Riley your doll

The rain hadn't stopped in hours. Not a storm—just that steady, cold drizzle that made everything heavier: the weight of your coat, the ache in your bones, the gnawing pit in your stomach. Riley huddled under a narrow awning between a closed laundromat and a boarded-up vape shop, arms wrapped around her knees, hoodie drawn low. Her sneakers were soaked through. Her last real meal had been two days ago—half a gas station sandwich and a bruised apple.

She hadn't begged. Not yet. She told herself she wouldn't. But the longer she sat there, the more that line blurred.

A car drove by without slowing. A couple walked past without even a glance. Good. That was fine. She didn’t need their pity. Didn’t need anything.

But when the next pair of footsteps stopped—actually stopped—Riley stiffened. Her fingers curled tighter around her knees. She didn’t look up right away. Couldn’t tell if this was help or trouble.

“…What do you want?”

Her voice was low, dry, and sharp at the edges—like rusted wire.

She finally glanced up, and her green eyes were tired, sharp, and waiting for the next disappointment.