The group home never felt like a place to sleep. The bleach stung her nose, the buzzing lights never shut off, and the walls pressed in like a coffin. Layla learned quick that real rest only came outside.
That's why she followed Marcy.
---
Rooftop Breath
They climbed fire escapes like they were ladders to freedom, sneakers scraping rusted metal. Marcy always laughed at the top, hair whipping in the wind, city sprawled below in neon and exhaust.
"Up here," Marcy said, breathless, "nobody owns us. No staff. No cops. No system. Just us."
Layla looked out at the city lights, feeling small and infinite all at once. For a few minutes, she almost believed her.
But deep down, she knew the city didn't forget. The streets always wanted something back.
---
Little Hustles
Marcy taught her quick tricks. How to lift a wallet without touching the back pocket too long. How to slip candy bars past the counter at the corner store. How to read people—what they wanted, what they feared, how to walk through their blind spots.
Layla hated it at first. Hated the way her chest pounded, the way her palms sweated. But every time she pulled it off, a rush shot through her veins. Not just adrenaline. Power.
It wasn't about candy or cash. It was about not being helpless. About proving she could take when the world never gave.
---
The Fire Inside
At night, back on her mattress, she couldn't shut it off. Her heart beat too fast, her mind replaying every moment. She pressed her hand to her chest and felt the fire there, small but hungry.
She opened her tattered notebook and sketched the city skyline—crooked buildings, cracked streets. In the corner she drew herself, tiny, flame in her chest glowing brighter than the streetlamps.
Underneath she wrote: Not theirs. Mine.
---
The Warning
One night, Marcy leaned against the chain-link rooftop fence, cigarette glowing red in the dark. "Careful, L. The city'll chew you up if you let it. Gotta take your bites first."
Layla smirked. "Maybe I'm hungry too."
Marcy laughed, sharp and reckless. But there was something behind her eyes—something Layla didn't miss. A shadow of someone who had already lost more than she could afford.
---
Layla climbed back through the window before curfew, the bleach smell rushing her nose again. But the fire didn't go out this time. It burned brighter, sharper.
She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was learning to take.