UNTIL YOU BECAME MINE

CHAPTER THREE (Wandering)

ANA'S POV

Walking out of that hospital with no destination in mind, I stumbled into the street, crying so hard that I lost my voice. Still, I was determined to stand firm.

The city looked so different, maybe because I was seeing it through confusion.

I had been there a hundred times, but always with my dad holding my hand, guiding me home whenever we stayed too late at the market. We would stroll home laughing about random things. But now, that same street looked different. It looked like it belonged to other people. The shops where I usually took shelter whenever it rained unexpectedly were locked up tight. The chair outside the old bakery where my dad used to buy bread was still there, but it no longer felt sacred.

My stomach began to rumble, an unfamiliar sound that didn't seem like grief. I hadn't eaten since the day before the machines stopped beeping. I didn't know if I had lost my appetite or if some part of me thought eating would make me feel guilty—eating comfortably when his heart had stopped.

But hunger doesn't care whether you are mourning.

It only gets louder.

At that moment, I realized I didn't even have a plan for food or shelter. Then I thought about going back home. Not that I welcomed the idea, but it crossed my mind. I wanted to open the door, lie down, and grieve.

But we were already three months behind on our rent. Our landlord had been complaining for weeks. He was already making arrangements to repossess the house. Besides, going back home meant going back to my dad's scent.

The thought left as quickly as it came.

So instead of thinking, I kept wandering.

I found a spot near the bus depot where a woman was roasting corn. The smell drifted towards me, and my stomach growled again. I thought about buying one.

I didn't have any money.

I had never planned on ending up on the streets, but I was already there.

I had to survive.

The only option left was to ask her.

"Please," I said. I don't know if she heard me because my voice came out smaller than I intended.

"Please, Ma, I haven't eaten. I can even work for it. Please, Ma..."

I didn't even know what I could possibly work for. I just wanted a bite.

She looked at me—not cruelly, but not kindly either. She looked at me like someone already carrying too much and unwilling to add another burden.

"I am so sorry, my dear. I don't have a spare one."

I nodded. Not because I understood, but because I couldn't blame her.

Everyone carries their own cross.

She was probably carrying one made of iron and steel.

I just kept wandering.

I asked twice more—a man closing up his phone repair stall and a group of women waiting for a bus that seemed to be taking much longer than expected. The women already looked disappointed, but I still asked them. They all gave me the same answer.

They had nothing to spare.

I understood something that night.

I realized that begging wasn't really about the words you used or the way you said them. It was mainly about how much of yourself you were willing to let a stranger see for free.

If I hadn't been in such desperate need, I could have simply walked away with my dignity. But I needed everything so badly that I had no choice but to ask. I let strangers see my hunger and my fear. I let them know that six days ago, I had a father and a home, and now I had neither.

After giving so much of myself away, I got nothing back most of the time.

I began to understand why some people avoided meeting your eyes as you walked past. It wasn't always rudeness or cruelty.

It was math.

There was barely enough for themselves and probably their families, leaving nothing to spare for strangers.

By the time I reached the edge of the old market district, I had forgotten I even had feet.

I was just walking.

I didn't know where the strength keeping me on my feet was coming from. My feet no longer felt like mine.

I remember thinking that my dad wouldn't be happy seeing me begging strangers for scraps.

Then I remembered he wasn't anywhere to see me anymore.

That realization hurt more than the hunger ever had.

I felt hollow.

In my state of emptiness, I heard voices—too loud for that hour. They laughed as though there was more to life than what I was witnessing, the kind of laughter that made the surrounding street feel even emptier than it already was.

I looked up.

There were four of them... or maybe five... gathered beneath a damaged streetlamp near the old textile warehouse.

They were the kind of men my dad had always warned me to stay away from. He never had to explain why.

I already knew.

They wore torn jackets and boots that looked as though they had walked farther than I ever had.

One of them kept his eyes on me longer than I was comfortable with. His gaze moved slowly, assessing every part of me.

The look in his eyes made my already hollow stomach grow even colder.

I stopped in my tracks.

I didn't know whether I had just stumbled into the most dangerous night of my life or found the first people who had willingly noticed me since I wandered into the streets.

I only knew there was no point in running.

There was nowhere left to run to...

And there was nothing left in me to run with.