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MidReal Story
The Poor Housemate With The Billionaire Crush
Scenario:Jonathan Kenwood has led a hard broken life, a poor orphan, and his girlfriend is leaving him for a richer prospect. But his fortune is about to change dramatically. Jonathan inherited immense wealth from his grandfather, shocking everyone. He was the heir to the only multi-septillionaire family in the world. He indures constant criticism and and judgment from those around him. He vowed that those who labeled him a failure would eventually bow at his feet. Now, how will he use his newfound wealth to shape those around him as he reclaims his life. With a new found sense of responsibility, Jonathan will get revenge on those that treated him badly. Will he succeed?
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Jonathan Kenwood
He is a previously penniless orphan who secretly inherited a massive fortune from his grandfather. He is resilient, witty, and determined. Jonathan faced immense wealth and social status after discovering his grandfather's will, which transformed his life. He was mistreated by those around him due to his appearance and past circumstances. Jonathan vowed to reclaim his place and influence, using his newfound wealth to help others and exact revenge on those who wronged him, proving his intelligence and strength.
Maggie
She is a former girlfriend of Jonathan Kenwood. She is superficial, materialistic, and dismissive. Maggie left Jonathan for a more affluent partner, showing her shallow priorities. She initially dated Jonathan out of curiosity, calling him a "project." When her relationship with Jonathan ended, she publicly humiliated him by revealing details of their past encounters. Despite her cruel actions, Maggie unknowingly contributed to Jonathan's transformation into the multiseptillionaire he is today, serving as a catalyst for his selfdiscovery and rise.
Robert
He is an acquaintance of Jonathan Kenwood from his past. He is arrogant, snobbish, and dismissive. Robert mocked Jonathan's appearance and social status, treating him with contempt due to his background and circumstances. His condescending attitude fueled Jonathan's determination to succeed without relying on family connections. Though Robert’s insolence was intolerable when they met again after Jonathan’s inheritance, it played a minor role in Jonathan’s overall journey of selfempowerment and rise to power.
I was once a penniless orphan.
Now, I am the only heir to a multiseptilliondollar fortune.
My girlfriend left me for a richer guy.
Then, I inherited money from my grandfather.
She came back to me for money, but I had already found a new girlfriend.
I'm not poor anymore.
I'm the richest guy in the world!
Though I'm still the same person, some people treat me differently now.
They envy and hate me.
I'll get revenge on those who treated me badly.
Before that, let me tell you how I became rich.
When I was young, I was an orphan.
After my parents died, I went to live with my grandfather, Kenwood.
He was very kind to me and took care of me like I was his own son.
But he was also very strict and taught me many things.
He told me that life was not always easy and that I had to be strong to survive.
He also taught me how to be smart and resourceful.
I listened to him and learned everything I could.
When I turned eighteen, my grandfather gave me a choice: I could stay with him or go out into the world on my own.
I decided to go out on my own because I wanted to prove myself.
I didn't want to be dependent on my grandfather or anyone else.
I moved to the city and started working as a janitor.
I wake before the dawn breaks, in the same small apartment I've had since I moved to the city.
It's not much, but it's mine.
I roll out my yoga mat on the floor and begin my daily routine.
First, I go through a series of stretches and martial arts forms that my grandfather taught me when I was a kid.
Each precise movement brings back memories of him patiently showing me how to stand and move properly.
I transition into handstands and basic tumbling, using every inch of the room to make the most of my practice.
Between exercises, I run through business principles in my head - market analysis, investment strategies, compound interest.
My muscles ache, but I push through.
Mastering myself is the first step to mastering my circumstances.
"Why do you still live here, with all your wealth?" Sarah asked, her voice a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
"Because this place reminds me of who I am and where I came from," I replied, maintaining my focus on the exercises.
"But don't you want to enjoy your fortune, travel the world, buy a mansion?" she pressed, trying to understand my perspective.
After my morning workout, I sit at my worn kitchen table, staring at the inheritance paperwork.
The numbers blur together - more zeros than I can count.
Through the thin walls, I hear my neighbors arguing about unpaid bills, just like I used to.
I pull out my old budgeting notebook, filled with crossed-out expenses and desperate calculations from before the inheritance.
Page by page, I review each struggle: the missed meals, the borrowed bus fare, the shame of asking for payment extensions.
My hand trembles as I reach for my phone to cancel the automatic payments my lawyers set up.
I walk through the cramped apartment, running my fingers along the worn wallpaper and scuffed baseboards.
The air is thick with memories of late nights spent studying and early mornings rushing to job interviews.
In the bedroom, I open the closet, revealing a single suit that has seen better days.
The jacket's torn lining reminds me of the coins I used to store there, saving every penny for a rainy day.
I pull out a small tin box hidden beneath old shoes.
Inside, yellowed newspaper clippings tell stories of successful people who rose from nothing.
Among them, one article stands out - my grandfather's obituary, which I found by chance in a thrift store bin.
"Did you ever find out why he never told you about the fortune?" Sarah asked, her eyes widening as she glanced at the obituary.
"He wanted me to learn the value of hard work and self-reliance first," I said, closing the tin box with a soft click.
"So, all this time, he was preparing you for a life you didn't even know was waiting for you?" she mused, shaking her head in amazement.
I sit at my desk, surrounded by stacks of proposals from local non-profits.
Each one tells a story of families on the brink of eviction, children going to bed hungry.
The struggles are all too familiar.
Opening my laptop, I pull up the bank records for the homeless shelter where I once spent nights.
Their funding has been cut again, leaving them on the verge of closing.
I draft plans to renovate the shelter, expand its capacity, and create a job training center on site.
My phone buzzes - another message from Robert, bragging about his new yacht and the exotic destinations he's visiting.
I ignore it and continue calculating how many families the shelter expansion could help.
Taking out my grandfather's old notebook, I write down his favorite saying: "True wealth lifts others up."
I walk through the dilapidated homeless shelter with the building inspector, my footsteps echoing off the peeling walls.
The once-white paint is now a dingy gray, and the smell of mildew hangs heavy in the air.
We pass by the bunk where I used to sleep, the mattress stained and worn.
In the kitchen, I remember washing dishes for every meal just to have a place to stay.
The inspector points out black mold behind the wallpaper, water damage from years of neglect.
He explains that the foundation is cracked, threatening to collapse at any moment.
Each room holds memories of struggle and resilience.
Finally, we reach the last room on the tour.
The inspector's expression turns grim as he delivers his verdict: "Renovating this building would cost more than tearing it down and starting fresh."
Back in my apartment, I spread city maps across my table, circling potential locations for a new facility.
"Are you really going to go through with this?" Sarah asked, her voice a mix of concern and admiration.
"I have to," I replied, tracing a finger over the map. "If I don't, who will?"
"You know, your grandfather would be proud," she said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I sit in my cramped living room, surrounded by stacks of documents and proposals.
The coffee-stained folding table is covered with papers and notes for the city council meeting.
The shelter's current director, Ms. Chen, arrives early to review our proposal.
She's a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a determined spirit.
We sit down at the table, and I explain the plan to expand the shelter beyond just beds.
"We want to offer medical care, job training, and education," I say, pointing to the budget spreadsheets.
Ms. Chen nods enthusiastically.
"That sounds amazing. We've always wanted to do more than just provide a roof over people's heads."
I smile, remembering the countless nights I spent at the shelter five years ago.
"I know how much it means," I say, pulling out my old ID card from my wallet.
Ms. Chen's eyes widen in surprise.
"You stayed here?" she asks, her voice filled with disbelief.
I nod, handing her the ID card.
"Five years ago. It was one of the darkest times in my life."
Ms. Chen takes a deep breath, her expression softening.
"Well, thank you for coming back and helping us," she says, her voice filled with gratitude. We spend the next hour reviewing our proposal and rehearsing our presentation for the city council meeting.
Some council members are opposed to helping the homeless, so we need to be prepared to address their concerns.
As we work, my phone buzzes with texts from Robert bragging about his new beach house and expensive cars.
I silence my phone and focus on the task at hand.
Finally, we're ready to present our proposal to the city council.
We pack up our documents and head out the door, determined to make a difference in our community.
The city council chambers are packed with people eager to hear our proposal.
Ms. Chen and I take our seats at the podium and begin our presentation.
We explain how expanding the shelter will not only provide a safe haven for those in need but also create jobs and stimulate economic growth in the area.
I stand at the podium, gripping the edges tightly as I speak.
Ms. Chen sits behind me, her presence a reminder of the people we're fighting for.
"We're not just asking for a handout," I say, my voice steady but determined.
"We're offering a chance to uplift our community."
I pull out my old shelter ID card and hold it up as visual proof.
"This is more than just a proposal; it's personal."
Councilman Peters clears his throat, interrupting my speech.
"I understand your passion, but this project seems too ambitious," he says, raising an eyebrow.
"How can you ensure its success?"
I glance at Ms. Chen, who nods in encouragement.
"Success isn't just about numbers; it's about lives changed," I reply, meeting his gaze.
"We've done our research. Homelessness rates have increased by 20% in the past year alone. We need to act now."
The council members lean forward, intrigued by the statistics.
"And what about job creation?" another councilman asks.
"How will this project benefit our local economy?"
I smile, anticipating this question.
"That's where the job training center comes in," I explain, gesturing to the detailed plans on the table.
"We'll partner with local businesses to provide training programs tailored to their needs. It's a win-win situation." The room falls silent as they consider my words.
Councilwoman Rodriguez speaks up next.
"How will you ensure that the shelter is run efficiently and effectively?"
I take a deep breath before answering.
"That's where Ms. Chen comes in," I say, nodding towards her.
"She has years of experience running shelters and understands the needs of our community."
Councilman Peters leans back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with my response.
"Very well," he says finally.
"We'll review your proposal and get back to you within two weeks."
I exhale slowly, relief washing over me as I step down from the podium.
Ms. Chen approaches me with a warm smile.
"You did great," she says, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"We make a good team."
As we leave the chambers, I realize that this is just the beginning of a long fight for change.
I sit at my desk, scrolling through my old flip phone's contact list.
I find a few numbers of kids I used to know from St. Mary's Orphanage.
The first number is Marcus's.
We shared a room for three years before he aged out.
He was the only person who ever defended me when the other kids bullied me.
He also taught me how to fix bikes, and we made some spare cash by offering our services to people in the neighborhood.
Next, I find Amy's number.
She was the only girl who didn't mind that I collected bottle caps and kept them in a jar on my nightstand.
She even helped me study for my math tests, even though she struggled with dyslexia herself.
I type out a message explaining who I am and that I'd like to meet up sometime.
I hesitate for a moment before adding, "Remember that secret handshake we made up?"
I press send, my heart pounding in my chest.
What if they don't remember me?
What if they think I'm some weirdo trying to reconnect with my past?
The phone vibrates with a response almost immediately: "Of course I remember, and I've still got the bottle cap you gave me."
I sit at my kitchen counter, phone in hand, as Amy's voice crackles through the speaker.
She sounds excited, telling me about her Uncle Mike's struggling auto repair shop where she now works as a bookkeeper.
The same shop where we used to collect discarded spark plugs for my collection.
"He's a good guy," she says, her voice filled with affection.
"But the business is barely staying afloat. He's got debts piling up and customers dwindling."
I lean forward, intrigued by her words.
"What kind of repairs does he do?"
"Everything from oil changes to engine overhauls," she replies.
"He's really good with his hands."
I nod, even though she can't see me.
"That's great. But what about the job training program? How does he fit into that?"
Amy pauses for a moment before answering.
"Well, that's the thing. My uncle has a knack for working with troubled kids. He used to volunteer at the local juvenile detention center, teaching them how to fix cars. They loved it."
My eyes widen in surprise.
"That sounds amazing," I say, grabbing my grandfather's notebook and jotting down some notes.
"Maybe we can incorporate that into the program. Get some kids involved in fixing cars and learning a trade."
Amy's voice fills with excitement.
"That would be incredible. I'll talk to my uncle about it and see what he thinks."
I smile, feeling a sense of hope rising within me.
"Sounds good. Let's keep in touch and see where this takes us."
As we hang up, I glance at my phone screen, where Marcus's text message still glows.
"Hey J-man, long time. Still fixing bikes?"
I remember the countless hours we spent hunched over rusty chains in the orphanage courtyard, our hands black with grease.
I type out a response, then delete it.
Type out another one, then delete that too.
Finally, I tap out a simple reply: "Still got your wrench skills? Let's meet at Joe's Diner tomorrow."
I hit send and wait, my heart pounding in my chest.
The TV blares through the thin walls of my apartment, the familiar sound of a late-night talk show providing background noise.
I check my phone for what feels like the hundredth time, waiting for a response.
The clock on the wall reads 11:45 PM, and I know I should be sleeping, but I can't shake the feeling that Marcus will reply at any moment.
I pull on my worn jeans and faded t-shirt, the same outfit I've worn every day for the past few weeks.
The diner meeting with Marcus is in an hour, and I want to make a good impression.
I grab my wallet and keys, then head out the door.
The familiar smell of coffee and grease hits me as I push open the door to Joe's Diner.
I scan the room, looking for Marcus.
He's already seated in a corner booth, nursing a cup of coffee.
He looks different than I remember - thinner, with calloused hands and tired eyes.
When he sees me, he stands up and extends his hand. "Hey J-man," he says, his voice a little deeper than I remember.
"It's been a while."
I shake his hand, trying not to notice how much it's changed.
"Hey Marcus. You look good."
He chuckles and sits back down.
"You're too kind. But hey, you look good too. You've grown up."
I take a seat across from him, feeling a little awkward.
We don't have much in common anymore, and I'm not sure what to say.
But before I can think of anything, he pulls something out of his jacket pocket and slides it across the table to me.
It's his old wrench, the one we used to fix bikes with all the time when we were kids.
"I figured you'd want this back," he says, a small smile on his face.
I pick it up, feeling the familiar weight of it in my hand.
"Thanks," I say, turning it over in my hand.
"I missed this thing."
Marcus nods and takes a sip of his coffee.
"Yeah. Me too."
"So, what have you been up to all these years?" Marcus asks, leaning back in his seat.
"Trying to make something of myself," I reply, glancing at the wrench. "And maybe help some kids along the way."
Marcus raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Help kids? Like us back in the day?"
I lean forward, spreading out the sketches of the shelter's proposed auto repair training center across the scratched formica table.
Marcus picks up the drawings, his calloused fingers tracing the garage bay outlines.
"See, we're thinking of setting up a job training program at the shelter," I explain.
"My friend Amy's uncle runs an auto repair shop and he's agreed to teach basic mechanics classes."
Marcus looks up, his eyes lighting up.
"That's awesome. But what about bikes? Can we fix bikes too?"
I smile, remembering our childhood passion for tinkering with anything on two wheels.
"Of course. We can set up a separate workshop for bike repairs. Maybe even offer classes for younger kids."
Marcus grabs a napkin and starts sketching modifications to the workshop layout, his pencil moving quickly as he adds details from his years of repair experience.
"This is great," he says, his voice filled with excitement.
"I can already think of some tricks we learned back at the orphanage that would come in handy here."
I pull out my phone and check my calendar while he continues sketching on the napkins.
The shelter visit would need to happen before the afternoon council meeting.
"How about we meet at the shelter tomorrow morning? Say 9 AM?"
Marcus hesitates, looking up from his drawings.
"Uh, I can't make it that early. I work the night shift at a warehouse."
I remember those late-night shifts all too well - the exhaustion, the constant struggle to make ends meet.
"I can pick you up after your shift," I offer, knowing how hard it is to get around without a car.
Marcus starts to shake his head, his shoulders tensing with pride.
"No, it's okay. I'll figure something out."
But I press on.
"We really need your expertise with the bike repair setup. And it'll be good to catch up some more."
I park my old Honda outside the warehouse at 11 PM, watching as the workers file out after their shift.
Marcus emerges last, still wearing his orange safety vest and carrying a lunchbox.
He looks uncertain when he sees my car, but I step out and wave, pretending not to notice his worn boots or the patch on his uniform that reads "Janitorial Staff."
We drive in silence to the shelter, the late-night streets empty except for delivery trucks rumbling past.
The only sound is the hum of the engine and Marcus's occasional yawn.
When we pull up to the shelter's back entrance, I unlock the door using my old resident key that Ms. Chen let me keep.
Marcus hesitates at the threshold, his hand gripping the doorframe tightly.
I flip on the lights, revealing a dusty workshop space that hasn't been used in years.
His eyes light up at the potential.
We stand side by side, both leaning against a workbench covered in old tools and oil stains.
The fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting shadows on the concrete floor where we plan to teach kids how to fix their own bikes.
Marcus picks up a rusty wrench, turning it over in his hands as he explains how to arrange the repair stations and which tools we'll need to stock.
His voice grows more animated as he talks about proper tool storage and the best ways to keep the workshop organized.
I watch him, seeing the passion that's always been there beneath the surface.
I reach over and place my hand on his, steadying the wrench as he gestures with it.
"This is going to be good," I tell him.
He looks at me, his eyes tired but hopeful.
And for a moment, I see the kid he used to be - before life knocked him down again and again.
I lean against the workbench, watching as Marcus carefully arranges the old tools in a row, explaining how he plans to teach basic bike maintenance.
His hands move with practiced ease, even though I can tell he's fighting exhaustion.
"I should get going," he says finally, glancing at his phone.
"Need to get some sleep before my second job."
I pull out my checkbook and write a number that would cover six months of his salary.
"Consider it a down payment for your help with the shelter," I say, sliding the check across the workbench.
Marcus's eyes widen as he reads the amount, then he stiffens and pushes it back toward me.
"I can't accept this," he says, his voice tight with pride.
I tear the check in half and toss it aside.
"Then consider this instead."
I pull out a contract from my pocket and slide it across the workbench.
"Head Instructor of our bike repair program. Salary's $60,000 a year, plus benefits. You'll oversee the workshop setup and teach classes to local kids."
Marcus's eyes widen as he reads through the contract, his grip on the wrench tightening.
When he looks up at me, there's a mix of hope and hesitation in his eyes.
"I...I don't know if I can do this," he says quietly. I push the contract closer to him.
"It's not just about fixing bikes," I explain.
"It's about giving kids a chance to learn something new. To feel useful. And you're the perfect person to lead that."
Marcus stares at me for a long moment, then looks down at the contract again.
Finally, he picks up a pen and slides it across the workbench toward me.
"I need some time to think about it," he says quietly.
I nod, understanding more than he knows.
"I'll give you all the time you need," I say softly.
"But just remember - sometimes taking a chance is the best thing that can happen to you."
Marcus nods slowly, tucking the contract into his pocket.
He hesitates, then finally speaks, "You really think I can make a difference here?"
I nod, meeting his gaze with unwavering certainty.
"More than you know, Marcus. More than you know."
I walk through the empty halls of St. Mary's Orphanage, my footsteps echoing off the walls.
Marcus is a few steps ahead, his eyes scanning the room as if searching for something.
We've been here for hours, exploring every corner of the building that was once our home.
The orphanage is scheduled for demolition next month, and I wanted to see it one last time.
The building is just as I remember it - the same creaky stairs, the same worn linoleum floors, the same smell of disinfectant hanging in the air.
But everything feels different now, like I'm seeing it through new eyes.
We reach the third floor and find our old room at the end of the hall.
The door is still there, with our initials carved into the frame.
I run my fingers over them, feeling a lump form in my throat. Inside, the room is empty except for two metal bunk beds pushed against opposite walls.
They're covered in dust, but I can still see the faint outlines of where we used to draw on them with markers.
In the corner, there's a loose floorboard where we used to hide candy and comic books.
Marcus picks up a wrench that's lying on top of one of the beds, probably left behind by one of the maintenance workers.
He turns it over in his hands, studying it intently.
I walk over to the window and look out at the street below.
Every Saturday morning, Marcus and I would stand here and watch as families came to visit their children who were up for adoption.
We'd make bets on which ones would get picked first and which would be left behind.
Marcus breaks the silence, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
"Remember how we used to pretend we were invisible, so no one would pick us?"
I nod, a bittersweet smile on my lips. "Yeah, we thought if we stayed together, it wouldn't matter who came and went."
I sit down on the lower bunk, running my fingers over the faded marker drawings on the metal frame.
Marcus sits down beside me, and we both stare at the wall in silence for a moment.
The afternoon sun casts long shadows through the grimy window, making it seem like time is standing still.
Marcus suddenly gets up and walks over to the loose floorboard in the corner.
He pries it up, revealing a small space underneath.
I watch as he reaches inside and pulls out a worn comic book.
It's one of our favorites, with a familiar superhero on the cover.
"How did this end up here?"
I ask, surprised that it was overlooked all these years.
Marcus shrugs, flipping through the wrinkled pages.
"I guess no one ever bothered to look under here."
I take the comic book from him and examine it more closely.
The artwork is just as vivid as I remember it - bold lines and bright colors that leap off the page. Marcus and I used to spend hours poring over comics like this one, dreaming up our own adventures.
We'd imagine ourselves as superheroes, saving the world from evil villains and protecting those who couldn't defend themselves.
It was our way of escaping reality, of pretending that we weren't just two orphans stuck in a system that didn't always care about us. I turn to Marcus, a smile on my face.
"Remember how we traded candy for this issue?"
He nods, his eyes lighting up with recognition.
"We pooled our allowances for weeks so we could buy it."
I carefully fold up the comic book and tuck it into my jacket pocket.
"We should keep this," I say softly.
"It's a piece of our past."
Marcus nods, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah, a reminder of who we were and who we can still be."
I look at him, feeling the weight of our shared history.
"Marcus, do you think we could have been those superheroes?"
I ask, leaning against the dusty wall.
The comic book lies between us on the worn mattress, its pages yellow and brittle from years of being hidden away.
Marcus traces the faded marker drawings on the wall with his fingertips, his eyes following the lines as if reliving memories.
His voice is rough when he finally speaks.
"Remember how we saved up for this?"
I nod, unable to find my voice.
My throat tightens as I spot a crude drawing of two stick figures wearing capes - our childhood dream of becoming heroes who could save everyone.
Marcus picks up the comic, his hands trembling slightly as he opens it.
The pages crackle with age, releasing a musty scent that fills the room.
I watch as he carefully turns the pages, each one revealing more of our childhood fantasies.
We had spent hours poring over this comic, imagining ourselves in the roles of the heroes. I remember how we counted pennies and nickels every week, saving up for months until we finally had enough to buy this issue.
It was a luxury we couldn't often afford, but it was worth it for the escape it provided.
Marcus's eyes are distant as he stares at the pages, lost in memories.
I can see the weight of years bearing down on him, the simplicity of our childhood dreams now clouded by reality.
He carefully folds the comic and hands it to me.
"We should keep this," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It's all we have left."
I take the comic from him, feeling its worn cover between my fingers.
I nod, knowing that sometimes the smallest things hold the greatest meaning.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, the comic book resting on my lap.
Marcus sits beside me, his eyes fixed on the pages as I turn them.
The sound of crackling paper fills the room, punctuated by our occasional comments about a particular panel or character.
As I turn the page, I notice dog-eared corners and faint smudges from late-night reading sessions under the covers.
Marcus points to a panel where we had circled our favorite hero - the one who helped poor kids and fought against injustice.
I run my fingers over the ink, tracing the lines of his cape and the determination in his eyes.
We had always admired him, wanting to be just like him when we grew up.
At the bottom of the page, I notice our childish scribbles in the margins.
We had written notes about how we would become heroes too someday, how we would save people and make a difference in the world. As I reach the back cover, a folded piece of paper slips out from between the pages.
Marcus picks it up, his hands trembling slightly as he unfolds it.
It's a yellowed sheet of notebook paper, creased from years of being tucked away.
I watch as Marcus unfolds it, his fingers moving slowly and carefully.
The paper is worn and faded, but our childish handwriting is still legible.
Marcus's voice cracks as he reads the words aloud.
"We, Jonathan and Marcus, promise to meet again when we're grown up and help kids like us, just like Captain Justice does."
He pauses, his eyes scanning the bottom of the page where a date is scribbled in blue crayon.
"Look at this," he says softly, pointing to the date.
"It's from the night before you were transferred to another orphanage."
I reach out and touch the workbench to steady myself.
I remember that night vividly - how we had made a pact to find each other again someday, no matter where life took us. I look at the signature in blue crayon, my heart swelling with nostalgia.
We had sealed our promise with our secret handshake - a series of intricate moves that only we knew.
Marcus looks up at me, his eyes searching mine.
"Do you remember it?"
I nod, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"Of course I do," I say, extending my hand towards him.
Marcus grins, clasping my hand as we begin the familiar sequence, our movements slow but sure.
I freeze as his words hang in the air, my hand still clasped in his from our secret handshake.
The familiar calluses on his palm press against mine, a reminder of countless nights spent fixing bikes together, sharing dreams and fears.
Through the dusty window of the orphanage, the afternoon light catches the comic book on the floor between us, illuminating the promise we made so many years ago.
My throat tightens as I remember the morning I was transferred away - how I searched every foster home for him afterward, hoping to find my childhood friend again.
Marcus's grip tightens slightly, his rough fingers trembling against mine.
"Jonathan, I never stopped looking for you," Marcus admits, his voice barely a whisper.
I feel a surge of emotion, my heart pounding in my chest.
"I thought you'd forgotten," I confess, my voice cracking with the weight of years lost.
We sit at my kitchen table, the shelter renovation plans spread out before us.
Marcus leans in, studying the blueprints as I point out potential spaces for a children's activity room and library.
I use a highlighter to mark the areas, envisioning the possibilities.
"We should add a section for comic books," Marcus suggests, his eyes lighting up.
"And maybe some repair manuals. Reading helped us get through tough times."
I nod in agreement, jotting down his suggestions.
"Once we secure funding, we can start making these changes."
Marcus looks up at me, his expression serious.
"Who's funding this project?"
I hesitate for a moment before answering.
"I am. I've been saving up for years."
Marcus's eyes widen in surprise.
"You're funding the entire thing yourself?"
I nod, feeling a mix of determination and uncertainty.
"I want to make a difference. I want to help kids like we were."
Marcus falls silent, his gaze drifting back to the blueprints.
After a moment, he speaks again.
"Show me the budget breakdown."
I pull out the documents and slide them across the table to him.
He scans the pages intently, his brow furrowing as he calculates the costs in his head. "This is impressive," he says finally, looking up at me with newfound respect.
"You really have thought this through."
I lean forward, my voice filled with conviction.
"We can make a difference here. We can help hundreds of kids."
Marcus picks up the note we wrote as children, reading it again as if searching for inspiration.
Then he pulls out his phone and dials a number.
As he waits for an answer, he looks at me with determination in his eyes.
"I'm quitting my job at the warehouse," he says firmly.
"I'm all in on this project."
I stare at him, stunned by his sudden decision.
"Are you sure, Marcus?" I ask, my voice filled with concern and hope.
He nods, his expression resolute. "I've been waiting for something like this my whole life."
I reach across the table to shake his hand, our calloused palms meeting once more.
The morning light catches the renovation plans spread between us, casting a warm glow over the room.
Marcus's grip is firm, just like it was all those years ago when we fixed bikes together.
I can still feel the engine grease embedded in his knuckles from years of mechanical work.
Our eyes lock, both of us understanding the weight of this moment.
The handshake transforms into our old secret pattern - two taps, a twist, and a snap.
We chuckle, remembering the countless times we used it to seal our promises.
Marcus's shoulders relax as he squeezes my hand one final time.
"Let's do this, Jonathan," Marcus says, his voice filled with determination.
"We'll build something incredible together," I reply, feeling a renewed sense of purpose.
"And this time, nothing's going to tear us apart," Marcus adds, his eyes shining with resolve.
I freeze as his hand brushes mine, the contact sending an electric jolt through my body.
The renovation plans scatter forgotten on the kitchen table as our eyes lock.
His dark gaze holds mine with an unfamiliar heat that makes my breath catch.
The familiar comfort of our childhood friendship suddenly shifts into something different, something charged with possibility.
My heart pounds as I notice details I've overlooked - the strong line of his jaw, the warmth of his calloused fingers still touching mine.
The air grows thick with tension as neither of us moves away.
Marcus breaks the silence, his voice low and steady.
"Jonathan, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. "What is it?"