Till death do us apart

Taj was only sixteen, but she carried herself like someone who'd already lived a lot of life. The Bronx shaped her-row houses, corner stores, music spilling from open windows-but the church was where she felt safest. Her dad's choir was more than a place to sing; it was where her heart learned discipline, where her voice learned control, and where her soul learned how to feel music instead of just perform it.

Coko and Lee Lee weren't just friends, they were family. Every Sunday they showed up early, robes a little too big, whispering and laughing until Taj's dad gave them that look from the choir stand. When they sang together, people in the pews would turn their heads. There was something special about the way their voices blended, like they were meant to find each other. Even back then, folks would say, "Those three girls? Yeah... they got something."

After school, they'd cut through familiar blocks, bookbags slung low, dreaming out loud. Sometimes they'd head to Lee Lee's house, spreading notebooks across the floor, writing lyrics, practicing runs, pretending hairbrushes were microphones. Other days they'd just sit on the stoop, watching the city move, promising each other they'd make it out together. No matter what, they had a pact-no jealousy, no leaving anyone behind.

Taj was the glue. When Coko got hot-headed or Lee Lee got quiet, Taj knew how to balance them out. She listened more than she talked, storing away everything she felt, turning it into music later. She didn't know it yet, but all those moments-late-night talks, choir rehearsals, Bronx streets humming with rhythm-were shaping the woman she was becoming.