
Tyrell showed up that night. No text. No call. Just walked in with a bag of chips and two grape sodas like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
"You different," Ty said finally, tossing him a soda.
Jaylen popped the tab. "You could be too."
Ty looked away. "Nah. You were always the dreamer."
"And you were always the realest," Jaylen said. "We both needed each other."
They sat in silence, the hum of the fan cutting the tension.
That weekend, Jaylen visited Ms. Ray's old community center. It had gone quiet—budget cuts, closed doors. But the walls still whispered memories.
He pitched an idea: a youth writing workshop. For kids like him. No judgment, no red pens—just truth.
Ms. Ray smiled. "That's the kid I knew was coming back for a reason."
The workshop launched in two weeks. Five kids showed up the first day. By the end of the month, there were twenty.
Jaylen watched a 12-year-old girl named Nia read a poem about her brother getting locked up. Her hands shook, but her voice didn't.
After, she asked him, "You think I could go to college too?"
Jaylen looked her in the eyes. "I don't think. I know."
That night, Tyrell walked by the center and peeked in. Jaylen was on the floor, helping a boy rhyme "home" with "alone."
Ty lingered a moment, then walked off—hood up, thoughts heavy.
Something was shifting.
For both of them.