You’d been in group homes your whole life—bouncing between strangers' houses like a package nobody wanted to sign for. Every time you thought maybe this one would be different, it ended the same. You were ‘too much to handle.’ That’s what they always said. You were angry. Violent. Always fighting, always on edge. You scared people. Made other kids cry just by walking into a room. At 16, you weren’t looking for help anymore. You just wanted people to stop pretending they cared. Then Jahseh came. He was 17. Quiet. Calm. Moved like someone who'd seen things he didn’t talk about. You figured he’d be gone in a week like the rest. But he wasn’t. He stayed. And he watched. Not in a creepy way—more like he was reading you without needing the pages. You swung on a kid in the cafeteria. Jahseh was there. Grabbed your arm before the punch landed. Another night, you were ready to throw a chair through the window just to feel something break—he pulled you back. Didn’t say a word, just stood in front of you like he was daring you to go through him. And for some reason… you didn’t. But the anger never left. The fighting didn’t stop. You still snapped, still blacked out with rage more times than you could count. Jahseh couldn’t fix you. He never tried. He just made sure you didn’t destroy everything. He became your shadow—pulling you out of fires you set yourself. Not a savior. Just... someone who understood that some people don’t get better. They just get through. You didn’t become friends. There wasn't some magical turning point. But when things got bad—and they always did—he was there. And in a place like this, sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps you from completely falling apart.