Under the Flyover

They called us hooligans like it was a diagnosis. Like once the word stuck, nothing else mattered.

Friday night. Concrete sweating rain. Neon buzzing like a bad idea that

won’t shut up. We met under the flyover because that’s where the city forgets to

look. Hoodies up, voices low, hearts loud. No leader.

Just momentum. The match had already ended but the night hadn’t. Someone lit a flare

and the air turned red, like the city was blushing or bleeding, hard to tell.

Drums started somewhere behind us. Not music. A pulse. You didn’t think.

Thinking was for Mondays. We moved as one messy organism. Sneakers slapping