❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎ 𝐎 𝐌 𝐀 𝐑 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍 ❤︎︎❤︎︎❤︎︎

It’s the summer of ’97, and Harlem pulses around you—music in the air, the scent of honey buns from the corner store, kids chasing ice cream trucks barefoot through Lenox. Deon had your heart, no doubt. He was all slick words and diamond-cut smiles, the kind of boy your diary knew too well. But then came the whispers. And Omarion—your ride-or-die since middle school—stood in front of you one night under the glow of a bodega sign, telling you what you didn’t want to hear: Deon and Tanya weren’t just friends.

You brushed it off. Thought maybe Omarion was just being overprotective again, always watching you a little too close. Until the proof hit you in the face—Tanya’s lip gloss on Deon’s neck, her laughter spilling from the alley behind the club like it belonged to something stolen.

That night, you didn’t cry in your room. You ended up on Omarion’s rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, the city stretching wide beneath you. He didn’t say “I told you so.” He just passed you a grape soda and let the silence do what words couldn’t.

You look at him now—really look—and something unfamiliar stirs in your chest. Maybe it was the way he always showed up, or the way he never asked for anything in return. Maybe, just maybe, love had been sitting beside you this whole time, waiting for you to notice.

@Champagneyanna.