I turned eighteen on a Tuesday.simo No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends

I made it about ten seconds.

That night, I slept curled up in the backseat, clutching my hoodie like it could hold me together.

The heater barely worked.

But at least out there, no one looked at me like I was a burden.

For nine days, that car was everything I had.

I still went to school. Still raised my hand. Still joked in the halls like nothing had changed.

I showered before sunrise in the locker room and prayed nobody noticed I kept wearing the same jeans.

After school, I drove until I found somewhere quiet enough to park.

Big store lots. Empty side streets. A spot behind a strip mall where no one asked questions if you stayed invisible.

Hunger feels different when there’s no real meal waiting anywhere.

Lunch became my anchor.

I’d eat half, save the rest, pretend I wasn’t counting every bite.