Photo Source: Unsplash CONCRETE STARS We grew up believing streetlights were constellations . That sirens were weather. That every corner shop held the same three ghosts: the lonely man, the exhausted mother, the kid trying not to become either. At night the estate glowed orange. Foxes moved like rumours between parked cars. Somewhere, always, glass breaking. Somewhere, always, music too loud. And somehow we still found beauty there. In cigarettes shared outside parties. In...