And then she’s gone.
I stand there for a long minute, staring at the door she didn’t bother closing, the apartment suddenly too quiet, too empty. The eviction notice is still taped to the door, fluttering slightly in the stale air like it’s mocking me.
I don’t sit down. There’s nothing here that’s mine anyway. I shoulder my backpack, take one last look around the room I’ve lived in for years, and walk out.
The streets of Los Angeles feel different when you don’t have anywhere to go. The cold has teeth this time of year—a deep-winter chill most people forget that LA gets after dark.
It’s late—much later than I realized. I’d spent most days finding reasons not to be home, wandering parks or setting up my little jewelry display wherever foot traffic looked promising. Now, I’d be lucky to find a shelter still taking people in.
A tiny, weary-eyed woman answers the door at the first shelter. She doesn’t even let me speak before dashing my hopes.
“Intake hours are over. Try again tomorrow.”
Her voice was as bland as her expression.
I walk for miles to another shelter, my feet aching, my jacket doing almost nothing to keep the cold out. They’re full. The woman at the desk acts better than the last, but all she can give me is a practiced apologetic look, one that she’s probably given to a hundred other people tonight.
I try my luck at churches next. Three of them. All dark. All locked.
The neighborhood shifts as I keep walking. The streetlights grow farther apart. Storefronts are closed now. The street is mostly quiet, but I swear I can feel eyes on me. Every dark corner lurks with danger—just waiting for the right opportunity to pounce on me. My skin prickles, every nerve screaming at me to move faster.
I pull my jacket tighter and keep my head down, my chest knotting with an all too familiar desperation.
Just when I’m about to resign myself to the fate of spending the night on the streets, I see a sign that says: WILDER HOUSE.
The sign is small and understated, nothing flashy or welcoming, but the wordhousemakes my chest loosen with relief. I hurry toward it, hope flaring bright and reckless in my chest.
Up close, the illusion shatters.
It’s not a shelter. It’s an apartment building—five stories of plain brick rising up into the night, windows dark or softly lit behind curtains. No bars. No peeling paint. Nothing fancy, but it looks…cared for. Like someone pays attention to it.
The door is locked.
I stop short, my heart sinking to my stomach. I can’t just stand here. It feels like there are eyes around every corner…watching me.
I step back into the shadows beside the building, pressing myself against the cool brick, trying to think. My hands shake as I adjust the strap of my backpack. My breath fogs in front of me.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps. I freeze, staring intently into the darkness. A man approaches the entrance, keys in hand. He doesn’t see me—or doesn’t give a damn. He punches in a code on the keypad. The door unlocks with a soft click, and he slips inside.
The door starts to close, and before I can think better of it, I lunge forward and grab it, my heart pounding as I slide through the narrow opening just before it shuts. The lock clicks again behind me, sealing me in.
I stand still for a second, stunned by my own recklessness.
The lobby is small. Clean. Quiet. A staircase looms on one side, mailboxes lining the wall, warm light glowing overhead. Whoever came in before me is already gone, footsteps fading upward.
I don’t follow. Instead, I notice a short hallway at the back of the lobby and creep toward it. I spot three doors. The first opens into what looks like a laundry room. I step inside, scanning for a place to hide, but there’s nothing. It’s too open. Too exposed.
The second door is locked, but the third is slightly ajar. I ease it open and peer inside. It’s a storage closet with shelves stacked with towels and cleaning supplies. A few broken-down boxes lie on the floor.
Relief washes over me so fast my knees almost buckle.
It’s late. Maintenance must be done for the day. If I’m careful—if I leave early—I can make it work.
I slip inside and gently close the door behind me. The closet smells like detergent and dust, but it’s better than sleeping in an alley…or worse. It’s not comfortable, but warm enough. I settle onto the cardboard, leaning back against a stack of folded towels, and tug my backpack into my lap like a lifeline.
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. It’s only then—safe-ish, hidden, finally still—that the tears come.
They slide down my cheeks silently at first, then faster, my shoulders shaking as I press my face into my jacket, my cry echoing pathetically in the dark, quiet room.
