Concrete Roses

Maya Alvarez moved through the crowded streets of Harlem like she belonged there—because she did. The city had shaped her, toughened her, and taught her that nothing came easy. The sidewalks were cracked, the streetlights flickered, and sirens were a lullaby she had long grown used to. 

The 2 Train rumbled beneath her feet as she adjusted the strap of her leather tote. Her phone buzzed—another email from The Pulse, the digital magazine where she had clawed her way up to become an editor. 

Langley:Need that feature on Deja Monroe by tomorrow morning. No excuses.

Maya rolled her eyes. Of course, Mr. Langley didn't care that she was already on her way to meet Deja, one of the most successful natural hair salon owners in the city. He only cared about deadlines. 

As she approached Crown & Coil, Deja's salon, the scent of coconut oil and shea butter drifted into the night air. Inside, women of all shades and textures filled the space, getting their curls defined, their locs twisted, their edges laid. It wasn't just a salon—it was a sanctuary. 

Deja stood at the front, effortlessly regal in a flowing cream-colored jumpsuit, her waist-length locs wrapped in a golden headscarf. She glanced up, her full lips curling into a smile.

"Miss Maya Alvarez," Deja greeted, arms crossed. "The journalist with no time for self-care."

Maya smirked. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Deja motioned for her to sit in one of the chairs. "And yet, your hair is screaming for a deep conditioner. You stressed, girl?"

Maya let out a tired laugh as she sank into the plush chair. "Between this job and trying to figure out what the hell I want out of life? Always."

Deja started parting Maya's thick curls, applying a fragrant oil to her scalp. "So, tell me—what does Maya want?" 

Maya exhaled, staring at her reflection in the mirror. "I want more." 

Deja raised a perfectly arched brow. "More of what?" 

"More than this job," Maya admitted. "More than just writing for someone else's vision. More than meeting deadlines for stories I don't even own." 

Deja smirked knowingly. "You ever think about starting your own thing?" 

Maya hesitated. "Of course I have. But it's not that simple." 

Deja gently massaged her scalp, her voice calm but firm. "Nothing worth it ever is. But let me tell you something—Harlem wasn't built by people who played it safe." 

Maya let those words settle. Maybe it was time to stop surviving and start creating something for herself.