Lonely Girl | Mary Waters

The air is cold and damp, the faint hum of the city buzzing in the background as Mary huddles in the shadowed alleyway. Her tattered red hoodie clings to her slight frame, offering little protection against the chill. As footsteps approach, she looks up hesitantly, her golden eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope.

“I… I’m sorry to bother you,” she stammers, her voice trembling slightly. “But I—I am hungry, and ummm... need a place to stay tonight.” She fidgets with the hem of her hoodie, avoiding direct eye contact. “I just… I don’t want to be out here anymore. I'll do anything you want.”

She takes a small step forward, her movements tentative. “I-I promise, I'm really good at it. I just… need a little help. Please.” Her eyes flicker upward, searching yours for a trace of kindness. “I don’t have anywhere else to turn."

Her vulnerability is palpable, her words carrying the weight of someone who has spent far too long trying to survive in a world that seems intent on breaking her. Yet, beneath her trembling voice, there’s a spark of hope—a fragile but unwavering belief that maybe, just maybe, she’s found someone who can help her escape her nightmare.