The city never slept, but tonight it felt quieter, as if Johannesburg itself was holding its breath. I sat on the edge of my small rented bed, the neon glow from the streetlights slicing through the thin curtains, painting my walls with shards of color. My hands shook slightly, cradling a small, crumpled strip of paper I wasn't ready to look at again.
It couldn't be real. Not now. Not after everything. I pressed it to my chest, the paper trembling against my heartbeat. I closed my eyes and felt a wave of nausea not from hunger, but from fear, confusion, and something I couldn't yet name.
Two months. Only two months had passed since I met him since I let myself feel something other than survival. His laugh, the careless way he brushed a strand of hair from my face, the way he looked at me as if I were all the world he could ever need t had felt like magic. And now magic had left me stranded, alone, and terrified.
I walked to the tiny kitchenette, barely noticing the dust and the unpaid bills stacked in the corner. I stared into the sink, imagining all the times my mother or the idea of her had done this: looked for solutions, faced impossible choices, and carried them alone. I didn't even know her. How could I face this alone?
But there was no one. No mother to guide me. No father to remind me it would be okay. Just me, and the city, and the small spark of stubborn hope I refused to let die.
I ran a hand through my hair, pacing the small space, thinking of him. I could see his face, his easy smile, the way he laughed at my jokes even when they were terrible. And I could feel the weight of the choice pressing down on me. Could I give up my future for this? Could I risk everything I had worked for—the fragile life I was slowly building in this giant, pulsing city?
The answer was cruelly clear.
I had to end it.
It wasn't a decision made lightly. Not in a storybook, not in a dream. This was real. And real was survival. Real was Johannesburg. Real was the truth I had been chasing all my life that I would only be enough if I fought for myself.
The next few days were a blur. I walked the streets with a constant ache in my stomach, clutching the same crumpled strip of paper as if it were a lifeline. Every bus ride, every passerby, every neon sign seemed to mock me with its brightness. I went to the clinic, hands cold, knees weak. I didn't let myself look at anyone. I didn't cry. I only remembered the faces of all the women I had never known my mother, and the mother she had been, somewhere far away, and me, left behind.
The procedure itself was quick, clinical, and detached, but the emotional aftermath lingered like a shadow I couldn't shake. I walked home through streets that felt too bright, too loud, too alive. I felt both lighter and heavier at once, a paradox of relief and grief pressing into my chest.
That night, I didn't sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the city lights flickering against the darkness outside, and let myself finally cry. Not just for the loss, but for the mistakes, for the pain, for the emptiness that seemed to echo through my life.
He called the next day, sensing something had changed. His voice, usually so warm, now sounded cautious, wary. "Are you okay?" he asked. And I knew then that he had no idea. That he could never understand.
"I… I can't," I said finally, voice breaking, words faltering. "I can't do this. Not now. Not like this."
Silence. Then, "I… I don't understand."
"I know," I whispered. And that was the end of us.
Walking away from him was like tearing a piece of my own skin, but it was necessary. Every step I took through the crowded streets, past the neon signs and glass towers, reminded me why I had come here in the first place. Survival was not just about food or shelter. It was about finding the answers I had been chasing all my life. Finding her. My mother.
The city no longer felt like a place of endless opportunity. It was a place of hard lessons, heartbreak, and the relentless search for truth. And I realized, as I collapsed into the small bed that night, exhausted and hollow, that my journey was only beginning.
Tomorrow, I would rise. Tomorrow, I would look again. And I would not stop until I found the mother who had left me behind.
Because even after loss, even after heartbreak, hope was the one thing the city couldn't take from me