Chapter Five: Nowhere to Go
Age 17 – Two Months After the Breakup
The apartment was colder than usual that evening — not because of the weather, but because the warmth between them had vanished long ago.
Alora stood by the stove, stirring a pot of rice that was barely enough for two. The gas flame flickered weakly, its heat inconsistent. She hadn't eaten since morning, but she made sure Jayden had lunch. He was in the next room, doing homework with a borrowed tablet.
She heard the key in the door just after 8 p.m.
Their mother stumbled in, heels in one hand, bra strap hanging loose under her shirt. Her eyes were glazed, lips cracked, makeup smeared. The scent of stale perfume mixed with alcohol wafted in as she entered — followed by silence. Then the clatter of her purse hitting the ground.
"You're home late," Alora said cautiously.
"I'm not in the mood, Alora," her mother snapped, brushing past her.
Alora turned off the stove. "Jayden's been asking for you all day. He's worried."
"He's always worried," her mother mumbled, collapsing on the couch.
Alora took a deep breath, holding back the anger in her throat. "We haven't paid rent this month. We're three weeks past due."
"I said I'll handle it."
"With what money?" Her voice cracked, sharp now. "You haven't been to work in weeks."
Her mother sat up slowly, her eyes narrowing like a snake preparing to strike.
"You think you know everything, huh? You think you're better than me now?" she spat.
"No, but I'm tired," Alora whispered. "I'm tired of holding this family together by myself."
"You ungrateful little—" Her mother rose, suddenly, wine bottle in hand. "Everything I do, I do for you and that boy!"
"You're doing nothing," Alora shouted. "You leave. You drink. You disappear for days. I'm the one raising him. I'm the one going hungry so he can eat!"
Her mother froze — for a second — and then the bottle flew.
It missed Alora's head by inches, shattering against the wall behind her. The noise made Jayden come running, his eyes wide, terrified.
"Mama!" he cried. "Stop!"
Alora's breathing turned shallow. Her ears rang. Her vision blurred.
She didn't say another word.
She walked past her mother, past Jayden, into the bedroom she shared with him. She grabbed her bag — not the school one, the small one she kept under the bed with her journal, ID, a T-shirt, and the little emergency money she'd saved up working weekend shifts.
Jayden blocked the door.
"Don't leave," he whispered, tears spilling. "Lo, please."
She bent and pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his shoulder.
"I'm not leaving you," she said, trembling. "I just... I need a minute to breathe. You'll be safe here tonight. I promise."
He nodded slowly, though she knew he didn't understand.
She kissed his forehead and whispered, "You're the best thing in my life."
Then she stood up and walked out.
The night air hit her like ice.
She had nowhere to go. No friends she could call this late. No couch that hadn't already been offered and overused.
She walked. Blocks turned into miles. The weight of everything pressed against her chest — every disappointment, every rejection, every slap life had given her and dared her to survive.
She ended up at a bus stop just outside the downtown strip. It was past midnight. A single flickering light buzzed above. She sat on the bench and wrapped her arms around herself.
She wasn't crying anymore. She was too tired for that.
For the first time in her life, she genuinely wondered what it would be like if she just... disappeared. If she stopped trying. If she gave in to the nothing.
She reached for her journal. Her pen shook as she wrote:
I don't want to die.
But I don't know how to keep living like this.
I'm so tired of being strong.
I'm tired of having to pretend.
Is it strength if you survive, but lose all your joy?
Is it strength if you stop feeling anything at all?
She finished the page and folded the journal shut.
She curled into the bench, knees to chest, resting her head against her bag.
Sleep was nearly taking her when she heard a voice.
"You alright?"
She jerked up.
An older woman, maybe in her late fifties, stood nearby with a large coat and a plastic shopping bag. Her face was worn but kind. Her eyes, sharp.
Alora didn't respond at first.
The woman stepped closer. "I see girls like you every week. Too proud to ask for help, too broken to pretend anymore. You need somewhere to stay tonight?"
Alora blinked, not sure whether to cry or run.
"I'm not a predator, baby," the woman added gently. "Name's Mama Ladi. I run a women's shelter a few blocks from here. We got hot soup. Clean beds. You don't have to tell me nothin'."
Alora stared at her for a long moment. The silence stretched.
Then she stood, slowly. "I don't want anything from anyone," she said, voice hoarse.
Mama Ladi nodded. "That's fine. Just take rest. You can figure out the rest later."
That night, Alora slept in a small, warm bed with clean sheets. For the first time in months, no noise, no yelling, no hunger pangs woke her up.
It wasn't home. But it was the first place that felt safe in a very long time.
She didn't know it then, but Mama Ladi would become more than a kind stranger.
She would become the woman who taught her to rebuild.
Piece by piece.
Page by page.
Dream by dream.