Rocco-s Pov 17 Now

He walked out into the September dusk, the air sharp with the promise of autumn. Seventeen was not an answer. Seventeen was a bridge, and he was standing in the middle, the past a dim shoreline behind him, the future a fog he couldn’t see through. But the wind on his face felt like something. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t broken. Like maybe he was just becoming.

“Ma,” he said, leaning over the railing. rocco-s pov 17

He’d kissed her then. Not because he was brave, but because for one second, the pressure inside him found a pinhole. She kissed him back, and for three songs’ worth of time, he forgot he was seventeen. He forgot the absent father, the tired mother, the screaming silence. He just was . He walked out into the September dusk, the