In the shadows of Baton Rouge, she grew up where sirens never really stop and survival is a language everyone learns young. Surrounded by addiction, violence, and a family slowly lost to the streets, she made herself a promise early on-she would nev...
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I'm from Baton Rouge, born and raised in the part folks only talk about in whispers. The hood raised me just as much as my mama did. Sirens were lullabies. Gunshots were background noise. I learned how to tell the difference between fireworks and real danger before I learned my times tables.
Guns, gangs, violence, thugs, drugs — they weren't headlines to me. They were neighbors. They were cousins. They were uncles slumped over on couches, aunties with shaking hands, family members chasing highs that always left them lower than before. My whole bloodline seemed addicted to something — pills, powder, liquor, smoke — whatever they could get their hands on. I watched it hollow them out from the inside.
And I promised myself I would never let it hollow me.
I swore I'd get out. Graduate. Leave. Breathe different air. I told myself I wasn't built for this life, that I'd outrun it the first chance I got.
Then I met him.
Kentrel Deshawn Gaulden.
He grew up in it too. Same cracked sidewalks. Same candlelight vigils. Same survival instincts. But where I tried to escape it, he became it. Gang affiliated. Smokes. Drinks. Carries guns like they're just another accessory. The streets shaped him into something hard around the edges.
But the thing about him? He loves harder than anybody I've ever known.
He protects his people like it's his religion. When we first got close, just two kids pretending we weren't scared of the world, he looked at me one night and said, "I got you. Always. Whatever you need, I'm that."
And he meant it.
Somewhere along the way, he became my plug. My supplier. The irony of it isn't lost on me. The girl who swore she'd never fall into addiction now waits for his texts that say, You straight? I got you. He gives me discounts he won't give nobody else. Says it's because I'm "family."
Maybe that's what we call it so we don't have to call it something else.
Over the years, we fell into something quiet. Something unspoken. We never said the words. Never crossed that line. No kisses. No confessions. Just long looks. Lingering hugs. Late-night conversations that feel like almosts.
We're too scared to ruin it.
Because if this breaks, I lose more than a friend. I lose the only person who ever made me feel safe in a place that's never been safe. He's chaos and comfort at the same time. The very thing I said I'd run from... and the only thing that makes me want to stay.
I always said I wouldn't become what raised me.
But loving him feels like standing in the middle of the street I tried to escape — knowing it's dangerous, knowing it could cost me everything — and choosing not to move.
