Player Zero:No Exit

No One Notices the Weak

People think being homeless means you’re loud.

They think you beg.

They think you shout. They think you smell bad on purpose and choose to live like this.

The truth is, you learn to be quiet.

You learn to fold yourself smaller so no one gets annoyed.

You learn how to sit still for hours without moving because moving makes people look at you and when they look at you, they don’t see a person.

They see a problem.

I wake up before the sun because sleeping late is dangerous. At night, people are cruel.

In the morning, they’re just busy. Busy people won’t kick you for no reason.

The ground under the bride is cold when I sit up.

My back aches from sleeping wrong. I stretch slowly, trying not to draw attention to myself.

A guy in a suit walks past above me, his shoes clicking fast, phone pressed to his ear.

He laughs at something.

I wonder what it feels like to laugh without worrying about what comes next.

I roll up the thin blanket I found weeks ago.

It smells bad no matter how much I shake it out. I shove it into my backpack with the rest of my life.

I’m hungry.

That’s not new.

Hunger stopped feeling sharp a long time ago. Now it’s just there, like background noise.

Like breathing.

I check my pockets anyway. Nothing. Not even loose change.

I head toward the city as the sky starts turning gray.

The streets wake up slowly. Shops pull up metal gates. Buses hiss as they stop and go. People move fast, eyes forward, minds already somewhere else.

I sit near a bakery. Not too close. Close enough to smell the bread.

The smell hurts more than hunger.

A woman walks out holding a bag. I look up without thinking.

Our eyes meet for half a second.

She frowns.

Her grip tightens on the bag.

She crosses the street.

I look back down.

That happens a lot.

Around mid-morning, I try my luck.

I stand near the corner where people wait for the light to change. I don’t hold a sign. Signs make people angry. I just stand there, quiet.

“Spare some change?” I ask softly.

No one answers.

A guy in headphones almost bumps into me, then clicks his tongue like I’m in the way.

“Watch it,” he mutters.

I want to laugh.

Watch what? My empty hands?

A group of high school kids stop nearby. They’re loud, pushing each other, joking.

One of them notices me.

“Yo,” he says, nudging his friend. “Check him out.”

They all look.

One of them wrinkles his nose.

“Damn. He looks like a zombie.”

Another laughs. “Nah, zombies got more energy.”

They laugh together. Loud. Easy.

I stare at the ground.

“Hey,” one of them says. “You homeless?”

I don’t answer.

“Guess that’s a yes,” he says. “Bet he smells crazy.”

They walk off, still laughing.

I stay where I am.

I don’t cry. Crying wastes water, and water costs money.

Around noon, my head starts to feel light. I know that feeling. It means I need food soon or my legs will give out.

I head to the back of a grocery store.

The trash bins are locked now.

They didn’t used to be. Too many people like me, I guess.

I wait anyway.

Sometimes employees throw things beside the bin instead of inside it. Things that are still good but don’t look good enough to sell.

A worker comes out. He’s young. Maybe my age. Clean uniform. Clean face.

I step back so he doesn’t think I’m trying to steal.

He notices me anyway.

“Hey,” he snaps. “You can’t be here.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I say quickly.

“Doesn’t matter. Customers

complain.”

“I’ll leave.”

I always leave.

He watches until I’m gone.

I don’t look back.

I end up sitting on a bench near the bus stop.

My legs shake when I sit down. A girl sits at the far end of the bench, scrolling on her phone. There’s space between us.

She notices me and stands up.

She doesn’t move far. Just enough.

That hurts worse than if she had yelled.

I close my eyes.

I think about when I was younger.

I don’t remember my parents.

I remember faces sometimes, but they feel fake, like dreams you don’t trust.

I grew up bouncing between places. Shelters. Group homes. Streets. Each place told me the same thing in different ways.

You’re temporary.

Teachers stopped calling on me because I never had homework. Kids stopped sitting next to me because I wore the same clothes every day.

Adults stopped asking questions when I turned sixteen.

No one tells you you’re being erased. It just happens slowly.

By late afternoon, I finally get something to eat.

A man drops a few coins without looking at me. I buy a cheap sandwich and eat it behind a building so no one can take it.

I eat slowly. Every bite matters.

The sun starts to set. The city gets louder again.

Night people come out.

That’s when things get bad.

A drunk man stumbles past me and laughs for no reason.

A car slows down, someone shouts something I can’t hear, then speeds away.

I head back toward the bridge before it gets dark.

On the way, I pass a store window. My reflection catches me off guard.

I look… small.

Too thin. Hair uneven from cutting it myself. Eyes tired. Clothes hanging wrong on my body.

I look like someone people step around.

I wonder if this is it.

If this is all my life will ever be.

Surviving. Being ignored. Being laughed at. Being nothing.

By the time I reach the bridge, the sky is black.

I crawl into my usual spot. Pull my backpack close. My body hurts in places I didn’t know could hurt.

I stare up at the concrete above me.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whisper.

The bridge doesn’t answer.

I think about tomorrow. And the day after that. And the one after that.

They all look the same.

My eyes start to close.

That’s when I hear footsteps.

Slow.

Even.

Too calm.

I open my eyes.

Shadows stretch toward me.

And for the first time all day, someone is finally looking right at me.