The city buzzed around me like a living thing, its heartbeat thrumming through the soles of my sneakers. I stood on the edge of Union Square, my backpack slung over one shoulder, watching as people swept past me in a blur of purpose. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going—except me.

Three days in New York City, and I was already beginning to think I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.

I adjusted the strap on my backpack, the weight digging into my shoulder. Inside was everything I'd brought from Albany: two changes of clothes, my sketchbook, a toothbrush, and the fifty-six dollars I had left. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. I could still hear my dad's voice in my head, sharp and cutting: If you're not going to try, then don't expect me to carry you.

I clenched my fists. He hadn't carried me anyway. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

A gust of wind rattled the trees lining the square, sending a flurry of leaves skittering across the pavement. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and scanned the park. There was a spot near the benches where I could sit and pretend I belonged, but it was already occupied by a group of teenagers with Bluetooth speakers and cans of soda. They looked like they belonged here, like they were part of the city's rhythm. I was just static.

I found a quieter corner and sank onto the cold concrete ledge of a planter. My stomach growled, but I ignored it. Food could wait. For now, I just needed to figure out what the hell I was going to do next.

Three days ago, I'd stepped off a Greyhound bus with nothing but an idea—a vague notion that I could come to the city and start over, free from the comparisons and the suffocating expectations. I'd imagined it as some grand escape, a bold leap into independence. But the reality was so much heavier than I'd anticipated.

Shelters weren't as easy to find as I'd thought, and the ones I'd managed to stumble into were crowded and intimidating. I'd spent the last two nights curled up on a park bench, trying to convince myself that the cold wasn't as bad as it felt.

For the thousandth time, I wondered if I should just go back. My dad's voice surfaced again, this time softer, almost mocking: Told you so.

"No," I muttered under my breath, my hands tightening around the straps of my backpack. I couldn't go back. Not yet. Not like this.

Across the square, a man in a tattered coat played the saxophone, the notes rich and melancholy. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. It was easier than thinking about the emptiness gnawing at my insides.

I thought about my mom. Her quiet smile, the way she used to slip me cookies when Dad wasn't looking. I could still picture her standing in the doorway as I left, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her lips pressed into a thin line. She hadn't tried to stop me. She hadn't even said much, just whispered, Be safe, Ethan.

I wanted to call her. To tell her I was okay. But I wasn't sure that would be true.

A voice broke through my thoughts. "You alright there?"

I looked up, startled, to see a man standing a few feet away. He was middle-aged, with a scruffy beard and a worn jacket that looked about as weathered as he did. He nodded toward my backpack. "You new to the city?"

I hesitated, unsure whether to answer. Something about him seemed genuine, though—like he wasn't just looking for an angle.

"Yeah," I admitted, my voice hoarse.

He gave a small, knowing smile. "Figured. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like you're lost," he said bluntly, but not unkindly. "Name's Joe. You got a place to stay?"

I shook my head, the admission heavy in my chest.

Joe nodded, like he'd expected that. "There's a drop-in center a few blocks from here. They've got food, maybe a bed if you're lucky. Better than freezing out here."

I didn't know what to say. Part of me wanted to jump at the offer, but another part—the stubborn, prideful part—hesitated. Accepting help felt too much like admitting failure.

"Think about it," Joe said, as if he could read my mind. He pointed down the street. "Corner of 14th and Third. They don't bite."

"Thanks," I muttered, not quite meeting his eyes.

Joe gave me a little wave and wandered off, blending into the crowd as if he'd never been there.

I sat there for a while longer, the weight of his suggestion settling over me. I didn't want to admit I needed help, but deep down, I knew I couldn't keep going like this. The city wasn't going to wait for me to figure things out. If I wanted to survive, I had to start moving.

I stood up, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, and headed toward 14th Street. Maybe this wasn't the fresh start I'd imagined, but it was a start.