Symone is a 22 year old girl living in Harlem, New York. Her life changes when she meets a brownskinned guy with braids at her job who is apart of a mafia.
*the photos in the chapters are from Instagram, Pinterest, & Tumblr*
It's been two weeks since Rocky and I went to the studio and since then we've only gotten closer. Thankfully he hasn't brought up our little encounter which I very much do appreciate because I know I probably never will.
The day after we went to the studio, at work I was just thinking about the time in the car when Rocky suggested that I continue the whole modeling thing, and I still hadn't forgotten what he said either. "Photogenic," he said... "All the requirements as a unique woman." For some reason I will never forget that. That may be because I care about his opinion. Considering this, I went to Instagram, remembering that many modeling accounts DM'ed me from time to time. Obviously I never replied. The only time I had ever replied was about ten months ago when I did a modeling gig, and they paid me very well. After replying to several modeling pages via Instagram, it had been set that I had appointments to attend this upcoming week.
I had just gotten back to my house from the hospital to get more clothes. Staying with Rocky was enjoyable, and we spent a lot of time together recently, but I would be coming back soon, depending on whenever shit went down. Speaking of, I've been watching the fuck out of my back, and I'm kind of nervous. Anything could happen at any time. Rocky and I are targets.
After getting out the shower, I decided to do some cleaning-out in my bedroom, and I was currently rearranging my dresser, where miscellaneous items of mine lay. As I was setting my perfumes and such back up, I came across my photo album, the one titled "Way Back When..." and decided to go through it. The first few photos were just selfies I decided to print because I looked so good in them, and I was actually really enjoying doing so.
I could only be excited for so long, because after four photos of myself, the next was one of Justin and I. I tried to stop myself, but I couldn't. The tears just began flowing like a fucking river, and I was upset at myself for it. I held it together for a while despite my slight breakdowns, but now it really started to settle. My first love is dead, and although he treated me terribly, it had already been established that I do forgive him, even after all the pain he caused me. Before he began his cheating and beating habits, I could see he genuinely loved me. But truth be told, we weren't meant to be.
And I was fine with that.
But he died while we were still on bad terms, and everyone with common sense knows that's one of the worst ways for someone to leave permanently. Now I was left with the most clear memory that we ended on a terrible, terrible note. We never talked it out for clarity and it really did bother me because there was nothing I could do now, considering he was dead.
Flipping through the pictures, my tears sat on the photo albums and I didn't even have the energy to wipe them.
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