This is where I belong.
I find a spot behind an old textile warehouse—two walls, an overhang, sightline to the street. I picked it on instinct. I’ve done this a thousand times. Different alleys, same geometry.
Home sweet home.
The thought should be funny. But it doesn’t feel quite like it did before.
I settle against the wall and take inventory. No food, but I’ve gone longer. No jacket, which is a problem—nights are getting cold.
Phone’s still at 2%.
I stop myself from reading their texts again.
I wrap my arms around myself. At least it’s comfortable. The stone is cold through my pants but cold stopped being cold somewhere around year three.
This is fine. This is what I know.
So why does my chest feel like someone’s sitting on it?
Day one, I tell myself it’s hunger.
Day two, I know I’m lying.
The ache started small—a tightness behind my ribs that I wrote off as stress. But it’s not getting better. If anything, it’s getting worse. Like something’s fraying inside me, thread by thread, and I can feel each one snap.
I keep moving. That’s the rule. Never stay too long in one place, never get comfortable, never let anyone remember your face. I know how to do this. I’ve been doing this since I was eleven years old.
But my feet keep doing something wrong.
I’ll pick a direction and start walking, and twenty minutes later I’ll pass the same cracked sidewalk. The same graffiti tag on the corner pole. The same boarded-up shop with the faded awning.
I’m circling.
Not on purpose. But my body keeps pulling me back toward—
Toward what?
I know the answer. I don’t want to know the answer.
I take a different route. Cut across two streets, duck through an alley I haven’t used before, come out on a block I don’t recognize. Good. New territory. I can work with new territory.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back at the same fucking corner.
What is wrong with me?
I stop walking. Stand there in the middle of the sidewalk like an idiot, staring at the graffiti tag.
You’re losing it. You’re finally, actually losing it.
A woman pushes past me with a muttered curse. I don’t move. My legs feel heavy. My chest feels heavier.
This is withdrawal. That’s all. Two weeks of regular meals and a soft bed and people who—
People who what?
I close my eyes.
Locke’s hands. The way they curled into fists when Harrick got too close. The way they went gentle when he touched my face.
