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.

The new house smelled like lemons and something sweet baking in the oven. It was cleaner than anywhere Layla had ever lived — no smoke in the air, no dishes piled in the sink, no shouting voices echoing through the walls.


The foster mother, Mrs. Harris, bent down to eye level, her smile wide but stiff.


"You'll be safe here, sweetheart. We don't have much, but we do our best."


Layla nodded, clutching the stuffed bunny the caseworker had given her at intake. She didn't believe the words. She'd only just learned how quickly "safe" could disappear.


Her room was small, with a single bed, a dresser, and a pink quilt neatly tucked. A few toys sat on the shelf, clearly placed there for show — dolls with painted smiles, puzzles still in their boxes.


Layla sat on the bed, her legs swinging. It didn't feel like hers. Nothing here did.


She whispered, "Jayden?" into the quiet, as if maybe he'd answer from the walls. But only the tick of a clock replied.


In those first days, Layla realized quickly what was expected of her.


She watched the other foster kids — two older boys who kept their heads down and never spoke unless spoken to. They moved like ghosts through the house, quiet, obedient.


If being quiet kept her here, she would be quiet.


If being "good" kept her safe, she would be the best girl they'd ever seen.


But the cracks showed sooner than she wanted.


One night, she woke from a nightmare — blue and red lights flashing in her mind, Jayden's hand slipping from hers. She cried into her pillow, trying to muffle the sound.


Mrs. Harris opened the door, sighing. "Sweetheart, you'll wake the boys."


Mrs. Harris hesitated, then patted her shoulder. "It's okay. Just… try to be strong, alright?"


The words weren't cruel. But they still felt heavy, like another rule she had to follow.


By the end of the week, Layla wore her new mask well.


She smiled when asked. Ate when told. Sat quietly during chores.


"Such a sweet girl," Mrs. Harris told the caseworker.


But when the lights went out at night, Layla clutched her stuffed bunny and whispered into the dark:


"Jayden, I'm trying. Please don't forget me."


And deep inside, she feared he already had.


Chapter 23 - the new house