JJ Maybank

The living room was chaos: Pope and John B bickering over dishes, JJ on the couch with a broom like it was a guitar, sand spilling from his pockets. Kiara and I sat on the floor, sharing chips, watching the circus. “Stupid,” I muttered. She raised a brow. “Or is it?” “Slow.” “Maybe it’s..” “Useless.” Kiara laughed. “But there’s a cuter word for it.” We met each other’s eyes, stifling a grin—then together: “Manchild.”