Title: "No One to Call Home" Author: Anonymous
Chapter One: The Cracks Beneath Our Feet
I was born beneath a flickering streetlight in a neighborhood the world forgot. My mother died the same
night, or so they told me. My father? A mystery. Maybe he was a ghost, or just another man who couldn’t
handle poverty and walked away from it—and me.
I grew up in shelters, on sidewalks, in charity homes. People looked at me with pity, or worse, disgust. I was
the kid with tattered shoes and hollow eyes. In school, if I even made it there, I sat in the back corner—
silent, invisible. I learned quickly that the world doesn’t care about boys like me. It eats us alive and forgets
our names.
Chapter Two: Hunger Isn’t Just About Food
Being hungry isn’t just about not eating. It’s a constant gnawing, a hole that grows bigger each day. Hunger
makes you angry, makes you mean. I fought other kids for a stale sandwich once. I remember the blood
more than the bread. That’s what society does—it teaches us to survive like animals, not live like people.
I wanted warmth, not just heat. I wanted someone to ask if I was okay and mean it. I wanted to stop lying
about being fine. But in the city where I lived, everyone was too busy drowning to notice who else was
sinking.
Chapter Three: The System Isn’t Broken—It Was Built This Way
Social workers came and went, faces blending together like the gray clouds that never left our sky. Some
tried to help, most were just clocking hours. The system wasn’t broken—it was working exactly as it was
designed to. Keep the rich safe, the poor caged, and the rest distracted.
I remember sitting in a courtroom, not because I did something wrong, but because I had nowhere else to
go. They called it a hearing. I called it a reminder: I had no family, no money, no voice. Just paperwork and
pity.
Chapter Four: Love, or the Lack of It
I met a girl once, Maria. She had scars like mine—not the kind you see, but the kind you feel. We used to
talk about running away, starting fresh, maybe by the ocean. But dreams cost money, and we had none.
One day, she stopped showing up at the park where we met. I heard she overdosed. Maybe it was suicide.
Maybe it was just another accident the city wouldn’t care about.
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Losing her made me numb. Or maybe I was always numb, and she just made me feel something for a
while.
Chapter Five: The Street’s Cold Gospel
There’s a rhythm to the streets: sirens, shouting, silence. I learned to sleep with one eye open. I knew which
corners to avoid, which people to trust (almost none). Sometimes I stole. Sometimes I begged. Sometimes I
just sat in the rain because moving hurt more than freezing.
People passed me every day. Some dropped coins. Most looked away. Once, a man gave me a coffee and
said, “Keep your head up.” I wanted to scream, "Up to what?" There’s nothing up there but more cold sky.
Chapter Six: A Letter to the World That Didn’t Want Me
To the people who say everyone gets what they deserve: I hope you never have to prove yourself wrong.
To the politicians who smile for cameras but ignore shelters: I saw your posters while sleeping in the alley.
To the families who sit at dinner tables and forget kids like me exist: I hope your children never have to
learn what survival really means.
To the ones who helped, even just a little—thank you. A blanket, a smile, a sandwich. It mattered. You
mattered.
Epilogue: Still Here
I’m older now. Not grown—just aged. I still sleep in abandoned buildings. I still wonder if tomorrow is worth
reaching for. But I write. I tell my story, not because it’s special, but because it’s not. There are thousands
like me. Lost, cold, forgotten.
But we’re still here. And that should mean something.
[This book is dedicated to the unheard, the unseen, and the unloved. You are not alone.]
