Concrete Hearts

It started on the B train. Rain tapped against the windows as Brooklyn blurred by. Mia, headphones in, sketchpad open, drew quietly in her lap—urban angels, spray cans for halos, cracked pavement under their feet.

Across from her sat Jay. Hoodie up, Timberlands scuffed, his knuckles still red from the last fight he didn’t want to be in. He wasn’t looking for anything. But he couldn’t stop glancing at her. The way she blocked out the world like it wasn’t worth hearing? That said something.

She caught him staring. Didn't smile. Just held his gaze like a dare. That was the beginning.

They crossed paths again in a corner store on Flatbush. “You always draw people without wings?” he asked, nodding at her sketchbook.

“Maybe they haven’t earned them yet,” she replied.

He smirked. Bought her a honeybun. She hated sweets. But she took it anyway.

---

Days turned into late-night walks, murals painted side by side under streetlights, and kisses stolen on rooftops while sirens howled in the distance. Their love didn’t bloom like a flower. It cracked through concrete—rough, real, and a little reckless.

But the city has a way of testing love. Jay had a past that wouldn’t let go. Mia had dreams too big to shrink. One night, she found blood on his hoodie. Another, he found train tickets in her journal.

“I don’t want to leave you behind,” she whispered.

“You won’t,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”

They parted at dawn. Mia boarded a train heading north. Jay watched it disappear into the tunnel. Then turned and walked back into the storm the city had waiting for him.

---

Months passed.

One evening, in a Harlem gallery, a new artist debuted.

Mia.

Her piece? A mural-sized canvas. An angel without wings.

In the corner, a man watched quietly.

Scuffed

boots.

And a honeybun in his pocket.