Justin Jackson | Ju
Atlanta, Ga
I sat on the edge of my bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but my mind was a fuckin mess.
Miami.
Das all a nigga could think about for real.
The thought of Paris being out there without a nigga chewed at me in a way I couldn't shake.
Don't get a nigga wrong or none, I trusted ha wit everything I had—she was my girl, the one who held me down.
I had ha name tatted and I'a tat dat shit again no doubt.
But dat ain't stop my mind from racing.
My past had taught me that trust could be broken just as easily as it was earned, and now, with every passing hour that Paris ain't answer my calls, that old paranoia was creeping in.
I had called ha not once, not twice, not even three times.
I called ha luh ass 8 gah damn times, dat mf ain't answer not one of dem hoes.
Each time, the call went to voicemail.
I tried to keep cool at first—maybe she was asleep, maybe she was with ha parents, maybe there was a good reason she wasn't picking up.
I pray it really is, fa ha sake.
But as the minutes turned to hours, that calm was long gone.
I wan hearin nunna dat.
I grabbed my phone again, the screen lighting up with Luh mama contact.
My finger hovered over the call button before I hit it once more, listening to the ringing.
Tell me why dat mafucka went to voicemail again?
A nigga physed after dat shit.
I waited for ha luh message to play before I heard the beep.
"Yo, Paris, what da fuck you got goin' on? Yo ass really out there not answering my shit?" I started, pacing around the room.
My mafuckin heart was beatin.
"I done called yo ass bout 15 gah damn times, luh bruh. You see my shit. Ain't no way yo luh ass ain't seein' it. I know you with yo parents, but you ain't too busy to hit me back. You actin' like I'm some random nigga assum'. It's all good, imma show yo ass some, on me."
I clenched my jaw, shaking my head as I struggled to keep my emotions in check.
I didn't want to think about it—ha out there in Miami, doing who knows what with who knows who—but the thought wouldn't leave me alone.
"Look, I ain't even tryna be dat nigga, but you got me feelin' like you on some bullshit right now," I continued, my voice low but intense.
"Yo ass bet not be out there playin' with me, Paris. You know how I get down. I told yo ass I'a put a spell on you. Don't make me pull up and find out somethin' I don't wanna see."
I ended the voicemail, tossing my phone onto the bed.
Crazy thing is, I hated feeling this way—jealous, paranoid, like I couldn't control my own thoughts.
I ain't want to believe that Paris was out there doing me dirty, but the longer she didn't respond, the more my mind ran wild with worst-case scenarios.
In my mind, she was getting crushed gang 💔.
I trusted ha, but trust ain't stop me from thinking about all the things that could go wrong.
