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excuse all mistakes.

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𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐓-𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒.
⥊𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘛 𝘕𝘌𝘞 𝘠𝘖𝘙𝘒, 𝘉𝘙𝘖𝘖𝘒𝘓𝘠𝘕, 𝘕𝘠⥊
𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟓, 𝟏𝟏:𝟎𝟏 𝐚.𝐦.
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𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓; Not even the sounds of people yelling  I'm mad and cars honking in the busy East New York street below the large apartment building could be heard through Sebastian's thick glass window.

The dark-skinned boy laid stomach-down across the round beat-up Thomas the Train rug, which resided near the floor of his bed, his eyes intently following each word that covered the thin paper page. Sebastian was currently reading 'Wayside Stories'— a new book his librarian recommended to him.

He loved to read; It was one of the things he enjoyed doing, and the library at school was where he spent most of his free time. He didn't have a large collection of books, only a few old ones from his childhood because his mother couldn't afford to buy him the ones he wanted, so he borrowed them.

The chapter he was reading was about a witch teacher who turned her students into apples when they made a mistake in class, and Sebastian loved every part of it.

A faint knock on his window caused him to cease mouthing the Georgia font words on the off-white paper and glance through his peripheral vision at the clear glass— immediately seeing Kross and his curly head of hair peeking in.

The brown boy's thick eyebrows were slightly furrowed, his reddish-light brown eyes bouncing around quickly as if he was searching for something. With a giggle, Sebastian set the thick book on the cool tile floor beside the rugged, colorful carpet and hoisted himself off of the floor breathlessly so he could open up the window for his dear friend.

"Hey W-Whoopty," Sebastian greeted the older boy, who in return rested his brace-covered hand on top of Sebastian's small 4b Afro with a grin, and Sebastian couldn't help but smile either.

"Wassup B, you good?"

"Y-Yeah I'm o-okay." Sebastian nodded promptly, blinking hardly when he noticed a new small, red scratch under Kross's eye, but he didn't say anything— knowing that the older boy would brush it off nonchalantly.

Nas may have been young, but he wasn't as dumb as people made him out to be. He knew that Kross's mother was physically and verbally hurting him, even if he acted nonchalant about everything.

"You here by yaself?" The taller boy's thick brows knitted together while he adjusted the Nike hoodie he wore.

"Yeah, m-my mom's a-at work."

"How long you been here? You ate?"

"S-since early this m-morning. And y-yes." Nas nodded promptly, and he was telling the truth this time.

His mom remembered to do a little shopping for the house yesterday because the food stamps came in, and he was very happy to see things in the beat-up wooden cabinets, even if it wasn't much. It was better than having to be hungry at school just so he'd have something to eat at home— not wanting to bother Kross about personal things.