THE BROKEN ROAD. By Cathleen Mostert

Curtis stood beneath the crumbling bridge, his thin frame shivering despite the warmth of the setting sun. At twenty-four, he should have been figuring out his future — not digging through garbage bins for scraps. His hoodie was torn, shoes barely held together, and his heart was a mass of bruises he’d stopped trying to count. He had no home. No family. No real friends. Just the streets and the ever-present ache of being forgotten. The city buzzed with life around him — cars rushed by, couples laughed as they walked hand in hand, and street vendors shouted about specials he could never afford. It was a different world, one that moved forward while Curtis remained stuck in a shadowed corner of existence. He pulled his tattered backpack closer and sat on a cold concrete slab, staring out at the cars flashing past like they were being chased by something invisible. Maybe they were. Maybe everyone was just running from something, but at least they had somewhere to run to. Curtis had nowhere. He lit a cigarette he found half-used in an ashtray. The taste was bitter and stale, but it gave his fingers warmth for a few seconds. He hated the smoke. Hated the way it reminded him of his father — if you could call him that. A man who only ever came close enough to curse or swing a belt. Curtis had run away at thirteen. Some people said that was too young to be on the streets. They were right. But survival didn’t ask your age. It just demanded you keep going or get swallowed whole. A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Hey… are you hungry?" He turned, startled. A girl, maybe a few years younger than him, stood holding a paper bag. She looked out of place — clean shoes, hopeful eyes, kindness not yet worn out of her. Curtis didn't answer. He’d learned to be suspicious of kindness; it often came with strings or false hope. She didn’t flinch at his silence. Instead, she knelt down and gently set the bag beside him. Curtis didn’t sleep that night. He tried, curling up on the cardboard he’d laid out beneath the bridge, pulling his thin jacket tighter around him. But his mind kept drifting back to the girl. The one with the bright eyes. The one who saw him and didn’t look away. Most people glanced past him like he was a stain on the sidewalk. She didn’t. Why did she stop? Why me? He reached for the water bottle and took another sip. It was almost empty now, but he cradled it like it was worth gold. His stomach, still humming from the sandwich, had quieted enough for him to think clearly for once. That’s when the memories crept in — the ones he didn’t invite. His mother’s soft voice, whispering prayers when she thought he was asleep. Her hand on his forehead when he had the flu. The way her eyes looked the night she didn’t come home. The police said she was gone. Just gone. Like the wind took her and never gave her back. Then came the beatings. His father blaming him for everything. For her leaving. For their broken home. For being born. Curtis rolled onto his side, eyes burning. He wanted to scream, but the street had no use for screams. They got swallowed by the noise, ignored like trash. No one listened. Until her. The next morning, he stood in the same spot she’d found him. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, eyes scanning every passerby. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Maybe just to prove she wasn’t a dream. Maybe to see if hope wasn’t a mistake. Hours passed. The sun moved higher, hotter. Curtis almost gave up. But then — there she was. Same girl. Same soft smile. She carried another bag. “I thought you might be here,” she said, stepping closer. “I made you something warm this time. It’s not much, but…” Curtis took the bag, this time with a nod. Still no words. He wasn’t ready for words yet. Words were promises, and promises got broken. But he let himself look at her, properly. She had dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, freckles dotted across her nose like someone had painted them there on purpose. Her eyes were a deep green — the kind that reminded him of trees and life. Not this grey, cracked place he lived in. “I’m Jamie,” she said. “Just in case you ever want to know.” He blinked. Jamie. It suited her. She sat beside him on the curb without asking. It made him uncomfortable, but not in a bad way — just unfamiliar. “Do you have a name?” she asked gently. He hesitated. “…Curtis.” It came out rough. Unused. Jamie smiled wider. “Nice to meet you, Curtis.” No one had said that to him in years. He almost didn’t believe it. They sat in silence after that. Not the awkward kind. The kind that felt okay. Like maybe he didn’t have to fill every moment with something. Like maybe his presence wasn’t a burden. And for the first time, Curtis wondered if maybe — just maybe — there was a different kind of life waiting. Somewhere past the broken road. “There’s a sandwich and a bottle of water. That’s all I have right now… but I’ll be around tomorrow if you’re still here.” Curtis stared at the bag. She was already walking away, her steps light, almost as if the city hadn’t stolen her soul yet. He waited until she was gone, then opened the bag slowly. Peanut butter and jelly. Not fancy, but fresh. Real food. Clean water. A stranger’s choice to care. Curtis didn’t cry. He hadn’t in years. But as the sandwich touched his lips, something stirred — not in his belly, but deep inside the place he thought was dead. He didn’t know it yet, but that tiny act would be the beginning of something bigger. For the first time in a long while, he felt noticed. Not fixed, not rescued — just noticed. And that was something.