The Sleepless Night
Jayden had trouble sleeping most nights, but this one felt worse.
The heater rattled in the corner. Terrence snored across the hall. The walls pressed in close.
He flipped open his sketchbook, tracing the crooked heart he'd drawn weeks ago. For some reason, it made him think of Layla. He hadn't seen her in years, hadn't heard her voice since the day the van took her away.
But in the quiet, her face came back sharp and clear.
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The Dream
When sleep finally came, it was heavy, pulling him under fast.
He was back in their old apartment — the yellowed walls, the sticky floors, the smell of smoke. He was six again, and Layla was beside him, small and laughing as they stacked empty soup cans into a tower.
"Don't let it fall, Jay!" she giggled, her eyes bright.
Then the tower crashed, cans clattering across the floor.
She froze, wide-eyed. "Mom's gonna be mad."
But before the yelling started, the dream shifted.
They were in the back of the police car now, blue lights flashing against the glass. Layla clung to him, her tiny hands gripping his sleeve. "Don't let them take me," she whispered.
He opened his mouth to promise — but no sound came out.
The car door slammed.
Hands pulled her away.
Her scream echoed: "Jay! Don't let go!"
And then she was gone.
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The Wake-Up
Jayden jerked awake, chest heaving, sweat dampening his sheets. His heart raced like he'd just run a mile.
For a moment, he thought he heard her voice in the hallway — faint, calling his name. But when he opened the door, it was just the hum of the heater and Terrence's laugh from down the hall.
He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his head. His throat burned. His hands shook.
On the desk sat his sketchbook. He grabbed it, flipped to a blank page, and started drawing with frantic strokes.
First the soup cans. Then the police lights. Then the outline of a little girl's hand clutching his sleeve.
At the bottom of the page, he scrawled in jagged letters:
I promised. I won't forget.
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The Next Day
At school, his eyes were heavy, but his mind was sharp. He kept glancing at Tasha, wanting to tell her, wanting someone else to carry the weight of that dream.
But the words stayed trapped in his chest.
Instead, he passed her a note.
On it, just one line:
Do you ever dream about people you lost?
She read it slowly, then looked up at him, her eyes soft and knowing. She didn't write back. She just nodded, once, and slid the note back into his hand.
It wasn't an answer. But it was enough.
---
That night, Jayden tucked the sketch of Layla's hand under his pillow, whispering to himself before sleep came:
Wherever you are, I'm not done fighting for you.
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