I forgot how liberating it felt, sitting at the rooftop of the rundown shack on the 5th block. True, for some people it was nothing but a mere filthy shack filled with dusty, unwanted antiques and broken pieces of glass and wood but for us, it was our special place on earth.
It served as a hideout when your drunk father tries to beat you up and when my beloved mother would try to tie me up to a random, blonde-haired bimbo she'd meet at the church or the local market.
Basically, you'd sit at the rooftop and rant about your abusive father and I'd tell you about my mentally tormenting mother. You and I both had issues, ran from them, and sat at the rooftop until dawn would come to signal us goodbye.
Day in, day out, you'd come with new bruises on your frail, skinny body. Day in and day out, I'd come to the shack with a much stronger hope that one day, you'd color your hair blonde.
No one knew, even we were ignorant, the fact that the shack -the rooftop existed for you and I. Existed as our transport to a world of our own.
But day in, day out, I'd come to the the shack -no longer as eager as I used to be. Day in and day out, I'd wait knowing you wouldn't be able to come.
No one knew, even I were ignorant, the fact that the shack -the home we thought existed, was no longer enough for you. And that you needed more than a hideout, a home, and me.