Since I was old enough to understand the world, my life has been a straight line, devoid of any bumps or flavor.
A normal existence.
Terribly boring most of the time, interesting by accident, sad on rare occasions, but never grand. Never tragic. Just... there. Was I lucky? Absolutely. I hit the jackpot with loving parents and a comfortable life where want was never an issue. Yet, if someone could hear the clamor of my thoughts, they would immediately label me: selfish, naive, or perhaps just an idiot incapable of appreciating what he has. But I couldn't help it. I always hoped for something other than this succession of banalities, this predetermined destiny that promised nothing more than what was expected of it.
It was this emptiness that drove me toward the imaginary. I devoured tons of fiction: manga, anime, books, web novels, movies... It was my drug, my only escape from this dreary daily grind. I was running from this terrifying vision of the future: finding a job, paying bills, growing old and dying in general indifference, a carbon copy of every other mundane life on Earth.
That's why what's happening now is beyond my comprehension.
I'm completely lost. It only took the blink of an eye. A microsecond of inattention. I was in the street, feeling the asphalt beneath my soles, walking toward my apartment in the cool evening air. I close my eyes, I open them again, and the world has changed. The familiar surroundings have vanished, replaced by the utterly unknown.
Where night once reigned, daylight now floods me.
There are no more buildings, no more noise, no more city. Around me, nothingness. Just an azure sky stretching to the horizon, adorned with a few motionless clouds. And at my feet, the ground has vanished. There is only water, an infinite liquid mirror reflecting the sky. The most disconcerting thing is that I'm not sinking. Against all the laws of physics, I stand upright, floating above this expanse of calm water, like a bad parody of Jesus.
"What the hell is this?" I blurted out, my voice lost in the vast, echoless expanse. My face contorted in a grimace of utter incomprehension.
Hesitantly, I lifted my foot to make a move. I expected to plunge, to feel the cold bite my skin, but against all odds, my sole met a firm surface. I continued to stand, perfectly balanced above this expanse of water that defied the laws of nature. Still unable to grasp the logic of this place, I set off again.
I advanced, one step after another, toward a horizon that seemed to recede as I approached it. How long did I walk? Hard to say. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes stretched into hours... perhaps even days. Here, time seemed to have no hold. The sky remained frozen, the light never changed. I felt neither hunger nor thirst, just this sensation of wandering through an unfinished painting.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I decided to stop. I sat down on the water itself, as one might sit on the cold floor of an empty room. I wasn't physically tired, but my mind was beginning to buckle under the weight of this infinity. This place was probably endless.
To stave off boredom, I looked down at my reflection in this liquid mirror. It was my face, familiar yet alien in this setting. But suddenly, the image flickered. My reflection vanished abruptly, giving way to a terrifying transparency. The expanse was no longer a mirror, but a window onto an abyss. The water was unfathomable, dizzyingly deep, as if I were looking through a bottomless hole in the universe.
That's when physics brutally reasserted itself. Without warning, the solid surface gave way. I began to sink like a stone.
"WHAT'S HAPPENING?" I screamed before the water rushed into my mouth.
I struggled with the ferocity of a trapped animal. I knew how to swim, yet my movements were futile. An invisible force pulled me down into the depths, ignoring my desperate efforts. The air grew thin, my lungs began to burn, crying out for oxygen they would never find. My vision blurred, the outlines of this strange world fading into darkness. Unable to breathe, my consciousness finally faded, abandoning me to the shadows.
The first thing I felt was the cold. Hard, gritty cold against my cheek.
Then came the retching.
My body convulsed, expelling seawater onto the dirty concrete. I gasped, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air that smelled of exhaust, garbage, and stale urine. I rolled onto my back, wiping the bile from my lips, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I'm alive.
The thought was fleeting, immediately replaced by a throbbing headache. I sat up, clutching my skull. My clothes were soaked, heavy, and clinging to my shivering frame. I looked around wildly.
I was in an alleyway. Brick walls rose high on both sides, blocking out the sun. At the end of the narrow passage, cars zoomed by, oblivious to the man who had just spat out half an ocean.
"What...?" I tried to speak, but my throat was raw.
I staggered to my feet, using the damp wall for support. My mind raced to find a logical explanation. The walk home. The blink. The water.
Drugs? That had to be it. I must have been mugged, drugged, and dumped somewhere. Panic flared in my chest. I checked my pockets. My wallet was gone. My phone was gone.
"Shit," I hissed, stumbling toward the street.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk, shielding my eyes from the harsh daylight. It was a city—huge, noisy, and suffocating. But it wasn't my city. The architecture was too dense, the pace too frantic. The license plates on the yellow taxis rushed by too fast for me to read, but they looked like New York plates.
New York? How the hell did I get to New York?
I started walking. I didn't know where else to go. I kept my head down, hugging my wet arms to my chest. People walked in a wide berth around me, their eyes sliding over me with practiced indifference. To them, I was just another junkie or homeless wreck.
A siren wailed nearby. I froze. A police cruiser rolled slowly through the intersection ahead.
My instinct was to run to them, to beg for help. But I stopped. I had no ID. No wallet. I looked like a vagrant, and I couldn't explain how I got here without sounding insane. "Officer, I blinked and fell out of the sky." They'd lock me up in a psych ward, or worse. If this was a kidnapping, the police might even be involved. Paranoia, cold and sharp, took root in my gut.
I turned the corner, ducking away from the cruiser.
Hours bled into one another. The sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows between the skyscrapers. I walked until my feet blistered in my soggy shoes. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a hollow, gnawing ache in my stomach. It wasn't just hunger; it was a cavernous void, demanding to be filled.
I needed to hear a familiar voice.
I spotted a payphone near a graffiti-covered subway entrance—a relic of the past, grime-encrusted and vandalized. I scrambled toward it, my fingers shaking. I didn't have coins, but I frantically pressed the buttons for a collect call, praying the operator system still worked, praying for a miracle.
I dialed the number. The number I had known by heart since I was six years old.
One ring. Two rings.
Then, a mechanical beep. A recorded voice, cold and indifferent. "We're sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again."
I froze. I dialed again. My fingers slipped on the keys. "We're sorry. The number you have dialed is not in service."
"No," I whispered, gripping the receiver until my knuckles turned white. "That's impossible. They've had that landline for twenty years."
I tried my dad's cell. "The number you have dialed is not in service."
I tried my own cell number. "The number you have dialed is not in service."
I slammed the receiver back onto the hook, the plastic cracking under the force. I backed away, breathing hard. The world tilted on its axis. My parents weren't just not answering; their number didn't exist.
The hunger hit me then, a sudden, violent cramp that doubled me over. It wasn't normal hunger. It felt like my body was eating itself from the inside out to sustain the impossible feat of my survival.
I stumbled away from the phone, my vision tunneling. The city noise—the honking, the shouting, the distant rumble of the subway—became a distorted roar.
Just keep walking, I told myself. Find a bench. Find somewhere to hide.
But my legs were lead. The sidewalk seemed to rise up to meet me. The last thing I felt was the rough concrete scraping against my cheek, and the indifference of a thousand feet walking past me as the darkness returned.
"Hey! Get the hell up!"
The shout was accompanied by a sharp pain in my ribs.
My eyes snapped open, the world spinning in a nauseating blur. A boot slammed into my side again, harder this time.
"I said move it! You can't sleep here. Customers are coming."
I scrambled backward, scraping my hands against the rough pavement. A man in a grease-stained apron stood over me, his face twisted in disgust. I was lying in the entryway of a deli, curled up like a stray dog.
"I... I'm moving," I rasped. My voice was a cracked whisper. My throat felt like it was filled with glass shards.
"Yeah, you better move," the man spat, turning back to the door. "Freaking junkies..."
I pulled myself up using a lamppost, my legs shaking violently. The morning sun was blinding. The city was already awake—businessmen in suits marching with coffees, tourists looking at maps, cars gridlocked in a cacophony of horns.
Nobody looked at me. Or rather, they looked through me. I was a stain on the scenery.
I stumbled down the block, the hunger returning with a vengeance. It wasn't just an empty stomach anymore; it was a physical weakness that made my hands tremble uncontrollably. My head pounded with dehydration.
I needed water. I needed food.
I passed a hot dog stand. The smell of grilled meat and onions hit me like a physical blow. I stopped, staring at the steaming sausages. My mouth watered so hard it hurt.
Just ask, a voice in my head pleaded. Beg.
I looked at the vendor. He was busy serving a line of customers. I took a step forward, then stopped. The shame was paralyzing. Two days ago, I was a normal guy with a warm bed and a full fridge. Now I was contemplating begging a stranger for a scrap.
I can't.
I turned away, tears stinging my eyes. I walked until I found a public park. A water fountain stood near the playground. I rushed to it, practically falling over the metal basin, drinking deeply. The water was lukewarm and tasted of metal, but it was the best thing I had ever tasted.
I drank until my stomach cramped, then collapsed onto a nearby bench.
"Not enough," I whispered. The water only fooled my stomach for a moment. The gnawing emptiness returned, sharper than before.
I looked at a trash can a few feet away. A woman in a business suit had just tossed a paper bag into it. I saw the edge of a croissant sticking out.
My stomach growled, a feral, animalistic sound.
No. I have standards.
I looked around. No one was watching. I'm going to die if I don't eat.
Slowly, agonizingly, I stood up and walked toward the bin. My heart hammered against my ribs. I reached in, my fingers brushing against sticky wrappers and cold coffee cups, until I grabbed the bag.
I pulled it out, clutching it to my chest like a stash of gold, and hurried away to a secluded corner of the park. I opened the bag. It was half a bagel, cold and hard, with a bite mark on the side.
I stared at it. The symbol of my new reality. Then, I took a bite.
The bagel was dry, stale, and tasted mostly of the paper bag it had been sitting in. But as I swallowed the last bite, forcing it down my parched throat, I felt a tiny spark of warmth ignite in my stomach. It wasn't enough to fix me, but it was enough to clear the fog in my brain just a little.
I wiped the crumbs from my mouth with a trembling hand and leaned back against the park bench.
Okay. Think.
Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford anymore. I was in New York City. But my brain refused to fully process that yet. It was easier to focus on the mundane problems.
Problem one: Survival.
I couldn't sleep on a bench again. The cold had seeped into my bones last night, and I knew another night like that might actually kill me. I had no money for a hotel. No phone to call for help.
Shelters.
New York was famous for them. I had seen them in movies, read about them in articles. Places like the Bowery Mission or city-run intake centers. They offered a cot, maybe a hot meal. It wasn't dignity, but it was survival.
I pushed myself up. My legs felt heavy, like they were filled with lead shot, and my feet burned in my damp shoes.
"Just find a place," I muttered to myself. "Just one night."
I left the park and merged back into the flow of the sidewalk. The midday crowd was dense. I tried to make myself look presentable—smoothing down my wrinkled, dirty shirt, running a hand through my matted hair—but I saw the way people looked at me. They tightened their grip on their bags. They shifted their gaze to the horizon.
I was invisible. A ghost in the machine.
I needed directions. I couldn't wander aimlessly; I didn't have the energy.
I targeted a man in a grey suit waiting for the crosswalk light. He looked bored, tapping on his phone. "Excuse me, sir," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Could you tell me if there's a—"
He didn't even look up. He just stepped off the curb the moment the light changed, leaving me talking to the air.
I swallowed my pride and tried again. A woman with a stroller. "Ma'am, I'm lost. I'm looking for a shelter—" "I don't have any cash," she snapped, pivoting the stroller sharply to bypass me.
"I don't want money," I said to her retreating back, my voice cracking. "I just want to know where to go."
Defeat tasted worse than the bile from yesterday. I walked for another ten blocks, my eyes scanning the street signs, looking for anything that resembled a social services building. Nothing. Just delis, banks, and endless rows of apartments I couldn't afford.
Finally, I spotted a newsstand. The vendor, an older man with a thick grey mustache, was organizing magazines. He looked gruff, but he wasn't moving.
I approached the window. "Hey," I said.
The man looked up, his eyes narrowing as he scanned my disheveled appearance. "No loitering, kid. Buy something or move."
"I'm not loitering," I said, leaning against the metal frame for support. "I just... I need to know where the nearest homeless shelter is. Please."
The man paused. He looked at my hands—no drugs, no weapon—then at my face. He must have seen the genuine desperation there because his expression softened by a fraction. He sighed, shaking his head.
"You look fresh, kid. Bad luck?"
"Something like that," I whispered.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing west. "Head toward Hell's Kitchen. 10th Avenue. There's a Catholic mission near the old church. St. Jude's, I think. They take walk-ins if you get there before five."
"Hell's Kitchen?" The name triggered a faint memory, but I pushed it away. "Is it far?"
"Thirty blocks. Maybe forty."
My knees almost buckled. Forty blocks. In my condition, that was a marathon. "Thanks," I managed to say.
"Keep your head down," the vendor muttered, turning back to his magazines. "That neighborhood ain't what it used to be. It's gotten rough lately."
I nodded and began to walk.
The journey was a blur of pain. One foot in front of the other. The cityscape changed around me. The towering glass skyscrapers of Midtown gave way to shorter, grittier brick buildings. The streets became dirtier. The shadows seemed longer here.
I kept my eyes on the ground, terrified of making eye contact with the wrong person. I saw graffiti that looked weirdly specific—strange symbols I didn't recognize—but I didn't stop to analyze them.
By the time I saw the cross hanging above a modest brick building, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. A line had already formed outside the metal doors.
It wasn't a welcoming sight. There were dozens of men. Some were shouting at each other, others were rocking back and forth, muttering to unseen demons. The smell of unwashed bodies and cheap tobacco hung heavy in the air.
I hesitated at the corner. This was it. The bottom of the barrel. But then my stomach cramped, a violent reminder of my reality.
I took a deep breath, clenched my fists to hide the shaking, and stepped into the line.