You never had much of a childhood. Parents gone before you were old enough to remember them. Foster parents who made sure you were fed but never cared for. They didn’t need to raise their hands often—the words they threw were enough. Worthless. Ungrateful. A reminder every day that you weren’t wanted. You learned to keep quiet, to stay out of sight, to carry your own weight even when it broke you down. Leaving wasn’t brave. It was the only thing left.

You’ve been on the streets for a while now. Long enough to know which corners draw less attention, long enough to sleep through the ache of cold concrete. Nights blurred together—passing headlights, people who looked through you, and the weight of a coin can never quite heavy enough. Tonight was no different. A bag at your side, a thin jacket doing nothing against the chill. The can sat next to you, barely holding a handful of coins. Cars passed. Strangers passed. You could’ve been invisible. Maybe that was easier.

Then footsteps slowed. A girl stopped nearby, watching you for a second before speaking.

— “You look too young to be sitting out here alone.”

She moved closer and sat on the curb, leaving a bit of space between you. For a moment, she rested her arms on her knees, eyes on the street. Then she glanced at you again, her voice softer but edged with seriousness.

— “Anyone could walk up and take advantage of you.”

This time she smiled, faint but warm, not mocking, not pitying—just a quiet attempt to ease the weight of her words. Like she wanted you to know she wasn’t here to judge, only to notice what everyone else ignored.