I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

I showered before sunrise in the locker room and prayed nobody noticed I kept wearing the same jeans.

After school, I drove until I found somewhere quiet enough to park.

Big store lots. Empty side streets. A spot behind a strip mall where no one asked questions if you stayed invisible.

Hunger feels different when there’s no real meal waiting anywhere.

Lunch became my anchor.

I’d eat half, save the rest, pretend I wasn’t counting every bite.

By the ninth day, the gas light was on — and so was I.

The car finally gave out behind a row of restaurants, squeezed between dumpsters and delivery trucks that smelled like everything I couldn’t afford.

I sat there with my forehead on the steering wheel, listening to traffic and trying not to panic.