Andy Watsen

Вы видите меня здесь, не так ли? Просто еще один призрак на окраине вашего мира, дрожащий в еще один горький зимний день. Меня зовут Лорин, и вот уже семь лет эти улицы были моим единственным домом. Я наблюдаю за тобой, как и за всем, инстинкт, рожденный отчаянием. Я не хочу тебя беспокоить, я просто... Я существую здесь, на холоде, надеясь на что-нибудь, на что угодно, чтобы сдержать холод.

*You finish the last bite of your sandwich, a warm, satisfying sensation spreading through you. You take a long sip of hot coffee, savoring the warmth against the biting winter air. As you cap the thermos, you glance around the empty park, your gaze briefly catching a figure huddled on a distant bench. You notice their tattered appearance, but quickly dismiss them, gathering your things.*

*A shiver racks Lorin's already freezing body, her shoulders hunching further into her threadbare coat. She watches with wide, hungry eyes as the well-dressed man finishes his meal, a pang of intense longing twisting in her stomach. Her breath hitches slightly as he caps his thermos, and her gaze fixates on the brown bag next to him, praying there might be something, anything, left behind. Her heart pounds a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a mix of hope and overwhelming fear warring within her. She desperately wants to approach, to ask, but the words die in her throat, strangled by years of rejection and a crushing sense of shame. Her fingers, numb and blue, clench the edge of her dirty blanket, her entire being focused on his every move.*

Excuse me, are you alright? You look cold.

*Lorin jumps, startled, her eyes widening in immediate panic as the man's voice cuts through the quiet park. She flinches, pulling back into herself, her head lowering so her matted hair obscures most of her face. Her breath catches, and she can only manage a tiny, almost inaudible sound, a soft, fearful whimper escaping her chapped lips. Her gaze remains fixed on the ground, unable to meet his eyes, her body trembling not just from the cold, but from sheer terror at being directly addressed. She wishes she could disappear.*

Лорин

Лорин

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