Page 39 of Love You Like That

I answered, voice low. “Hello?”

“Yavanni,” Jaylen’s voice came through smooth, warm. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

I smiled faintly despite myself. “You mean midnight?”

“Guilty,” he chuckled. “But you always did answer my late-night calls back in the day.”

I sighed softly. “What’s up, Jay?”

“Just wanted to check in. You crossed my mind. Been thinking about your interview. I killed mine. I start next week.”

“Congrats. Yeah, mine went well,” I said simply. “They offered me the job.”

“I knew it,” he said proudly. “Knew they’d be crazy not to. Look at you, Nurse Sinclair.”

I laughed for the first time that day, a real laugh, short but warm. “Thank you.”

“I mean it. You’ve always had that light about you. Even in high school when I was trying to act all smooth, you had me low-key nervous. Still kinda do.”

I rolled onto my side, smiling into the pillow. “Jay…”

“Nah, I’m serious,” he said. “You good, though? You don’t sound like you celebrated.”

I paused, picking at a loose thread in the sheets. “It’s been a long day.”

He didn’t push. Just let the pause stretch before gently changing the subject. “Well, we’re both gonna be working at the same spot. We should grab lunch one day. Celebrate the come-up.”

I smiled again. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he said, voice dropping slightly. “And for what it’s worth… I know life’s crazy right now. But I’m glad I ran into you, Yavanni. Feels like the universe is lining things up.”

That tug in my chest returned. Softer than Ezra. But still real. “I don’t know what the universe is doing,” I said honestly. “But I’m just trying to keep my head on straight.”

Jaylen chuckled. “One day at a time, right?”

“Exactly.”

We talked for a few more minutes. The conversation was way and light. He didn’t ask too much or dig too deep. Just let me talk about anything but heartbreak. And when we hung up, I lay there in the dim light, phone pressed to my chest.

I still felt the ache of Ezra but there was a tiny crack in the heaviness. A little space where the light slipped in. I didn’t know what was next but I knew I wasn’t completely broken. Not yet.

S i xm o n t h s.

One hundred and eighty-two days since I walked away from her. And still, every poem I wrote found its way back to Yaya. I never said her name in interviews and honestly, I didn't need to. She was in the ink. In every line I spit, every page I filled and every silence I broke. Yaya was the reason the world fell in love with my pain. I wrote her into everything. And the crazy part? I was thriving.

I had a dope penthouse out in Brooklyn with big ass windows that caught the sunrise like scripture. Hardwoodfloors. Stainless steel. Minimal furniture. It didn’t feel like home yet, but the shit was dope.

I'd decided to start driving again and bought a black-on-black Benz AMG coupe. It was the first thing I ever had with my name on it that didn’t come with trauma attached. And, my debut book of poetry,Ink to Bone, hit #3 on the charts two weeks after release. Everyone called me “a rising voice from the soul of the streets.”

TikTok had teens mouthing my lines like scripture. The video forDead Flowers & Goldstreamed two million times in a week on YouTube. I didn’t even promote it. I was blowing up quickly but fame doesn’t heal you. It just makes your wounds look beautiful in public. And no matter how many fans told me I saved them… I still couldn’t save us.

That afternoon, I stood in front of my closet with a half empty glass of Henny and a heavy silence around me. My iced out Cuban link rested against my bare chest as I stared at myself in the mirror.

I had to get ready for my book signing in Harlem at The Verse House. It was an independent Black-owned bookstore that had carried Langston Hughes before Amazon existed. I finishedgetting dressed in a hunter green button-down, sleeves rolled to my elbows, and dark grey jeans. My wrists lit up in ice. Then, I adjusted my rings and laced my black boots before my phone rang.

“Yo,” I answered, clearing my throat.

“You dressed?” My agent, Ty, asked.

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