They called it a "Residential Youth Center," but to Jayden, it just felt like juvie with better curtains.
Same locked doors, same rules, same tired faces.
Only difference was the paint — soft blue instead of gray — and a few motivational posters on the walls about "second chances" and "self-discovery."
Jayden didn't believe in either.
He arrived with a single plastic duffel, a thin folder of paperwork, and that quiet, empty feeling that came after every move.
The intake worker smiled like she'd practiced it in the mirror. "Welcome to Westbridge, Jayden. You'll do just fine here."
He'd heard that before.
The place housed about twenty boys, all between thirteen and seventeen. Each had a story — different details, same endings. Some were trying to make it through probation, others waiting to age out. Staff called them "residents." The kids called themselves "the forgotten."
Jayden's room was small — one bed, one desk, one window that didn't open. He dropped his bag on the mattress and sat down, staring at the wall. It smelled like lemon cleaner and old wood.
At dinner that night, he kept to himself, spooning lukewarm stew into his mouth and avoiding eye contact. That's when someone sat across from him — a tall, wiry kid with bright brown eyes and a half-smile that looked like it'd been there forever.
"You the new guy from Benton?" the kid asked.
Jayden nodded.
"Word travels. Name's Malik." He held out his hand.
Jayden didn't take it right away.
Malik chuckled. "Relax, man. I ain't tryna get you in trouble. Just sayin' what's up."
Jayden finally shook his hand. Malik's grip was firm, steady — not the kind that tried to prove anything.
Over the next few days, Malik kept showing up.
At breakfast, in group therapy, in the rec room. He wasn't loud, but he had that kind of energy that drew people in. Everyone knew him. Even the staff liked him.
He'd been there almost a year — caught up on a robbery charge he didn't like to talk about. "Long story short," he told Jayden, "I was in the wrong car with the wrong people. Story of my life."
Malik had an easy way with words — like he could take something heavy and make it sound almost light. Jayden didn't know how to handle that at first.
But slowly, Malik's calm started to rub off on him.
One night, after lights out, they sat by the window in the rec room, the hum of the vending machine filling the silence.
"You ever think about what you'd do if you got out for good?" Malik asked.
Jayden shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe get a job. Stay outta trouble."
Malik smiled. "That's survival, bro. Not living."
Jayden frowned. "Ain't much difference."
"There is," Malik said, leaning back in his chair. "Living means finding something that makes you forget the rest of this ever happened. Music, art, whatever. Something that's yours."
Jayden thought about the drawings he'd hidden under his mattress back at Maple Ridge.
He hadn't picked up a pencil in months.
The next day, Malik handed him a beat-up sketchbook and a dull pencil.
"Found this in the art room," he said. "Figured you could use it."
Jayden didn't say thank you, but that night, when the lights went out, he opened it. His hand moved slow at first, then faster, until the page filled with lines and shadows — the outline of a face that looked a little like Layla, a little like himself.
It wasn't much, but it was the first time in a long time he felt something other than anger.
Weeks passed, and Jayden and Malik became inseparable.
They lifted weights together, played basketball in the yard, and shared stories about everything the system had taken from them. Malik talked about his mom, who still sent him letters every month even when he didn't write back. Jayden listened quietly, trying to imagine what that kind of love felt like.
"Your mom still around?" Malik asked once.
Jayden hesitated. "Nah. She's gone."
Malik didn't press. He just nodded and said, "Then you got me, bro. We good."
Jayden didn't know it then, but that moment stuck.
Not because of the words — but because someone finally said we instead of you.
By the end of his stay at Westbridge, Jayden wasn't the same kid who walked in.
He still had fire in him, but it burned different now — slower, steadier. Malik had shown him that strength didn't always have to come with fists.
On Jayden's last night there, he found Malik in the rec room, sketchbook under his arm.
"I'm out tomorrow," Jayden said.
Malik grinned. "'Bout time. Guess you'll be famous before me."
Jayden smirked. "Yeah right."
Malik held out his hand. "Don't forget, man. Whatever you do next, make it mean something. Don't let 'em write your story for you."
Jayden gripped his hand tight. "I won't."
When he walked out the next morning, the air felt bigger somehow — like the world was waiting, even if it didn't care.
He didn't have much — no family, no real plan — but he had two names that mattered now: Miguel and Malik.
And for the first time, he wasn't completely alone.