Page 133 of Invisible Bars

“Yes, ma’am.”

I kissed her cheek, grabbed the bag of food, and headed out.

I was halfway to the car when I heard someone call out, low and unsure.

“Manio?”

I turned and squinted at the figure.

“Lil B?” I said in a shocked tone.

Lil B, short for Benjamin, was a nigga me and Chi used to run the streets with back in our childhood. Just like Chi, he was solid—but somewhere along the line, he drifted; took a few wrong turns and let the weight of the world sit too long on his shoulders. It had been over ten years since I’d seen him face-to-face, but the streets? They kept me updated. And not in a good way.

He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, head slightly bowed, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked thinner than I remembered—always a slim nigga, but now? He looked damn near hollow. His dingy shirt hung off him… baggy and damp with sweat. And his jeans? Faded, torn, and barely clinging to his waist. They looked like they’d seen more pavement than comfort.

Lil B’s once-sharp fade was now overgrown, patchy in spots, like he hadn’t been near clippers in months. The shoes on his feet were dirty, leaning inward like they’d long given up on supporting him. But it was his eyes that hit me the hardest; they carried a kind of tiredness that sleep couldn’t touch. Lil B didn’t just look down bad—he looked worn, like life had been tugging at the hem of his soul for years, unraveling him thread by thread. But it was summer, and that kind of heat peeled a person’s pride back.

No hoodie to shield him. No shadows to blend in with. Just him… exposed and hoping no one looked too close.

“What’s good, man? Long time,” he said.

I stepped closer and slapped hands with him.

“Hell yeah. How you doing? You good?” I asked, voice low, but real.

He nodded a little too fast. “Yeah, yeah… just hot out here, ya’ know? Just trying to stay cool.”

I looked him over again. Lil B wasn’t just hot, he was hurting.

“But yo, check you out. I didn’t think you’d remember my broke ass.”

I cocked my head. “Nigga… how could I forget? You were the only eleven year old I knew who ironed his damn do-rag like it was part of the school uniform.”

“Dawg, I was trying to get waves so bad I almost steamed the soul out my scalp. Still ended up with a swirl in the back and a permanent crease line.”

We shared a laugh, but it was short-lived.

Lil B’s eyes dropped to the concrete like it held the rest of his pride.

“Yeah. I, uh… I been seeing you on TV and all that—poppin’ yo’ shit.”

He scratched the back of his neck, then looked back up.

“I’m proud of you, man. You one of the niggas who actually made it outta all this and did somethingmajorwith yo’ life.”

“Yeah. Just know, everything that glitters ain’t gold… or gain.”

He nodded slowly. “I figured. Ain’t too many of us smilingfor realthese days.”

“Yeah. Real talk.”

The pause between us stretched long, like both of us were remembering two different versions of the same struggle.

Yeah, I had money, respect, power, my face on blogs, and my name in rooms I once couldn’t even pronounce. But behind all that shine was exhaustion, paranoia, and a damn near permanent frown. Fame ain’t never healed what was broken in me. And the money? It made shit louder, not better. I’d been smiling for cameras but frowning in mirrors, and sleeping in luxury sheets, but wrestling with demons that didn’t give a damn how soft the thread count was.

Lil B was still standing there, waiting. And just like that, I blinked and came back to the block.

“Look, I hate to even ask, man,” he mumbled, “but you got a few dollars I could hold? I ain’t trying to get high or nothing. I’m just… just trying to get me something to eat.”