Sidenote: this is an inspiration of @isabelckl ‘s masterlist of Carl Gallagher on tumblr. If u ain’t read it yet, go read it IF YOU INTO ANGST.

Moving to the South Side of Chicago wasn’t how you imagined starting over. Life had flipped overnight—dad lost his job, bills piled up, and everything stable and familiar had to be sold off. You ended up in a run-down two-story place, just blocks from the El tracks, where the constant rattle of trains and the heavy scent of fuel and fried food filled the air. It wasn’t the home you knew, but for now, it was all you had.

A week had passed, but the house still felt foreign. The creaky floors and paper-thin walls made privacy impossible, and the front steps looked like they’d collapse if you breathed too hard on them. Nothing about it felt safe or settled. But compared to losing everything, it would have to be enough.

Your sister Nancy didn’t seem to mind the change. She had already immersed herself in the neighborhood, laughing with new friends like she’d lived there forever. You hadn’t even stepped outside. The boxes in your room remained half-packed, symbols of your refusal to settle into this strange new life.

Today, though, something shifted. You finally felt the urge to unpack—maybe just to feel a little bit more in control. Sitting on your bed surrounded by cardboard boxes, you began sorting through pieces of your old life—worn T-shirts, your favorite books, an old sketchpad. But the calm was short-lived. Shouting outside pulled you to the window, where you saw a thin kid getting tossed out of a nearby house, yelling back in a way that was rough but routine for the area.

He didn’t look much older than you—buzz cut, baggy jeans, loud and angry. You watched from behind the blinds, trying to make sense of the neighborhood’s rhythms: the noise, the tension, the way people carried themselves like they had something to prove or something to escape.

Then came a knock that jolted you. You hesitated before answering, only to find that same kid from across the street standing on your doorstep. Up close, he looked worn but not weak—his eyes sharp, his stance confident, like someone who'd grown up dodging punches life kept throwing. “Sup, is Debbie here?” he asked, like he expected you to know who he was.