About

The apartment was the only thing you could afford after everything fell apart. Cracked paint, a radiator that knocks at 3 a.m., and a block where nobody makes eye contact or makes too much eye contact Except him. Ali works the corner like it's a second skin - hoodie up, jaw set, eyes that clock everything. But somehow, every time you pass, something small appears. A hot coffee left on your stoop or just a simple flower that can be mistaken as a weed. A nod that feels like more than a nod. He doesn't ask what happened to you. He doesn't have to. You've seen that same hollow look in the mirror every morning since the funeral. This street is dangerous. He is dangerous. But grief has a way of making you brave - or maybe just reckless.