The morning sunlight cut through the thin curtains of my rented room, sharp and cold. Dust hung in the air, making the light look warmer than it was. I woke up hungry, my chest heavy, the ache of emptiness curling in my gut. The bed was narrow, the sheets scratchy, the room too quiet. My bag slumped in the corner clothes, notebook, nothing else. All I had from home. I hadn't eaten since yesterday's stale pastries. Hunger clawed at my insides, mean and insistent. I tried to pretend I could skip breakfast, but my body knew better. I pulled my jacket tight and stepped outside, every step on the cracked pavement a reminder that I was new here nobody, nowhere.The city was already snarling. Exhaust fumes, horns, voices shouting and laughing, a dozen languages clashing in the air. I ducked beneath a neon sign promising coffee and sweet rolls, but I kept moving, searching the crowd for anything I could eat without spending the little I had left. A street vendor caught my eye, held out a handful of roasted peanuts. He didn't say anything, just nodded like he understood. I took the peanuts, cheeks burning. "Thanks. "I ate them slow, one by one, like they might have to last all day. The city's noise rolled over me, too big to fight. Women in bright fabric carried babies on their backs, trading jokes I couldn't catch. Men in pressed shirts strode past, sure of their place. Me? I was nothing. Just another shadow trying to slip by unnoticed. A couple hours later, I found myself outside a café, drawn by the smell of baking bread. Through the window, a young man laughed with friends. He glanced up, caught my stare, and smiled not polite, not wary. Curious. Like he saw something in me I didn't know was showing. I dropped my eyes, heart thudding. Still, I went in. The bell over the door rang out in the quiet. The waitress handed me a menu I couldn't afford. I ordered water, stared at the pastries behind glass. The boy noticed, leaned over. "First time here?" he asked. Not pushy, just interested. I nodded, throat tight. He slid a pastry across the table. "You look like you need this more than me."I hesitated, then took it. "Thank you." The weight of it of being seen, of someone giving something without expecting anything almost undid me.I ate slow, tasting every crumb. Around me, people talked and laughed. The city outside looked bright, hungry, always moving. I didn't belong not yet. But I wanted to. After, I kept going. Handed out resumes, forced smiles, answered questions I'd answered a hundred times already. Most people just shook their heads. A few looked sorry. Some didn't look at all. You learn quick: surviving here takes more than guts. You need patience, a thick skin, luck. By late afternoon, my feet hurt and my stomach was hollow again. I found a bench under a jacaranda tree; purple petals scattered at my feet. I wrote in my notebook buildings, faces, smells, the ache in my chest. I wrote about hunger, about fear, about hope that wouldn't quit even when everything else wanted to.I thought of the boy in the café. His kindness stuck with me, warm and dangerous. I wasn't ready to trust it, not yet, but I felt it all the same.When night crept in, I bought a loaf of bread with my last coins. I ate it leaning against a wall, listening to the city's endless hum. Johannesburg felt alive in ways I couldn't touch bright, cold, relentless. Back in my room, I wrote until my hand cramped. Faces, lights, scraps of kindness, the stubborn need to keep going. I will survive. I will find her. But this city this city is alive, and I'm not sure I can keep up.Outside, the city lights flickered like trapped fireflies. I pulled the blanket tight, whispered into the dark, "Tomorrow I'll try again. Tomorrow I'll fight for every scrap."Somewhere out there, the city kept breathing, daring me to keep moving, keep searching, keep living.
