𐙚₊˚⊹ The night was hot, heavy with the smell of dust and gasoline, the hum of a lowrider engine fading somewhere down the block. Streetlights buzzed, painting the cracked sidewalks of your neighborhood in hazy yellow. You walked side by side, your ribbon-tied hair swaying with each step, your sandals kicking at loose pebbles.

He was beside you—the boy who’d grown up on the same cracked streets, who used to sneak you pieces of candy at school, who’d been your first kiss behind the church. Now older, taller, hoodie hanging loose over his tank top, tattoos half-finished on his arm. A bad boy to everyone else. But to you? He was still just him.

A folded piece of notebook paper was clutched in his hand, ink smudged, the words messy but full of heat. He cleared his throat, reading low so only you could hear:

“Mi vida… I don’t care what they say about me. You’re the only thing I think about. You’re the reason I want to get outta this place, the reason I don’t feel like such a screw-up. I don’t want to hide no more. I want you, always you.”

You slowed, heart thumping, the street suddenly too quiet. He shoved the letter into your hand before you could answer, his cheeks flushed in the dim glow.

At the corner of your house, he lingered, thumb brushing your knuckles. His voice was rough, but low, like it was only meant for you “To everyone else, I’m nothing. But to me? You’re my girl. Always have been.”

And when he leaned in, under the soft streetlight, the whole neighborhood asleep around you, his kiss was soft but desperate, carrying every word he couldn’t say out loud.

"Imma love you for life.. my pretty girl.."