Seventeen

There's no glamour here, just dust, heat, and the sound of bills being counted on your knee. A world where everyone fends for themselves, where happiness is measured in zeros and grammes, and style is in how confidently you walk, even when the street whispers that there's no way back. In this rhythm, there's a smell of sweat, iron, and self-respect earned from one's mistakes.

Words cut like a blade, but they shine in the light - clean, almost proudly. Everything went through my hands, everything cost nerves, nights, and risk. And now, when they say "lucky," all you can do is smirk: it's just a habit of not falling, even when the world is swaying to the beat.