The door at Westbridge clicked behind him, a sound Jayden had waited months to hear — but it didn't feel the way he thought it would.
Freedom, he realized, was quiet.
No crowd cheering, no sunrise soundtrack. Just wind and space.
He stepped out with a small plastic bag of belongings and a head full of noise. His release papers folded in his pocket, his eyes squinting against the light. The world looked bigger than he remembered.
And emptier.
The social worker drove him to a transitional home on the edge of town — "a fresh start," she called it. To Jayden, it looked like another stop between cages. A two-story house that smelled like disinfectant and old cereal, five boys sharing the same tired air.
His new caseworker, Ms. Delaney, met him at the door. She was kind but distant, the way people got when they'd seen too many stories like his.
"You'll have curfew at nine," she said. "Chores every morning. School starts Monday. Let's try to keep this placement steady, okay?"
Jayden nodded. He'd learned not to argue.
That first night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan, listening to it click with each slow turn. Every sound outside — a passing car, a bark, a laugh — felt unreal, like he was watching life through a screen.
He thought about Malik.
About how he'd said, "Make it mean something."
Jayden didn't know what that meant yet.
But he wanted to.
---
The First Week
Freedom came with choices — small ones, but choices nonetheless.
He could walk to the corner store without asking. Sit in the park as long as he wanted. Even skip dinner if he felt like it.
It should've felt good, but mostly it felt like falling without knowing where the ground was.
School was worse.
The halls were crowded, loud, and full of people who looked right through him. The teachers spoke like they were performing for a camera.
He kept his head down, his hood up, and his words to himself.
Still, there were moments — flashes — where he felt something close to normal.
In art class, when the pencil hit paper.
Or when he walked past the basketball courts after last period and saw kids laughing like the world didn't owe them anything.
One afternoon, he stayed behind after class to finish a sketch. That's when she walked in.
---
The Girl
She came in looking for a paintbrush, humming under her breath — low and soft, like she wasn't even aware of it.
She had a chipped ring on her finger and a backpack covered in doodles.
When she noticed Jayden, she froze for a second, then smiled.
"You're new."
"Yeah," Jayden said without looking up.
"I'm Tasha."
"Jayden."
Silence. She leaned over his desk, studying his drawing — a city skyline, jagged and rough.
"That's good," she said. "It feels… real."
He wasn't used to people complimenting his work.
"Thanks."
Tasha tilted her head. "You don't talk much, huh?"
He shrugged.
She smiled again — not teasing, just observing. "That's cool. Quiet people usually got the loudest stories."
Jayden didn't answer, but something about the way she said it stayed with him.
Later, when he walked home, he caught himself thinking about her — the sound of her voice, the way she seemed to see through him, not past him.
---
The Call
That night, Jayden found a note slipped under his door.
"Art club after school tomorrow. You should come — Tasha."
He stared at it for a while, wondering why anyone would invite him to anything.
He thought about crumpling it up, about pretending it never happened.
But the next day, when the final bell rang, his feet led him there anyway.
The art room smelled like paint and dust. Music played low in the background. Tasha sat cross-legged on the table, paintbrush in hand, her hair tied up with a red ribbon.
When she saw him, her face lit up like she'd expected him all along.
"Hey," she said. "You showed."
Jayden nodded, sitting quietly at a corner table.
For the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe he didn't have to explain himself. Maybe just being there was enough.
They didn't talk much that day, but something unspoken started between them — small, fragile, like a flame cupped in two hands.
---
That night, Jayden drew her.
Not perfectly — just the way he remembered her eyes when she smiled.
When he finished, he looked at the sketch and thought: Maybe this is what Malik meant.
Maybe making something — or someone — matter was its own kind of freedom