The money ran out days ago. I stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Stopped caring.
I sit on a cold pavement, my arms wrapped around my legs, watching people pass by like I don’t exist. Because I don’t. Not anymore.
"Life is funny, isn’t it?"
The voice comes from beside me. I turn my head slightly and see an old man sitting next to me, his gray beard long, his clothes ragged.
I say nothing.
He chuckles. "You’re young. Pretty. You look like someone who lost everything."
I scoff. "And you look like someone who has nothing to lose."
"Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong," he says, smiling. "I had everything once."
I don’t know why, but I keep listening. Maybe because he’s the first person to talk to me in days. Maybe because I just need someone—anyone—to distract me from the unbearable pain.
He tells me stories. About life, love, betrayal. And I tell him nothing.
Until one night, when I finally break.
"I lost my son," I whisper.
The old man goes silent.
I swallow hard, staring at the empty coffee cup in my hands. "My husband—ex-husband—took him. He… replaced me." The words feel foreign in my mouth, like they belong to someone else.