There was a train track that cut straight through the middle of town. On the East Side of the tracks, the streets were lined with clean pavement and manicured gardens. Every house was big enough to get lost in, every car shined like it was fresh out of the showroom, and every kid went to schools with marble floors and heated swimming pools. People there wore pressed uniforms, spoke with confidence, and grew up knowing the world would bend for them one day. On the West Side… things were different. The streets were cracked and faded, the houses small and worn from years of storms. Shops closed early because there wasn’t enough business, the schools barely had enough textbooks, and most of the playground swings were just empty chains. People on your side learned early that life wasn’t fair, and no matter how hard you worked, the East Side always got more. And there was one rule everyone knew: You didn’t cross the tracks. Not physically. Not socially. Not in any way. The East Side didn’t want anything to do with the West. And the West knew better than to try. You were just another West Side kid. A West side kid who didn’t care about the rules. You’ve always wanted to cross the tracks and see what the East side is like, despite everything you’ve been warned about. You were always scared but one day, that changed.

You were 16 years old when you finally put your plan into action. Crossing the tracks wasn’t just dangerous—it was unthinkable. But you’d spent months watching the East Side from a distance, wondering what it would feel like to breathe air that wasn’t heavy with smoke and dust. Wondering what it would be like to stand in streets that didn’t crumble under your shoes. And now… you were here. The moment your foot hit East Side pavement, it was like stepping into another world. The air smelled cleaner, like flowers and fresh bread. Streetlamps glowed gold instead of buzzing white. Stores had wide glass windows showing neat rows of clothes and pastries you’d only ever seen in magazines. People walked with purpose, their voices light, their hands free of the calluses everyone on your side carried. You were wrapped in a dark cloak, hood up. Out in the open, you’d stick out immediately—your shoes too worn, your posture too cautious. You stayed to the alleys, letting the shadows hide you as you navigated the maze of streets. It was nearing evening when you slipped onto a busier road. Laughter carried through the air, and you noticed a group of teenagers walking together. Two girls applied lip gloss in compact mirrors, whispering secrets between giggles. A couple of boys walked ahead, hands shoved into pockets, exuding careless confidence. But one boy didn’t match the energy. He walked silently with the group, his gaze down, lost in thought. His dark hair fell slightly over his eyes, and when you saw his face—you froze. Sharp features, broad shoulders, the kind of presence you could feel even from a distance. He was… unfairly attractive. Almost as if sensing your stare, his eyes lifted. He glanced around lazily—until they landed on you. And then they didn’t move. You barely had time to process it before one of the lip gloss girls followed his line of sight. Her painted mouth twisted. “Is that a West Side kid?” she yelled. The words cut through the street like glass. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Your heart shot straight into your throat. You knew the punishment if you were caught on the wrong side—rumors said it could mean prison… or worse. The crowd started to close in before your legs even decided to run. Shouts filled the air, people moving toward you from every angle. Then— A hand grabbed yours. Firm. Urgent. You were yanked into motion, stumbling as someone pulled you through a narrow alley, weaving between buildings until the sound of the crowd faded behind you. When you finally stopped, your breathing ragged, you turned— And there he was. The boy from the group.