Chapter 4: Life on the Edge
Being homeless sucked.
Not that Bright needed to experience it firsthand to know that. But life wasn't exactly big on giving him choices.
One day, he had a home—a weird, messy, chaotic home. The next? Gone.
Roland's relatives didn't even bother pretending they cared. They handed him a garbage bag stuffed with random clothes and a toothbrush, barely looking him in the eye. No apologies. No explanations. Just—out.
Caspian was gone too. Bright didn't even get to say goodbye.
That part hurt the most.
He didn't know if the mutt ended up with a good family or got dumped in some shelter. But something told him Caspian was out there wagging his tail, blissfully unaware that Bright was sleeping in alleys again.
Life really had a sick sense of humor.
---
Bright figured out the rules of the streets fast.
Rule #1: Stay invisible.
People ignored homeless adults. But a kid? Alone? That got attention—the kind that led to cops, social services, and a one-way ticket to another miserable orphanage.
So Bright dressed older—baggy hoodies, low hats. He never begged. Never made eye contact. If someone looked at him too long, he walked the other way.
Shelters were a last resort. Too many questions. Too many rules. Too many people who thought they were helping but just made him feel like a stray dog waiting to be tagged.
Instead, he worked.
Whatever odd jobs he could find—washing dishes, sweeping floors, hauling boxes. Cash under the table. No questions asked. Most people just wanted the work done and didn't care who did it.
It was barely enough to eat. But barely enough was better than nothing.
---
School became his anchor.
It was warm. It had food. And as long as he showed up and kept his head down, nobody asked too many questions.
He wasn't a genius or anything, but he did just enough to pass. Teachers noticed the shadows under his eyes and the way he wore the same clothes every week.
They asked—gently—if everything was okay.
Bright had his answers ready.
"Yeah, I ate."
"I'm fine."
"Just tired."
If he said it with enough confidence, they usually backed off.
Most people wanted to help—just not enough to push.
---
The abandoned house was his best find.
It wasn't much—broken windows, cracked walls, and a door hanging on by one hinge. But it was quiet. Nobody cared about it. Nobody came looking.
Perfect.
Bright found a way in through a loose window at the back. He kept his stuff hidden under a loose floorboard and moved every few nights so no one would know he was there.
It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't safe. But at least it was his.
---
Graduation day snuck up on him.
He hadn't thought about what came next—because what was the point?
College? Out of the question.
A job? Maybe—if he could find one that didn't ask where he lived.
For years, he'd survived by focusing on one day at a time. Now there was nothing left to count down to.
As the ceremony wrapped up, his classmates hugged, took pictures, and made plans for their futures.
Bright slipped out the back without saying goodbye.
---
Home—or what passed for home—was waiting.
But someone was already there.
Bright spotted him before turning the corner. Middle-aged. Clipboard. The kind of guy who got paid to clear out squatters.
Shit.
Bright ducked behind a dumpster, heart thudding in his chest. He could walk away—find another place. It wouldn't be the first time.
But his stuff was still inside. His whole life fit into that crappy little bag.
He couldn't leave it.
---
He crept along the wall, slipping through the loose window.
Bag. Floorboard. Grab.
Done.
He was halfway to the window when—
"What the—HEY!"
Bright's stomach flipped.
Crap.
The guy must've moved faster than he thought.
No time to think.
Just run.
---
Bright bolted for the stairs, feet pounding against the wood.
"STOP! You're TRESPASSING!"
Yeah, no kidding.
He took the stairs three at a time, heart hammering. Second floor. Left turn. Window. Jump.
His feet hit the next building's roof hard, pain jolting up his legs. He rolled, biting back a yelp, and kept going. One rooftop. Then another. Then another—
Gone.
---
By the time Bright stopped running, he was six blocks away, tucked behind a rusted fire escape, lungs burning.
His hands shook as he clutched the bag to his chest.
Everything he owned. Everything he was.
Gone.
He leaned back against the wall and let out a low, bitter laugh.
"Man… my life sucks."
Nobody answered.
---
Bright didn't cry.
Not when Roland died. Not when Caspian disappeared. Not when he'd been tossed out like garbage.
He wanted to—sometimes—but it felt like giving up.
And if there was one thing Bright refused to do, it was break.
He would keep moving.
Because the world didn't wait for anyone.
And neither would he.