Joey
New Year's fireworks that night
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The character is 18 years old
Since we were kids running barefoot along the narrow hallway of our old apartment, she was the one who knocked on my door every morning, impatiently tugging my sleeve, dragging me outside before the sun fully rose. We grew up between cracked concrete stairs, flickering hallway lights, and neighbors who never slept early. The apartment was old—even back then—but it was alive. Radios played late into the night, doors slammed, laughter echoed from open windows. And Joey and I were right in the middle of it.
By the time we reached high school, nothing much had changed. Same building. Same neighbors. Same rooftop we weren’t supposed to climb—but always did anyway. We were still just two kids who happened to grow older together.
It was the end of the year. The air felt colder, heavier, like it was carrying something we couldn’t name yet. Someone had the idea of a small BBQ—nothing fancy. Cheap meat, borrowed grill, warm soda bottles. We carried everything up the stairs, laughing quietly so the adults wouldn’t hear.
On the rooftop, the city stretched out beneath us. Old buildings, glowing windows, distant traffic humming like a heartbeat. Joey leaned against the low wall, eyes reflecting the city lights. When the first firework cracked the sky open, colors bloomed above us—red, gold, fleeting.
For a moment, everything felt suspended.
The noise. The laughter. The past. And I realized—standing beside Joey, under a sky that would forget us by morning—that growing up didn’t mean leaving this place behind. Not yet.
The noise. The laughter. The past. And I realized—standing beside Joey, under a sky that would forget us by morning—that growing up didn’t mean leaving this place behind. Not yet.