At the hollowed heart of the mall, where ghosts of Kay Jewelers once gleamed, we found our common ground, on a couch by a fireplace that never truly streamed. I, the present, arrived in a My Chemical Romance tee, a faded, black banner high, clad in the trusty Converse, a Zero Sugar Monster clutched beneath my weary eye.

The mall’s glass doors groaned, and then through he strode, a younger, greener me, The same dark uniform of angst, the same Chucks, a twin for all to see. But his Monster was the Original Green, a vibrant, electric, caffeinated threat, His teenage gaze, a worried bird, scanning the room— did he get stood up yet?

I waved across the polyester wilderness, a beacon of future’s doom and grace; He saw me, and the anxiety on his face gave way to pure, unadulterated, “What the actual space-time continuum?” bewilderment.

He sighed a dramatic, adolescent sigh, settling down with a hesitant slump. TSSSSSSSK! The twin metallic crack of our Monster cans met with a simultaneous thump. We sipped the sweet, toxic nectar of our shared generations, and then he let the query fly, a laser-guided missile aimed straight at my dome, shimmering bald against the sky:

     “Did you lose a bet, perhaps a dire wager, and that’s why the hair is gone?”

I laughed, a hearty, wind-swept sound that echoed through the empty retail dawn. “Oh, I wish for a simple bet’s expiry! No, my dear boy, the truth is far more bleak: Remember Claudia’s prophecy in her living room ‘salon?’ Before 30, a chrome-dome sneak!”

He paled, a little ghost of impending follicle doom. I leaned in conspiratorially near, “It seems like a tragic loss at first, a shedding of youth, I know you fear. But trust your future self, it’s a blessing disguised, a strategic retreat for the scalp’s great cause. Right now, the paradox confounds you, but time, my friend, will unveil the hidden applause.”

He considered my ensemble, from the band shirt to the sneakers worn and true. “Well, this clearly holds steady,” he chuckled, “a faithful, unchanging view.” “It does,” I affirmed, “This outfit is our proud, defiant, emotional shield. You wore this today unashamed, because of the comfort MCR’s lyrics yielded. That passion, that fire, it burns into adulthood, though it finds new, strange vents to express. Remember that yearning for radio waves? That voice you longed to possess?”

He recoiled, as if I’d uttered a sacred, broken oath, a whispered, forbidden sin. “We aced the business classes! FBLA State! We had the corporate ladder to begin! The UNC Business School, a fortress of logic! We were not going into radio, damn the naysayers’ spite! We had the safe, sensible plan laid out! What happened to the future of pure, financial might?” The Green Monster can shook in his hand, a tremor mirroring his soul’s young quake.

I placed a steady hand on his Converse-clad shoulder, for his youthful, shaking sake. “You walk away. You realize the spreadsheets were just a cage, exquisitely refined. You try to fit in the box until the box consumes you, until you’re broken, unaligned. And then, you jump. You dive headfirst into the sound booth, you find your voice, you ride the radio waves.”

“The ‘rents?” he gasped, his voice tight with the fear of the financial boomerang. “Do they toss us out into the street, with only our MCR playlist for relief?”

I smiled, a gentle, knowing curve that banished years of internalized grief. “Nothing so dramatic. They’re baffled, especially Dad, at the initial U-turn’s glare. But your passion, kid, it shines so brightly, from the very first broadcast you share. They become your biggest fans, your loyal listeners, and you get the degree—the whole radio shebang.”

“And the bullies?” he asked, a glint of lingering spite in his adolescent pang. “Do they get their just desserts, the karma we’ve always dreamed they’d pay?”

“At my stage, my focus is so fixed on the joy, on the love, on getting through the day, That what they think or what they suffer is merely background noise, a distant, dying sound. But if you truly need the morbid satisfaction, yes, karma eventually spins them into the ground. You don’t lift a finger, kid. You just have to be yourself, happy and free.”

A single tear, a droplet of bottled-up teenage anguish, escaped and rolled toward the MCR logo on his knee. “It’s so hard to keep pushing,” he whispered, his voice a frail, shivering sound. “It feels like I’m running in place, stuck on this desolate ground. Is it worth the relentless, confusing fight?”

I gathered him into a hug, a clumsy embrace beneath the mall’s fluorescent light. He stiffened first—a young man unaccustomed to comfort’s tender claim. “I know you’re not a hugger yet,” I murmured. “But with me, you’re safe from the world’s cruel game. The path ahead has switchbacks, yes, it won’t be a frictionless glide. But the payoff—the person who stares back from the mirror—is worth the whole entire ride. Just breathe. One day at a time, you hear? One day at a time.”

He had his future to get back to. I walked him to the bus stop’s cold domain, A final hug, a whisper of encouragement, and a parting, vital, humorous strain: “And go easy on the Green Monster, pal. Switch to the Zero Sugar soon. For both our hearts’ sakes, beneath this mall’s false moon.”

I watched the bus swallow him whole, a flash of black shirt and green can disappearing fast. I got into my Jeep, the silence a welcomed friend, ready for whatever the present had cast.

Biography:

I have always considered my art and craft to be my ultimate tool of expression. Since I was very young, I have always searched for ways to express whatever I am feeling through multiple different lenses, such as writing short stories, creating electronic music, or photography work. Writing allows me the freedom to get as creative as possible but also with as little of a budget as possible, as some of my other creative pursuits utilize expensive equipment that I may not have access to at all times or simply cannot afford on a whim, whereas with writing, all I need to do is pull up a blank document on my computer or even take a pen and start writing in a composition book that I carry with me to start writing when I feel inspired. Some of the artists that have inspired my work are gothic literature giants such as Emily Brontë, Edgar Allan Poe, and Mary Shelley. I have always found their works to be full of detail and symbolism that just makes my imagination come alive whenever I read any of their works. I also take inspiration for my writing from prolific songwriters such as Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance, Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy, and Noel Gallagher of Oasis. These writers and songwriters have all been unafraid to express themselves boldly in their works, and I strive to be as bold as they are in my storytelling. My goal with my writing is that I create something with enough detail to inspire someone to create their own works and keep the cycle of creativity and artistic expression flowing for generations to come.