Jayden, a boy born in the late ’90s, grows up in chaos — both parents trapped in addiction, poverty, and neglect. Taken into foster care after a police raid, he’s separated from his younger sister Layla, a loss that leaves a scar he carries everywhere.

From there, Jayden is tossed through the foster system, group homes, and institutions, learning the unspoken rules of survival: don’t cry, don’t trust, don’t get attached. He builds walls around himself, and his reputation as an “angry, unmanageable” kid follows him from school to school.

At twelve, fighting and defiance put him on the fast track to juvenile detention. Inside, he meets Miguel, an older boy who becomes his first real friend. Miguel teaches him that not every battle is worth fighting, and that survival sometimes means keeping your peace. That friendship plants a seed in Jayden, one that stays with him long after release.

Later, in a youth institution, Jayden meets Malik, a boy with a calm, steady presence who pushes him to see beyond anger. Malik gives him a sketchbook, helping Jayden rediscover art as a way to process his pain. These two friendships become anchors in a life that feels like it’s always being ripped apart.

On the outside, Jayden struggles with freedom — curfews, probation, teachers who don’t believe in him, and peers who see him as nothing but “the foster kid.” But he also meets Tasha, a girl who shares his love for creativity and becomes a fragile, on-and-off connection throughout his adolescence. She sees through his anger to the quiet boy underneath, but Jayden’s fear of abandonment pushes her away just when he needs her most.

Now fourteen, Jayden finds himself caught between two versions of himself: the fighter the system keeps shaping him into, and the boy searching for something — or someone — to believe in. Every fight, every sketch, every late-night thought pulls him closer to a breaking point, where he’ll have to decide if he’ll keep letting the system define him, or if he’ll learn to write his own story.

Red and blue flashing through the cracked blinds, painting the walls of their tiny apartment in jagged light. The sound of doors slamming. Heavy boots on stairs.


She clutched Jayden's sleeve, her tiny fingers knotted tight in the fabric. He squeezed back.


"It's okay, Lay," he whispered, though his voice trembled.


The door burst open. Shadows filled the room. Shouting voices.


Layla buried her face in Jayden's shoulder, heart hammering. She smelled smoke, sweat, fear. Someone grabbed her mother's arms, another pushed their father against the wall. The shouting got louder.


Those words she understood, even at six years old.


They were pulled apart in the hallway. A woman with a clipboard bent down to her level, smiling a smile that didn't reach her eyes.


"Sweetheart, it's okay. You're going to a safe place."


Layla screamed, reaching for Jayden as two men held him back.


His face twisted, desperate. "I won't! I promise, Lay! I promise!"


But his voice disappeared under the slam of the van door.


The last thing she saw was his hand pressed against the window as the car pulled away.


The ride was silent except for her sobs. The woman with the clipboard offered her a juice box, but Layla shook her head. She wanted Jayden, not juice.


The first foster house was neat and strange — everything too clean, too quiet. The woman who opened the door wore a forced smile, like she'd been practicing it.


But Layla didn't feel safe. She felt empty.


That night, lying in a strange bed with sheets that smelled like detergent instead of home, she whispered into the darkness:


Her own voice was the only one that answered.


From that night forward, Layla learned two things.


One: promises didn't stop people from leaving.


Two: if she wanted to survive, she had to be small, quiet, and easy to keep.


She closed her eyes and clutched the blanket tight, imagining Jayden was still beside her. In her dreams, they were still together. In her dreams, he still kept his promise.


But when morning came, all she had was the silence of a new house — and the ache of knowing her brother was somewhere else, just as lost as she was.


Chapter 22 - taken