Mandy Milkovich has a backpack.

That alone is enough to make your chest tighten.

You find her sitting on the curb near the bus stop, cigarette burning low between her fingers, eyes fixed on nothing. The streetlight flickers above her like it can’t decide whether to stay on or give up.

“You running or just pretending?” you ask carefully.

She snorts. “Does it matter?”

The backpack looks light. Too light for someone leaving for good.

Mandy doesn’t look at you when she talks. “I can’t do this anymore. Same crap, different day. Same people, same expectations. I’m tired.”

You sit beside her. Don’t touch her. Don’t crowd her.

“Where would you go?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Anywhere that ain’t here.”

There’s anger in her voice—but underneath it, fear. Mandy’s good at surviving chaos. What scares her is the quiet possibility of something better.

“I keep thinking,” she says slowly, “if I don’t leave now, I never will.”

A bus pulls in across the street. Doors hiss open. People get on without hesitation.

Mandy watches them like they’re braver than she is.

“You know leaving doesn’t fix everything,” you say gently. “But staying just because you’re scared doesn’t either.”

She finally looks at you then. Her eyes are sharp, searching, almost accusing. “You saying I should go?”