Anthony wasn’t used to this type of silence. Not from you.

From the start, their relationship had been loud in the best way. They met at a block party almost a year ago, music shaking the pavement, smoke from the grill curling into the summer air. He remembered the first time he saw you, standing by the cooler in a sundress, smiling at something your friend said. He didn’t waste time; he slid through with that easy grin and some slick line about “you look like trouble in my favorite kinda way.” you had laughed. He’d been hooked ever since.

That was their thing, laughing. Always. He made sure of it. Even on the days when the hood felt heavy and the grind was rough, he’d pull up to your spot, play some old school R&B, start dancing in your kitchen till you caved and joined in. you used to call him your 'walking summer' and he wore that title with pride. He knew he wasn’t perfect, he had a temper when lines got crossed, he stayed moving in the streets, but for you, he always tried to be warmth and light.

So to be walking next to you now, and feel nothing coming back? That was throwing him all the way off.

They were making their way down the block, his gold bracelet catching the afternoon sun as he tried, for the third time, to lace his fingers with yours. you pulled away, eyes locked on the sidewalk.

Anthony: “Ayo, what’s good with you?” he asked, voice soft but laced with confusion. "Bruh, I don’t even know what the hell I did."